Race Report: Mountain Lakes Backyard Ultra

It's not that different from a regular ultramarathon, really.  You sit in your chair at an aid station, staring off into the distance with unfocused eyes, trying to chew a burrito or a Snickers bar or a PB&J, as your friends dry off your feet or get your more ice or do a million other little things to get you out of the chair and moving again, and you try to ignore the screaming of your quads or your calves or your back and you try not to snap at your friends or throw the stupid burrito in their face, and you try not to cry, and you try to choke down another swallow of Roctane or Coke and you try not to give in to the despair of having to stand up and fucking run again.  It's all the same, except for this: in a regular ultramarathon, you get to that point and you make the decision that no, you're not going to quit, you're going to keep moving; and when you do, so often the crisis is past.  You keep moving and you start to feel stronger, and each step brings you closer to the finish.  You can feel the minutes and the miles pass and you know you're making progress and you know if you just keep moving forward you're going to get there.

But here is the difference.  Now you're trying to decide not to quit.  And you stand up and move toward the starting corral to start running again.  But now each step doesn't make you feel stronger.  It just makes your fatigue more palpable, your achiness more acute.  And no matter how much you run, you don't get any closer to the finish.  The hours pass and the miles mount and the finish just remains this nebulous concept that you have a vague sense of but can never really see.  All you can see is the end of the next loop and the prospect of having to go through the whole decision again about whether or not to quit.  And as long as you keep deciding not to, this will go on forever.  Running more doesn't get you to the finish.  It just makes you run more.

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I've been fascinated by the idea of a Last Man Standing race since I first heard of the concept a few years ago, and with the recent amazing performances at Big's Backyard Ultra since 2014--particularly the epic battle waged last year, which garnered a fair bit of attention (or at least what passes for such in the ultrarunning world)--I've become more interested in trying the format for myself.  The concept is devilishly simple.  Runners are tasked with completing a 4.167-mile loop every hour (the odd-sounding distance is worked out so that 24 hours of running nets you 100 miles).  You can run it as fast or as slow as you like, but in order to continue in the race, you must be back at the starting line for the start of the next loop, at the start of the next hour.  There's no banking time, or banking distance; you can't take an extra 15 minutes of rest once a loop starts and then make up the time on the back end.  Everyone starts together, and you keep starting together, every hour, until one by one everyone quits and there's just one person left.

The race is the brainchild of Lazarus Lake, the masochist behind the Barkley Marathons.  I don't know if Laz invented the idea of a Last Man Standing event, but he's the founder of Big's Backyard, which is the unofficial world championship of the format, and the seminal event behind the worldwide series that exploded in the wake of last year's craziness.  For the first several years of the event, Big's saw about 20-40 runners take part; the winner (the only finisher according to Laz, everyone else is considered a DNF) usually lasted about 26-30 hours.  But in 2017, Guillaume Calmettes outlasted Harvey Lewis over 56 hours and 245 miles, and the race grew remarkably in stature.  The 2018 race hit its cap of 75 entrants and became an instant classic, as five runners cracked the 48-hour/200-mile mark, and by the time Courtney Dauwalter conceded to Johan Steene--67 hours and 279 miles later--both were ultrarunning legends.

The popularity of the race exploded overnight; over 1000 folks applied for one of the 75 spots in the 2019 field.  This led to the minting of the Backyard Ultra series, a collection of 17 races around the world with the same format as Big's.  The winners of the ten overseas races would get "Golden Tickets" to the main event in Tennessee in October, as would the top two performances from the seven North American races.  The Mountain Lakes Backyard Ultra, just over an hour from my house, was the last US race on the schedule and would be my shot to make it to Laz's backyard.

Not only is the idea a brilliant one, but in theory at least, the format seemed to suit me pretty well.  Working almost exclusively nights for the past fourteen years, I've become an expert in running while sleep deprived and staying awake for long hours.  To win a Backyard ultra, you don't need to be fast.  You don't even really need to be much of a runner.  You just need to be able to eat a lot of food and stay awake for a really long time.  I was pretty sure I could do that.

My home for the weekend

I slept in on Friday morning, staying in bed until past noon, before loading up the car with a ridiculous amount of supplies and heading down to get ready for the 6:30pm start.  I set up a tent with a cot, sleeping bag, and pillow, but I didn't plan on using it until the race was over.  In the "interloopal" area just beyond the starting corral, I made my true home: a folding lawn chair.  Next to that was my huge Orange Mud duffel bag packed with multiple changes of socks, shirts, and shorts.  I had four different baseball caps (two trucker, two tech), I had two long sleeve shirts, and I had two different rain jackets, even though there was no real forecast all weekend.  I had two towels, five pairs of shoes, two ice bandannas, two Buffs, and a massage Stick.   Doubling as a foot rest was a cooler chest full of ice, 64 ounces of Gatorade, four bottles of grape Roctane, two chocolate milks, six Snickers bars and 30 Cokes.  The winner of the race would need to last at least 32 laps to earn a Golden Ticket, and I was planning on being in it for the long haul.

We actually had a pretty good field for an inaugural race in a weird format.  Glen Redpath, an ultrarunning legend working his way back into shape over the past few months, would be running his first Last Man Standing event; he was preparing for Big's, where he was already entered into the elite field.  Glen and I have been friends for a long time--I paced him at his last WS100, in 2014--and I knew he'd be good for well beyond 24 hours.  Byron Lane, a former US 24-hour team member, was there as well; I hadn't seen Byron for a few years since we raced Recover from the Holidays in 2015, but if he was fit, he could go a long way.  Eric Kosek had a lot of experience going long, including a top-10 finish at last year's Tahoe 200; Glen and I thought he might be the man to watch.  And then there was Michael Postaski, who had beaten me at the Mountain Madness 50K in 2017 but as far as I knew had never gone past 50 miles before.

Lap 1
Brian, the race director, started us off with the clang of a cowbell at 6:30pm, and Glen and I settled into an easy jog pace in the front half of the field.  Within just a few minutes the road pitched up sharply and we gained about 250 feet in the first mile and change, as the road transitioned from pavement to dirt with loose rock.  We crested the hill and started descending; the road split and we took the right fork for the day loop (the night loop turned left, dropped down another 200+ feet over the next 1.1 miles, then turned around and retraced itself back to the start/finish).  The day loop traveled down a carriage road of cobble-sized rock before making a hard left into a winding single track trail.  The footing through the trail section was quite good; there were some rocks and roots, but nothing too technical.  Finding a rhythm was a bit tough with countless short and steep up and downs, but we were in no hurry, walking most of the uphills and just learning the ins and outs of the course.  The race requires a balance of not running too hard but finishing each loop with enough time to recover, fuel, and mentally prepare for the next loop; my pre-race plan was to run most of my laps between 48-52 minutes and I was pleased to finish the first one in 50:18.  Lap two was much the same; I focused on walking whenever I could and, instead of tracking my time over the entire loop, just ran my watch during the walking segments to see how much time I spend walking.  The total was about 12 minutes of walking in another 50-minute loop, which gave me confidence that there was plenty of room for error when the laps got harder.

Lap 4
Our second "night loop" was our first one fully in the dark.  The night loops at Big's are out-and-back on a paved, flat road; while they may not provide much mental stimulation, they also don't provide much of a physical challenge.  A motivated runner, even a very fatigued one, can stumble through them in under an hour without too much of a toll on the body.  We were not so lucky.  Other than about two minutes of running at the beginning and the end of the "loop," we were running or hiking either uphill or downhill the entire time at a 4-5% grade.  The whole lap could be run, but not without some effort, and over time, the climbing (and particularly the descents) would exact a toll.  With 400-500 feet of climbing per lap, each 100 miles would entail about 11,000' of climb--not exactly UTMB, but not nothing, either.

I spent the first few night laps figuring out when I would walk and when I would run.  Everyone had a different strategy.  Some walked the entire uphill and raced down the other side.  Others opted for a steady jog.  Other hiked more than I did, but faster.  As we progressed through the night, we began to stratify out, and I started seeing the same runners over and over again.  Eric Kosek, who was camped out in the interloopal area right near me, would hike the first part of each uphill, then fly past me about halfway up and not be seen again.  Francis Picard from Quebec would power-hike by every time I walked, with short, clipped strides.  Sean O'Conner, camped out on the other side of me from Eric, would alternately finish either just before or just after me, looking very relaxed and strong, running in a short sleeve flannel top.  He had a dedicated crew person there from the start, which was a nice luxury as it allowed him to rest the entire time in between laps rather than walking over to the aid station area for hot food.  Byron finished each lap with mere minutes to spare, though always smiling and comfortable; I wondered if he knew something the rest of us didn't.

Lap 12
A little less than half of the starting field remained at 5:30am, as we returned to the day loop after nine straight night laps.  I had quickly dialed in the night loops, running every one of them between 46:40 and 48:50; I had actually run three consecutive laps in 47:36.  I had come through the night feeling quite strong.  I battled a headache for a few laps around midnight, but Eric had given me a couple of ibuprofen and since then it hadn't been an issue.  The return to the day loop was a bit of a shock.  While the night laps had been a grind, they had become predictable and routine; now we had to re-learn the pacing, the splits, and how to parcel out our effort.  I think most of us felt that while there was less climbing, the loops felt longer, and most of us ran a minute or two slower on lap 12 than we had on the previous laps.  The field was starting to thin, as several folks had clearly made 50 miles their goal; of the 29 runners who finished lap 12, only 18 would start lap 13.

Eric was firmly in control of the race now; we were all keying off of him.  Through the night, he had turned in a string of 40-42 minute laps, while most of us were several minutes behind; he followed up a 40-minute lap 12 with a 38-minute lap 13.  Every time I got back to camp, he was in his chair, feet up, eyes closed, the picture of serenity.  He looked ready to go all day.  Several of the runners who had been logging fast laps along with Eric called it quits at this point, however.  Matt Wright, a tall, muscular runner wearing a green shirt pocked with holes, was hanging tough, though he was starting to look a bit worse for the wear.  He had told us that his goal was to win this race, not to qualify for Big's, but because he was hoping to impress Laz into considering him for a spot in Barkleys--an even more exclusive and more insane race than this one.  Matt had been up front most of the night, logging 42-45 minute laps, but his twelfth lap was significantly slower, and his effort level seemed a little too high for what was likely still the early stages.

Lap 15

Running strong at some point on day 2
photo: Lars Klein

After an adjustment period of a couple of laps, I was starting to figure out the day loop.  Thirteen minutes to the top of the hill.  Eighteen minutes to the trailhead.  Twenty-two minutes to the sharp left onto the OS trail.  Thirty-three minutes to the grassy field.  Thirty-seven minutes to get back to the road, forty-one minutes to turn off the road, forty-seven minutes back
to the finish.  I started to find the rhythm, and the loops were passing without much effort.

Eric was still out front.  I was finishing many of the laps in the top three or four at this point, often second behind Eric.  Sometimes Sean or Glen would finish ahead of me, sometimes behind.  We chatted and joked in between laps, sharing chafing cream or Gatorade.  There was still a long way to go, but we could start to see who was going to be around for awhile.  Glen and I, trying to handicap the field during one of the laps, anticipated that Eric and Sean would both last at least 24 hours.  Glen thought Matt might make it through on pure determination.  I thought Byron might outsmart us all and still be around that long.  But both Matt and Byron were gone by the start of the next loop, when our group of 15 suddenly became 8.

Lap 18
My friend Brian Hickey showed up at the end of lap 16 to crew me for awhile.  It was good to see a friendly face, and though I was feeling pretty good and didn't really need much help, I began to lean on him more and more over the next several laps, filling up my bandanna with ice, making trips to the aid station tent for hot food, and just sharing a few words of encouragement.  Our numbers had continued to dwindle, losing a couple more folks per lap, until the big shock came as we gathered in the corral to start the eighteenth hour.  Eric, who had led each of the previous twelve laps and shown no sign of strain, shook everyone's hand, wished us luck, and dropped.  We were down to four: myself, Glen, Sean, and Michael.

The final four at the start of lap 19
photo: Brian Vanderheiden

Michael's name had sounded familiar when I saw the entrants' list before the race, though I hadn't been able to place it; after a dozen or so laps I recognized him from our race a few years back.  To this point I hadn't thought much about him.  He had set up his tent about fifty feet away from us, outside the interloopal area, and was being tended to by his wife and father.  He had been finishing the night loops three to four minutes behind Glen and I, and about a minute or two behind me on the day loops so far.  But now with just four of us left he began to assert himself.  He was starting to catch us towards the end of the trail section, running with a relaxed, flowing stride.  Previous Backyard races had always seen some attrition at 24 hours, as people often seemed satisfied with 100 miles.  I had thought that Michael might be the person we lost at 24 hours.  But looking at him running now, I wasn't so sure.

Lap 21
After leading several of the laps since Eric had dropped, running my customary splits, I finished lap 20 feeling a bit strung out.  I recognized that I had pushed a bit too hard to make all my intermediate splits and ensure that I still met my 47-48 minute goal for the lap.  I resolved to slow down for the next several laps and expend less energy.  I ran with Glen the whole way, running slightly over 50 minutes, feeling very comfortable.

On lap 22 Michael went past us midway through the loop, looking fresh and strong, running with an amazingly smooth, loping gait.  In a flash he was gone; back in camp Brian told me he had run 46 minutes for the lap, beating us by nearly five minutes.  We could no longer pretend he was just in it to run 100 miles.  At this point, he looked like the favorite.

Lap 24
Brian took off after lap 23, as I was expecting my second wave of crew.  I had continued working with Glen through the late afternoon, though I was struggling a bit.  The trail loop, particularly the "cobblestone" downhill section, was taking its toll.  Mostly I was just tired of it.  I was tired of climbing to the top of the hill and holding on for dear life; I was tired of the tiny little ups and downs; I was tired of Roctane.  Michael and Sean were now both easily outdistancing me on each lap.  My breaks in between loops were growing shorter, and I was getting irritable.  With half a mile to go in lap 24 I hit the wall, hard.  All three of my fellow competitors went past, and I struggled in at 54 minutes, my slowest lap yet, barely moving forward.

Getting ready for the final day loop
photo: Kevin Borden

Kevin (and his kids, Finn and Mac) and Brian Oestrike had arrived by this time and I told them I didn't know how much longer I had.  Gently but firmly, they fed me calories and got me refocused on the next lap.  I latched on to Glen and let him pull me through, just trying to survive until 8:30, when we could return to the blissful agony of the night loop and I would never have to run that trail again.  My splits were now minutes behind my earlier pace, but I began to feel minimally better with the reduced effort.  Perhaps I'd make it through to the night after all.

Lap 27
The night loop, finally.  I took of my Salomon S-Lab Ultras, changed my socks, and switched to my Nike Zoom Flys for the road section.  I refilled my ice bandanna and pounded more Coke.  Always, more Coke.  I had barely survived the last two day loops; without Glen to follow I wouldn't have made it.  But now night was here.  Thirty hours or more finally seemed possible again.

I made it about 150 meters, just out of sight of camp, before the thought of having to keep going overwhelmed me, and I stopped, right in the middle of the road.  The other three guys kept rolling and I was almost immediately alone.  I bent over, hands on knees, and studied my shoes for a minute.  The prospect of the climb didn't bother me.  It was running downhill.  I couldn't bear the thought of running two giant downhills per lap from now on.  It was too much.  I straightened up, ready to walk back to camp and quit.  I thought about what I would say to my friends, who had set up tents and were preparing to camp for a long night.  How could I explain that I just didn't want to do it anymore?  I couldn't do that.  I'd at least have to walk the loop.  I'd time out, and then it would be over, but I owed them at least that.

I checked my watch.  Three minutes gone by.  I didn't really have any designs on finishing the loop in time, but I needed to start moving.  I started walking.  God, I thought, walking this loop is going to take forever.   Maybe I could make it a little shorter.  I shambled into a slow jog.  Huh, that doesn't feel so bad.  Up the tempo a little bit, to a full-fledged trot.  All of a sudden, my legs were back. Suddenly I had a new life.

I caught Sean and Michael at the top of the hill.  They did not try to hide their surprise.  "Wow," said Sean, "we thought you were done."

"So did I," I replied.

I fairly flew down the hill, caught Glen shortly past the turnaround, and we powered up the hill together.  Sean caught us near the finish, but Michael crossed around a minute after us.  After looking indomitable on the trails he suddenly looked a bit vulnerable.  I wondered if my little resurrection had shaken him.

Lap 29
After feeling so solid on the past two laps, I've now resigned myself to the fact that this is going to be it for me.  None of these guys are ever going to quit.  Michael looked like he was going to crack on the previous lap, making it in with less than three minutes to spare, but bounced right back into the corral with us and started off.  Sean is getting stronger as we go on.  I'm not sure he's human.  Glen seemed tired awhile ago but not now.  He's so experienced.  He knows exactly what he's doing all the time.  He'd quit now if the race was over, but it's not, so he'll keep going.  It's all the same to him.  What's another hundred miles for someone who's done so many?

My quads are Jell-o.  My hip flexors and stabilizers are worse; I have a single plane of motion with about a six-inch stride.  I'm seriously considering walking the downhills and running every step of the uphills; the only thing keeping me from doing that is that I just intuitively know it's stupid.  Sean, Glen, and I all finish between 53 and 54 minutes and try to eat.  No sign of Michael.  He was about 28:30 at the turnaround.  Would he make it?  Just after the three-minute whistle, his headlamp appears.  He's struggling but he's going to make it.  Crosses the line in 58:30, ninety seconds to spare.  His crew brings him some broth; he sinks to one knee but doesn't leave the corral.  Fuck.  He's just going to stay in the corral and start again.  He's not going to fucking crack.

Thirty seconds to go and we join Michael in the corral.  He stands up and shakes our hands, wishes us luck.  For the first time in twelve hours and fifty miles, we have a drop.  We're down to three.

Lap 30
We shuffle off, still a little bit in shock.  This wasn't as big a surprise as when Eric had dropped after leading so long--Michael had looked to be struggling for a few laps--but after it had been just the four of us for so long, we definitely didn't quite know how to react.  Some small part of me had felt as though the race would never end, though I knew that was impossible.  Now suddenly it seems as if the finish might happen after all.

Glen and I do our usual power hike/jog up the climb and Sean falls back as usual.  By the turnaround we've got maybe thirty seconds; we'll extend that a bit on the return climb, and he'll catch us on the final downhill back to camp.  Again, and again, and again.  Everyone looks the same.

For the second lap in a row, and at least the fifth time in the last six hours, I'm ready to quit.  My quads have simply given up; the downhills are agony.  I tell Glen I don't think I'm heading out for another lap.  He responds, "But Sean is still going."

Fuck.

Lap 31
None of us seem to be moving all that well off the line, but I manage to stagger out to my usual lead in the opening minute.  From here, I know how it will go.  I'll start hiking at the pole about 200 meters into the uphill.  Glen will catch me shortly thereafter.  I'll start jogging with him when the pavement ends and the road turns to dirt, six minutes in.  We'll jog to the big tree on the right, then walk until we can see the Port-a-Potty at about the ten minute mark.  From there we'll jog to the top of the hill and run down the other side.  Sean will hike to the top, run smoothly downhill, and be slightly behind at the turn.  The pattern repeats itself on the return.  Sean will catch us when we hit the pavement again.  He'll beat us in by about a minute.  And we'll go out again.

Only this time, something is different.  We're only two minutes in, haven't even hit the climb yet, when Sean says, "Hey, what happened to Glen?"

We stop briefly and turn around.  It's black outside the glow of our headlamps.  Glen and his headlamp are nowhere to be seen.  We shout his name a couple of times but get no response.  We're not quite sure what happened; in our fatigued state it seems inconceivable that he would turn back without saying anything to us.  Could he have collapsed and his headlamp conked out?  Did he just turn his lamp off to screw with us, playing some mental game?  This actually doesn't seem that unreasonable, and part of me spends the entire lap expecting him to roll up on us at any second.

Since it seems to be just the two of us, though, we decide it's time to run together.  Surprisingly, despite running in close proximity for the past thirty hours, we've actually run side by side very little.  I've been "banking time" on the climbs and surviving the downhills; Sean's been hiking the ups and running the downs steadily.  I tell him I'm not certain if I walk the hills, as he's been doing, that I'll be able to run the downs fast enough to make the cutoff, and Sean says he should be able to run most of the uphills with me.  We fall into my usual run/walk pattern on the way up and hit the turnaround about thirty seconds ahead of schedule.  We spend the time reliving the events of the past day and chatting about Big's.  Now that one of us appears headed for a 32+ hour finish, the winner will be assured of a spot in the field.  Maybe both if us will.  There are still several "at-large" spots to be awarded, and rumor has it that some of those are already earmarked for folks with finishes in the low-30s, on courses less difficult than ours.  Sean is assuming that we're both finishing lap 32 and is already looking ahead to 33.  I'm can't comprehend anything beyond this lap.

We reach the top of the return climb in about the same time as my last several laps; I won't get timed out.  I tell Sean to go on ahead, that I'm going to shuffle down and I'll see him back at camp.  He takes off and immediately vanishes into the darkness.  I hobble downhill, each step sending painful shocks through my quads.  I arrive back at camp in right around 54 minutes; Sean has put three minutes on me in the last mile.  He already looks ready to head back out.  I can't find a weakness.

Brian is asleep, but Kevin is still there, checking on me, pushing calories as best he can.  I keep up the charade but I know I'm done; I've known for twenty minutes that I can't bear another lap.  I slowly drink another Coke and eat a GU, waiting for the whistle.  With thirty seconds to go we both make our way into the corral.  As Brian counts us down to the start, I give Sean a hug and send him on his way.  And then I stumble back to my chair and finally, blessedly, stop running.

My DNF medal

In the immediate aftermath I'm OK with the decision not to start another loop.  Could I have staggered through one or two more?  Maybe.  But that wasn't getting me anywhere.  I saw no signs of cracking from Sean; he really looked as if he could go forever.  I know Michael had looked unstoppable on lap 26 and was out only three laps later, and maybe something similar would've happened to Sean, but I don't think I was making it that long.  And the 35th hour would bring the return of the day loop.  There was no way I was attempting that trail again.  It would've been good if I'd made it one of two more laps; I might have a stronger argument for an at-large spot at Big's with 32 or 33 laps rather than 31.  Or maybe not, I guess we'll see.  And yes, on an easier course with a more forgiving night loop, I think my quads hold up and 36+ laps is easily achievable.  But you can only run the course in front of you, and I'm satisfied that this was the best effort I had in me on that day.  Unfortunately it just wasn't enough.

Big thanks go out to RD Brian Vanderheiden and his fantastic crew of volunteers for putting on a first-class event and bringing incredible energy and support to the course at all hours; to Brian, Brian, and Kevin (and Finn and Mac) for dragging me through more low spots than I would've thought possible; to Jodi and the girls for their love and support; to my awesome teammates at MPF/RNR who crushed Manitou's Revenge that same weekend, and our great sponsors who keep that team going; to Dave Roche and the SWAP crew; and especially to Sean, Glen, and Michael for an epic experience I'll never forget.  And thanks too to everyone who followed along during the race and reached out afterwards on social media.  I'll need all that support again in just a couple months as I make my return to Leadville and try to improve on last year's amazing experience.

Race report: Rock the Ridge

Happy at the finish
📷: Stephen Stewart-Hill

Crap, no posts since February?  What the hell.

I wish I had some great excuse, but I don't.  Not much has happened on the running front, at least from a personal standpoint, since Rocky Raccoon.  I've been building up the coaching service a little bit, and spending devoting a little more of my mental energy towards working with my athletes; I've continued to spend time trying to develop the exercise science project I've been working on for the past year; and much of the leftover bandwidth I'd usually devote to the blog has instead been focused on the podcast.  But you'd think I could find a few minutes for an update in there somewhere.  I guess not.

Recovery from RR100 went...OK, I suppose.  I continue to have difficulty bouncing back quickly from big efforts.  This is in part because I do tend to let myself go a bit after a buildup to a goal race.  I took two weeks completely off, which I think is fine, but I also took three or four weeks off my diet, which would probably be fine if I ate like a reasonable person during that time.  But I don't--I just shovel in as much crap as I can.  At that point, trying to ease back into training carrying an extra ten pounds is just prolonging the agony a bit.  Then I have to suffer through my usual three week adjustment period to being back off the carbs, and suddenly, it's almost April.

As I started thinking about the spring season and how it would lead into the summer and fall, I wasn't sure exactly where the focus would be.  I had planned on a return to the Cayuga Trails 50 mile, which I've run four or five times now and is a race I absolutely love.  But family commitments that weekend made a trip to Ithaca impossible.  When a spot opened up in the Rock the Ridge Endurance Challenge, through one of the race sponsors (Health Quest Sports Cardiology, which manages my exercise testing program, at least for now), I was happy to take another crack at my hometown ultra.

I ran the first edition of RTR, in 2013.  The race has grown into the largest annual fundraiser for the Mohonk Preserve, a private, non-profit land trust that maintains over 7000 acres of open space in the Shawangunks.  Over the first five years, the race was a jointly-managed event between a pair of local RDs and the Preserve.  The Preserve decided to take over full responsibility for the race in 2018, and I joined the race committee assisting the new RDs, Jon Stern and Mark Eisenhandler.  We had some growing pains last year, as a bunch of folks who were veterans at race organization but new to the ultra scene tried to wrap their heads around what our stupid sport is actually about.  But for 2019 I felt like the committee did a better job at bridging the divide between "fundraiser" and "ultramarathon," and despite the largest field in the race's history--about 400 starters, plus another 50 or so relay teams--the event went off more or less without a hitch.

Given my sluggish return to training, my goals for the race were somewhat meager.  I had run some OK workouts in the buildup, but consistency had been lacking, and I had only a few longer efforts of 20+ miles behind me.  I was certainly a little undertrained.  One week before the race, I ran a fun tuneup at the Red Wings After Hours 8K, a nighttime trail race in Wappingers Falls, about twenty miles from home.  I had run the inaugural After Hours race last year, taking the lead from the gun and opening up a substantial lead before missing a questionably-marked turn in the dark and adding on nearly two miles out-and-back before I found the course again and battled back to finish eighth.  This time I surrendered the lead shortly before the mile mark but ran a solid race, closing to within 15 seconds of the lead or so with a mile to go and running 40:40 on a dark, hilly course.  I wasn't quite sure how that would translate to a runnable 50-mile effort a week later, especially with my relative lack of longer efforts, but I thought seven hours was a reasonable goal if everything went well.  I resolved to run the first half of the race as easy as possible while keeping the pace under 9:00/mile.  Most of the climbing at RTR takes place in the first 50K, culminating at the highest point on the course, Castle Point, just past the 30-mile mark.  I set a goal of 4:30 for the first 50K, hoping that would give me chance to finish strong over the mostly downhill and flat final 20 miles.  I knew seven hours would be somewhere near the front--despite being one of the largest 50-mile races in the country, RTR is not known for particularly deep fields, as it caters specifically to mid- and rear-pack runners.  But I wasn't going to commit to racing for the win.  Ben Nephew, a three-time winner of the race, would not be racing, but young speedster Etan Levavi, who had come from way behind to upset Ben last year in a sprint finish, was back to defend his title, and I figured he'd be the favorite.  I just wanted to have a good, long effort, get as close to seven hours as I could manage, and we'd see where that landed me.

Passing time in the early stages
📷: Kate Schoonmaker

After a flat opening mile, the race climbs about 900' over the next three miles, and I ran as easily as possible, trailing a couple of relay runners but among the leaders, cresting the hill, just about four miles in 36:05.  This was almost 5 minutes slower than I had been at the same point with Ben in 2013, when I crashed over the last 15 miles and struggled to a 7:29 finish.  It was a bit alarming to be so much slower, but it was very, very early, and I focused on keeping the pace as slow and easy as possible.  Over the next several miles I was passed by a slew of runners, including Etan, who opened up a small but substantial lead.  Don't panic, I repeated, we're not racing for a while yet.  Just make steady progress.  I came through the Spring Farm aid station, at 9.6 miles, in a relaxed 1:25:22, a little less than a minute back, in seventh overall, and began the long slog up to Skytop Tower.  The course climbs over 800 feet in the next 5+ miles, and I continued to focus on a relaxed effort, not worrying about place as I yo-yo'd between third and eighth.  I hit the 15 mile mark, right below the tower, in 2:07, over seven minutes slower than 2013 but feeling much more relaxed, running in fourth place. 

Trapps Bridge
📷: Maryalice Citera

Those of us from second through fifth continued to alternate places through Trapps Bridge at 22 miles, with Etan still about a minute in front.  I was clearly the strongest climber of the bunch, though I was, as usual, surrendering plenty of time on the downhills.  On the flat couple of miles from Trapps Bridge, I started feeling very strong, and allowed the pace to pick up just a little bit, careful to keep the effort in check.  Even that little bit allowed me to roll quickly up on second and third place, and I led our little chase group as we started climbing up to the main aid station at Lyons Road.  As we approached Lyons, Etan started to come back to us, and I reached the aid station timing mat in 3:24:40, 44 seconds behind Etan, who had run the nearly 15-mile split from Spring Farm to Lyons two seconds faster than I had.  I stopped only to fill my bottle and headed straight out, now leading, as Etan grabbed some aid from his drop bag.  He caught up with a minute or so, and after briefly acknowledging each other, I turned on my mp3 player for the first time as we started to climb up to Awosting Falls.

I generally view the next five miles, from 25 miles the top of Castle Point, as the crux of the race.  The course climbs over 1000 feet, much of it exposed to the sun, over that five mile stretch, the majority at a runnable grade.  I knew from the first half of the race that I was the stronger climber and the weaker descender.  My pacing to this point had been ideal--at just about 3:25 for 24.6 miles, I was almost exactly on target for a seven-hour finish.  If I was going to have any chance at the win, I needed a gap at the top of the climb--but I couldn't sacrifice the last twenty miles of the race to get it.  I'd have to walk the fine line of pushing the climb without redlining, and see where it got me.

Pushing a bit, near Castle Point
📷: John Mizel

I kept a steady tempo and effort through the climb, getting some early separation at Awosting Falls and stretching out the lead as we climbed higher.  I caught a glimpse of Etan at one point on a switchback, maybe a mile from the top, and estimated the gap at about thirty seconds.  I crested the hill and took a brief glance back.  Nobody there.  OK, time to run downhill.  Keep it steady and relaxed, but keep a nice tempo, don't let up. 

Back through Minnewaska Lake and down to Lyons Road on the return and no sign of Etan, 37.5 miles in 5:14, still right on pace for seven hours.  A quick stop to refill the bottle, slam a couple cups of Coke, and off again.  Waving to some friends as they made their way up to Lyons on the outbound trip, me now on the return and starting to smell the finish a little bit.  Forty miles in 5:35, hammering that 8:20 pace, trying to keep fueling.  Energy flagging a bit as I pulled into the penultimate aid station at Rhododendron Bridge, 42 miles or so, not moving quite so smoothly now.   Banana, Coke, GU Chomp.  Glance back as I'm leaving the aid station: there's Etan, thirty seconds back.

Well, I thought, that's it.  You gave it a good effort, and you're still feeling OK, but you haven't been able to shake him, and you know how well he can close.  I jogged out of the aid station, trying to recapture the rhythm, as the second-place relay team ran smoothly by.  I really had to pee, but didn't want to stop until Etan passed me, which I figured would be any minute now.

Coming down Lenape, smelling the finish
📷: Tom Weiner

Except, it wasn't.  After about four or five minutes I realized I felt basically fine and he hadn't gone by.  I looked over my shoulder and couldn't see him.  Huh, that's weird.  Might as well start moving again.  The relay guy wasn't that far ahead; I focused on trying to peg the gap and picked up the tempo a little bit.  We reached the bottom of the final short climb up Kleine Kill Carriageway, still no Etan, as I moved back in front of the relay runner.  The climb made my legs burn this time, but this was the last piece.  Switchback at the top of the hill and I could see Etan coming up behind, but I had a good minute at this point.  A minute or more with less than four miles to go.  Run under 8:00 pace and you'll make it really hard for him.  Just make it hard for him.


The relay guy caught back up, which worked out perfectly; it was keeping me mentally alert.  We hammered downhill to Duck Pond as fast as I could go, and I pulled away on the short flat stretch to Lenape Lane.  Two switchbacks here: no Etan.  A mile to go; one final, two-minute climb.  I turned to check over my shoulder, almost seizing up the entire left side of my body.  Shit, don't do that again.  But still: no Etan.  I was going to make it.

Homestretch
📷: Renee Zernitsky

In the end, I just missed out on the seven-hour mark (by 78 seconds) but held on for a 94-second victory margin.  The entire gap came from the climb from Lyons to Castle Point, which I ran about two minutes faster than Etan.  Our splits from Lyons to the finish were separated by a single second. 

Not my first ultra win, but my most gratifying for sure.  I came in fairly fit but a bit undertrained, not peaked, and looking mostly for a training stimulus.  I came away with a big PR and a win that means a lot to the burgeoning local ultrarunning community.  I haven't run scared like that for quite some time, particularly trying to hold off someone as talented and tenacious as Etan, and I'm grateful that he was there to push me and that I was, at least on this day, equal to the challenge.  And I was careful afterwards not to overindulge too much in my customary post-race fashion.  If I'm training through, I've got to act like it!  I've been rewarded by a relatively short (for me) recovery; after a week of feeling pretty flat and sluggish, I'm rounding back into form and hoping to start workouts again this week.



Gear
Salomon Sense Ride 2 and Agile shirt
Injinji no-show socks
Patagonia Stride Pro shorts
Orange Mud Single Barrel Hydraquiver and trucker cap

Race Report: Rocky Raccoon 100

I came into Rocky Raccoon feeling like I had unfinished business.  My first trip to Rocky, in 2017, was both an encouraging attempt and a total disaster.  I entered the race hoping to run 15:00-15:30, executed a near-perfect race plan over the opening 60 miles (9:12), and was still in position for a strong sub-16:00, 6th place finish with 20 miles to go before being reduced to a walk by a scary breathing issue that I had not experienced previously nor since then.  I came away 12th in 17:46, disappointed by the final result but convinced that I had been ready to run close to 15:30, and that I fell short of that goal only due to back luck, not anything I had done wrong in terms of preparation, strategy, or nutrition.  After a solid showing at Leadville in August I once again had my sights set on a "fast" time and a top-10 finish in one of the more competitive hundreds in the country.

My buildup, though not quite as ideal as it had been in 2017, was still solid.  I was able to clock some good miles and solid workouts, though weather conditions usually forced us into surges on the roads and trails as opposed to the unflinching environment of the track, where I had spent much of my quality time two years earlier.  I knew, objectively, that my workouts were not as good as they had been the first time around.  My long runs, too, were not as plentiful as I had hoped, though I had two or three efforts over 30 miles; I topped out at about 5 hours for a single run, and things were not quite as effortless as they've been in the past.  After my Alumni XC race over Thanksgiving weekend--which, again, went well enough, but not up to the standards I'd run the previous couple of years--I wasn't able to get in either of my two favorite winter prep races, the Viking Run (for which I was traveling overseas with my family) or the Recover From the Holidays 50K (which was rescheduled for a different weekend than usual, preventing me from being able to attend).  Missing them wasn't a huge deal, but it meant that in terms of racing, I had a single 5K to my name since Leadville--not great.  But I had done enough solid training and felt strong enough in the weeks leading up to the race that I thought 16 hours was a possibility.  For the first time in a decade, the race would not serve as the US 100mi trail championships, but the field was still solid.  Ian Sharman, the course record holder (12:44!) and a nine-time top-10 finisher at Western States, would be back for the first time in five years.  Dave Laney, the 2015 Ultrarunner of the Year, would be there, as well as two-time Badwater champ Harvey Lewis and sub-15:00 runner Catlow Shipek.  As usual, I would have to run my own race, hope for good things to happen, and see if I could work my way up the field in the late stages for a top-10 finish.

At the start

I was thrilled when my buddy Kevin confirmed he'd join me in Huntsville to crew and pace.  Kevin and I started training together in earnest last spring, when he was getting back into some serious running and I was casting about for someone to do hard midweek workouts with after Laura moved away and Dr. Mike got injured.  We absorbed him quickly into our little dirtbag scene, and he had his first ultra experience when he crewed and then paced the final twelve miles at Leadville.  Since then he's been hooked.  I paced him to an unsuccessful BQ attempt at Hartford in the fall, but we'll take another shot at that this spring before he makes the jump into the ultra world himself.  He was kind enough to start a business trip to California a couple days early and give up his weekend to get me to the finish line.  We were also joined by James McCowan, the absurdly talented Vassar XC coach who had crashed and burned in his first 100K attempt at Bandera the month before.  Not three days after struggling through a 7:53 second 50K at Bandera, James was texting me about taking a shot at redemption at Rocky, which for the first time would include a 100K.  And so our little three-man posse landed in Houston on Thursday and made our way to the course for a shakeout jog on Friday afternoon.  There had been a good deal of recent rain, but we saw relatively little mud in our recon of the first three miles of so of the trail, which was a good sign.  We had a few hiccups--I put my hand on a fire ant nest while stretching during the race briefing, picking up several painful pustules; our hotel in Huntsville had no fucking hot water for the twelve hours we were there--but in general, we made it to the start on Saturday morning relatively unscathed.

Lap 1: Searching for flow

Course map and elevation profile

I went into the race with a goal of about 3:50-3:55 for each 25-mile lap, working out the aid station splits based on about a 9:15/mile pace.  And I was able to hit those splits pretty well on lap 1.  I just wasn't able to get comfortable doing it.  Not that the effort level was too high; I was careful not to let focus on time and forget to monitor effort, and I stuck to my usual early-race plan of dialing back effort and not worrying about place or splits.  But from a mental standpoint this wasn't as easy as it has been in other races.  I felt like I was expending too much mental energy trying to convince myself not to worry about splits.  Then I'd hit an aid station in exactly the split I wanted, but instead of thinking, "Great, you're hitting your splits, just relax," I became more anxious: "Well, you're hitting your splits, don't fuck up the next one."  I almost wished I was running minutes behind schedule, so I could just forget about the splits and maybe settle into a more relaxed mental state.  Maybe it was the nature of the course--basically three separate out-and-back sections per loop, ensuring tons of feedback on both place and time--that contributed to my general unease.  Or maybe it was my GI system, which didn't seem as settled as I'd like and caused me to pull over for a pit stop at about the 12-mile mark, giving up a couple of minutes.  I also had a weird hotspot/pressure point on the top of my foot, which despite a quick stop at the Damnation Aid Station at 10 miles I couldn't seem to readjust.  Whatever it was, it wasn't until the last few miles of the lap that I finally found what felt like a natural rhythm.  When it finally clicked, just past the last aid station of the lap, it was a huge relief, and I enjoyed the final three miles into the end of the lap immensely.  This would be prove to be true for most of the rest of the day--the last few miles of each lap were among the easiest and most enjoyable for me.  I finished lap one in 3:53--right on schedule, even with my poop break--in about 18th place or so.  Kevin switched out my water bottle on my HydraQuiver Single Barrel, gave me a few extra GUs and a dry t-shirt, and sent me on my way.

Nearing the end of lap 1, finally in rhythm.
Photo: No Sleep Media

Lap 2: Highs and lows
It was way too early to start thinking about places, but again, the feedback was omnipresent, and you couldn't help but notice where you stood and what the gaps were.  And over the first half of lap two, those gaps were dropping steadily.  The top five runners were continuing to pull away, but I had pegged many of the next ten, including Harvey, and women's leader Amy Hamilton, who had blown by me at the 6.5-mile aid station of lap 1 and proceeded to put over ten minutes on me in the next 19 miles.  I was keeping the effort level steady, trying not to get caught up in racing, but I was hitting splits well and rolling up on people.  I had been dreading the out-and-back from Damnation, remembering the toll those trails had taken on me in 2017; but at this early stage, on the way out to the turnaround of lap two, I was mowing people down, and by the time we reached the minimalist Far Side Aid Station, about 39 miles in (just over 6 hours), I had moved all the way up to tenth place.  Less than a mile later I had passed Amy and was running in ninth, feeling great.

Power line section of lap 2
Photo: No Sleep Media

One of the peculiar things about ultrarunning is how quickly things can turn on you, how massive highs can be replaced by crushing lows.  (Yes, I'll link the song at the bottom.)  At 39 miles I was on top of the world.  At 43 miles I was ready to drop.  In fact, I'm convinced that if I had been at the start/finish at that point, instead of seven miles away at Damnation, I would've dropped.  Over the course of maybe a mile, I had become listless and disinterested.  I was overheating: it wasn't hot, temperatures were only in the mid-60s, but it was humid; the humidity never dropped below 90% for the day.  Even when I finished, shortly past midnight, it was 58 degrees with 98% humidity.  The air was swampy and the footing was the same.  There were between ten and fifteen spots on the course, each between 5-25 meters long or so, which were just pits of mud, requiring us to stop and attempt to pick our way around, or just slog through ankle-deep, shoe-sucking crud.  And since we hit each of those spots twice per lap, we wound up with about 100 mud crossings, not only slowing me down and disturbing my rhythm, but turning my feet into hamburger.  I walked out of Damnation as all of my recent passes streamed by me, dropping me back into the mid-teens, trying to find some motivation to keep going.  After a couple of minutes of walking, I stopped, closed my eyes, and forced myself to reset mentally.  I needed to recognize where these feelings of despair and self-pity were coming from, acknowledge them, and move on.  It took a minute or two, but I was able to refocus and started moving, slowly at first but then with renewed energy, back down the trail.  I got back to the Nature Center Aid Station at 46 miles and saw Chad Lasater, with whom I've shared many miles of trail between Bandera and RR100, passing out fluids.  We chatted briefly, renewing my spirits even a bit more, and I was able to get a solid rhythm back over the final few miles, reaching 50 miles in about 8:10, just a few minutes behind many of the folks I'd been trading places with earlier.  Energy-wise, I felt ready to charge back out, but I needed to take care of my feet.  Kevin peeled off my socks, dried my feet, and lubricated them with Chamois butter; then I pulled on some dry socks and changed my trusty but nearly ruined Salomon Sense Ultras for a clean pair of Hoka Speedgoats. (I don't know which model.  The black and red ones.)  It took nearly ten minutes, but it was a crucial change, as my feet couldn't have survived much longer in their previous state; with fresh socks and dry shoes, I felt ready to roll.

Lap 3: Suffering

100K champ James McCowan
Photo: Kevin Borden

I had seen James again on lap 2, holding a huge lead over second place and I knew not all that far behind me coming into the 50-mile mark.  Kevin had planned on running parts of each of the last two laps with me, but I knew I really wanted him for the Damnation out-and-back of each of those laps, and wanted him to focus on getting out there without expending too much energy, so I told him to hang back at the 50-mile mark, crew James for his final pass through, and then take the shortest route out to Damnation.  I got caught up over the first few miles running with two other guys who were moving a little better than I was, overdoing it a little bit, and stopped to chat with Chad again at Nature Center on the way out before heading back onto the main part of the course.  I caught up with Kevin a bit later and we ran together for about a mile before I made the left turn to run the out-and-back to the Gate station and he turned right to wait for me at Damnation.  I ran solidly to the gate and back, but struggled on the stretch to Damnation and picked up Kevin feeling pretty poorly.  He was supportive and positive as usual, and put up with me walking slowly out of the aid station and struggling badly over the first few miles before finding my rhythm.

I don't remember a ton from that point forward.  We had sections where I moved really well and sections where I struggled badly, the latter seeming to outnumber the former.  I don't recall specific issues, just not feeling great for long stretches.  But the conditions were taking their toll on lots of folks, and despite my struggles, we actually picked up several spots over that stretch.  Kevin pushed me back to the Nature Center, where I left him to make his way back to Damnation for our final lap, and I headed toward the finish.  I reached the end of lap 3 in full suffer mode, legs feeling generally OK but severely lacking in motivation.  It was now dark, and I wasn't sure where I stood in terms of place, though I was pretty sure I was near the top 10.  I sat in my folding chair, trying to force myself to get back up and keep moving, wanting nothing more than to just stop.  James was there, having secured a dominating and redemptive win, and he shepherded me through my third t-shirt change and second sock change.  He also stuffed my raincoat in my pack, as the forecast called for some light rain. and convinced me to take a Buff with me for the final lap.  I didn't want to, but finally relented and put it on as a wristband--thank god.

Lap 4: Despair and deliverance
The first ten miles of the lap were a slog.  I walked most of the uphills, picked my way around mud pits, and basically just tried to cover ground, not caring about time, place, or anything else.  I had come through 75 miles in about 13 hours--an hour slower than my goal--and had basically given up on even beating my disappointing time of two years earlier.  Now I just needed to finish.  Seeing Kevin at Damnation lifted my spirits, though, as did the realization that we were now only fifteen miles away from the end.  The mud was really messing with my head as well as my feet, but when we hit the dry patches, I started to move a little bit better.  About a mile out of Damnation I started feeling some tightness in my left calf, but I was able to adjust my stride slightly to lessen the discomfort.  I couldn't really push off my toes, making running uphill very difficult, but fortunately the uphills over the next few miles were pretty short and I simply power hiked them, running a solid 10-11 minute pace on the flats and downhills.  Kevin kept up a steady stream of positive chatter and reminders to eat, and we made pretty decent time on the out-and-back section.  Despite the dark and a bit of a drizzle, I felt incredibly hot, so Kevin filled my bottle with mostly ice and a little water at Far Side, which seemed to help a little.

About a mile out from Damnation on the return, disaster struck.  My calf suddenly grabbed and my leg nearly gave way; I stumbled and caught myself, but couldn't recover a running stride.  I limped into Damnation and sat.  Kevin found a Stick from one of the volunteers and we spent a couple of minutes trying to roll out the calf, which seemed like it helped a little.  I was still hot, so I pulled my Buff onto my neck and stuffed it with ice, which I think was the single best decision I made all day.

Hamburger feet.
Photo: James McCowan

We walked out of the aid station, seven miles from the finish.  I was limping, frustrated.  I knew I had moved into the top 10 but I also knew I wouldn't hold it if I couldn't run.  Every thirty seconds or so, I tried unsuccessfully to run a few steps.  After half a mile, it loosened up to the point where I could run for a little while on flat ground or downhills; uphills still required a gimpy walk.  Kevin remained relentlessly positive, asking if I wanted to try running a 30-seconds on, 30-second off pattern, but I told him flat out I couldn't even make myself commit to that.  At this point it really was terrain-dependent.  Still, as we made our way back towards the Nature Center I kept testing it; after a little while, I could run almost normally on flats, then I could do a fast walk on uphills, then a slow run.  A mile from the Nature Center, with five miles remaining, I suddenly felt like I was flying.  We ran an uphill 10:30 into the aid station, where James was waiting with a fresh Coke and I mortified a volunteer by slathering Chamois butter all over my extraordinarily chafed nether regions.  I refilled my makeshift ice bandanna and took off solo over the last four miles.  I had been averaging about 40 minutes over that section on the previous three laps and knew I'd need to go under 43 minutes to break 18:30--not that it mattered, but it was a nice makeshift goal.  My bottle was now straight Coke, and the ice had rejuvenated me; I charged through the first couple of miles of twisty, muddy singletrack and hit the straight, rolling hills of the Power Line trail, just two miles from the finish, feeling strong.  A brief moment of panic thinking I had done the addition wrong gave way to relief when I crested the final hill and saw the clock reading 18:28, and my severely battered feet carried me over the line with my sub-18:30 and my top-10 intact.

Reunited at the finish.

This was an interesting one for sure.  I've suffered in races before, but I don't recall ever going into the depths like I did at this one and coming back with multiple strong sections in between.  Unlike Leadville, which had been a nearly-ideal experience, this race was fraught with problems: weather, footing, stomach, energy, etc.  It really did feel like one hurdle after another.  Jodi asked me afterwards if it was fun.  No, it definitely wasn't fun.  Even the good ones aren't really all that fun, certainly not in the immediate aftermath.  But it was gratifying.  They can't all go perfectly well.  In fact, in these long events, with so many variables, most of them won't go perfectly well--or even reasonably well.  Far from it.  But there is something empowering in knowing that you can survive--maybe even succeed--even when it seems like everything that can go wrong does.  This race wasn't really a success, but it wasn't a failure either.  It was a hard-fought finish, and a hard-fought top 10, and I'll move onto the rest of 2019 taking something positive away from that.

Gear
Salomon Sense Ultra and Agile shirt
Injinji Ultra No-show socks
Patagonia Stride Pro shorts
Orange Mud Single Barrel Hydraquiver
GU Roctane and gels
Orange Mud trucker cap 
Petzl Reactik + headlamp
And an off-brand Buff I got at Cayuga Trails a few years ago

 

Race Report: Leadville Trail 100

I don't want to say that Leadville was the culmination of my years as an ultra runner, partly because I think I can run it faster and partly because that sounds kind of final and I'd like to think that I still have a few good races left in me.  But it certainly feels like an apex of sorts, and I think marked the beginning of a new phase of my running career.  Ultrarunning may have been an inevitable destination for me; at every stage of my life as a runner, I've always gravitated towards, and found the most success at, the longer distances.  But the move to the 100-mile distance was by no means a given.  I can still remember, having already completed multiple 50Ks, telling a friend that he was crazy for running the 40-mile Mount Mitchell Challenge (a race I've since run three times).  Mike Siudy still reminds me frequently that I swore I'd never run 100 miles.  And even once I had decided that a 100 was probably in my future, the idea of running Leadville--one of the original Grand Slam 100s, with nearly 16,000 feet of climbing at an elevation between 9,200 and 12,600 feet above sea level--seemed ludicrous.  (I can recall thinking that Leadville finisher Ken Posner was insane...though I still think that's true about anyone who voluntarily runs Badwater, let alone a double.)  Having completed, with some modicum of success, a race that previously scared the crap out of me does remove some sort of self-imposed limitation that may have constrained me in the past.  There are still going to be races I have no interest in doing, but the idea of a mountain 100 is no longer a daunting, impossible prospect.

I flew into Denver nine days before the race and caught a ride out to Leadville with Josh Sprague, the owner of Orange Mud, one of my wonderful sponsors, who was attempting to complete the Leadman (all of the Leadville Race Series MTB and running races in the same summer).  I was in for a bit of a shock.  While I knew I wouldn't have any hope of sticking with most of the high-country natives in a running race, I had been fairly diligent about my acclimatization, and I certainly did not expect to be short of breath climbing the single flight of stairs in the house I'd rented.  Alas, such is life at 10,150 feet.

I spent Friday, my first full day in town, helping Josh and a bunch of other OM athletes at the expo for the 100-mile MTB race that would take place the next day.  I headed out for a shakeout hourlong jog that evening before dinner to get my bearings and see how much the altitude was really going to affect me.  The answer: quite a bit!  I ran a 7-mile section of the Mineral Belt Trail, a paved bike loop around town that passes many of the abandoned silver mines from Leadville's 19th-century heyday.  I soon realized that it would be very tough to run under 9-10 minutes/mile on even gentle uphill grades.  Flat stretches seemed generally OK, though, once I got used to the sensation of breathing much more rapidly, and taking more frequent deep breaths, than at sea level.

Saturday was mountain bike race day; I took Josh's truck out to Twin Lakes, the main aid station and crew access at the 40- and 60-mile marks of the out-and-back course.  I'd never crewed a bike race before, so I took my cues from fellow OM athlete Kristen King, who was supporting her husband Jesse.  The crew station was a very cool scene, like an ultra aid station on steroids.  There were dozens of pop-up tents set up on either side of the dirt road spanning the Twin Lake dam that the riders would traverse.  With 1500 racers coming through at 20-30 mph, it was a madhouse trying to pick an individual rider out of the crowd.  Somehow it worked, though, and the racers managed to find their crews, fix mechanical issues, take care of their nutritional needs, and everything else familiar to a regular ultra race.  Watching the leaders blast through in either direction was impressive; they did not stop at all, and seemed to maintain an insane pace and effort level throughout the day.

After seeing Josh and Jesse successfully through, I drove a few miles into the town of Twin Lakes (such as it is), where the run course would pass through a week later (the bike and run courses share similar trails, but parallel each other for long stretches, and the major climbs are quite different).  As it turns out, I parked the car in basically the exact spot where my crew would set up their Hypoxico tent one week later and undertook a reconnaissance run/hike of Hope Pass, the biggest climb in the race.  This section starts at about mile 39 at Twin Lakes and traverses a flat field for about a mile, crossing the Roaring Fork River at the low point of the course (9200') and then embarking a a 4-mile climb to the top of Hope Pass (12,600').  The race drops down the far side of the climb and continues about five miles to the turnaround point at Winfield, but I scouted only the initial climb on the north slope.  With my collapsable trekking poles I actually found the climb to be fairly reasonable, and was able to maintain about an 18:00 pace despite not pushing very hard on the way up.  The descent started off a bit technical, but after I got back below the treeline I found it to be very runnable and enjoyed it thoroughly.  In all I round-tripped the 10+ miles in a bit under three hours and felt really good about it; a huge confidence boost for the following week.

That confidence mostly vanished the following day when, with Brian's encouragement, I decided to jump into the Leadville 10K, which would give me a taste of the first and last 5K of the full course.  The first three miles were a barely interrupted downhill on mostly wide dirt roads; I struggled to keep my breathing under control and hung on to the back of the top 10, hitting the turnaround in about 20 minutes flat.  The return was pure, lung-searing torture;  I staggered home with a second half of 24:30 for a 16th-place finish in 44:55--somehow under my goal of 45:00, but severely shaken at how hard the uphill had been.  I was cheered a bit by the realization that Brian's time in 2013 had been only a few seconds faster, when he had gone on to run 22 hours for the 100; if I could pull that off, I'd be pretty pleased.

The girls! (I like trains.)

I did very minimal running the rest of the week.  Jodi, the girls, and my parents arrived late Tuesday night, along with Brian's girlfriend Kali.  We spent Wednesday morning on a very low-key whitewater rafting trip on the Arkansas River, and the afternoon on a scenic ride on the historic Leadville, Colorado, and Southern Railroad (which I enjoyed immensely).  Brian and his sister Katie arrived Thursday afternoon, just in time for Brian to place second in the Leadville Beer Mile (while dressed as a squirrel) in a very impressive high-altitude 8:25.  Friday was very low-key; I spent most of the morning hanging out with Brian and Dylan at the Hypoxico tent, and spent the afternoon readying gear and putting the crew plan together with Brian, Kali, Katie, and Kevin, who joined us that evening after some business meetings in Denver.  At this point we had ten people crammed into our very cozy rental, trying to grab a few hours of sleep before the 4am start.

At race check-in, with LT100 founder Ken Chlouber

I actually slept fairly well and felt good as we walked the 3/4 mile from our house to the starting line; I was a little nervous but mostly excited and chomping at the bit to get started.  I had a stated goal of 20 hours, but in reality this was mostly a pipe dream, and I knew even with a great day and great weather this was unlikely.  I mostly wanted to just make sure not to do anything stupid and be able to run strong over the latter stages of the race.  I knew the opening miles would be fast and I'd have to keep myself under control.  I was hoping to reach Outward Bound (23.5 miles, the first time I'd see my crew) in about 4 hours, to reach Twin Lakes (39-ish miles) in under 7 hours, at to reach Winfield in under 10 hours.  A 20-hour day would actually take about a 9:30 split into Winfield, which I thought was possible given how well I had climbed Hope Pass the week before, but more than chasing a specific split, I was determined not to burn myself out too early.  The benefits of a controlled start are pretty obvious, and any successful ultra I've had has always come as a result of starting out slower than I think I should, but the best of intentions are often waylaid in the heat of a race, especially a long one where the opening miles feel much easier than expected.  Only a few days before, though, I'd read a nice article from David Roche about starting races slowly.  It wasn't anything earth-shattering (though it was well-written and spot-on, as all of Dave's articles are), but it had come along at exactly the right time for me to be reminded about the benefits of a nice, easy start, and as we headed down those fast pre-dawn miles, I kept my pace well in check.

It was dark, but there were so many runners around me that I didn't even need to turn on my headlamp.  We reached the bottom of the initial drop and traversed a nice flat 1.5 miles or so of pavement before we reached the rolling singletrack that circled the north and west shores of Turquoise Lake.  I tucked myself in the middle of a single-file line of seven or eight runners, running a very relaxed pace, but after awhile I got tired of hearing one of them talk loudly about himself to anyone who would listen  and took off, settling onto the back of a pack of much quieter runners as we reached May Queen, the first aid station at 12.5 miles, in about 2:05.  It was still nice and cool, and I was feeling very comfortable with a full bottle and several gels in my OM Single Barrel Hydraquiver, so I ran straight through the aid station and the thick, accompanying crowds and headed towards the first major climb of the day.

Arriving at Outward Bound, 24 miles in.
photo: Joe Azze

After a few gradually uphill miles through some tricky singletrack, we popped out on a dirt road and began a steady uphill grind to Sugarloaf Pass, a little over 11,000 feet.  I picked up a few spots, but not many.  I was determined not to race this early, and used my breathing as a proxy for effort; anytime I felt my breathing pattern increase, I eased off the pace.  After cresting the hill the course dropped precipitously over the next several miles down what would be known as the Powerline climb on the return trip; I focused on trying not to trash my legs and just get down with minimal effort.  At the bottom of the climb we turned onto a rolling rural highway for a two-mile stretch to the Outward Bound aid station.  I suffered my first mild down period on this section, moving steadily but slowly, and feeling as if a faster past was well beyond my capabilities.  But seeing my crew at the aid station, along with Elizabeth Azze (there to crew a client), and my parents, lifted my spirits, as did the fact that I had exactly met my target split of four hours (I mean exactly--like, to the minute).  Brian and Katie fueled me up with GU and Coke, and after about half a mile of easy jogging I started feeling good and found a nice rhythm over the next several flat/gently uphill miles.

Enjoying a bit of rain.
photo: Leadville Race Series

I fueled well and ran well over the next few hours, moving quickly through aid stations, listening to music, enjoying the scenery, and just letting the miles pass.  I had been dreading the climb on the lower slopes of Mount Elbert but I didn't even notice it.  I traded places with a few other runners but did not worry about it at all, just monitoring my effort level and cruising along.  A steady rain started, but as I was about to start getting too wet to stay comfortable, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and I dried off immediately.  Before I knew it I was descending from Mount Elbert towards Twin Lakes and my main crew station.  Again on the descent, I suffered a bit of a bad patch; this would become a theme most of the day, as my climbs were insanely strong all day long but I struggled to find a good rhythm on the downhills.  But once again I was re-energized by my amazing crew.  Katie swapped out my hat and pack (I wanted a little extra carrying capacity and fluids for the Hope Pass section); I pounded a full can of Coke and a couple of GU Roctane gels, grabbed my poles, and headed off toward the pass.

Heading towards Hope Pass
photo: Joe Azze

I crossed the river and started the climb, falling into a strong power hike, and I immediately started passing people.  And I mean, passing them like they were standing still.  I was trying not to get too fired up, but it was hard to keep the emotions and the pace under control, feeling this strong and having this much positive feedback.  The climb seemed to pass in an instant and I reached the aid station, located about half a mile from the summit.  The enthusiastic volunteers refilled my bottles as I kept hiking, then ran them back out to me; I never broke stride, just smiled at the llamas grazing on the mountainside slopes (so that's how they got supplies up here! Llama train!) and pressed on to the top.  Less than five minutes down the far side, I passed Rob Krar, the race leader, already nearing the top on the return trip, hiking purposefully, without a pacer and with about a 20-minute lead.

Crossing the Roaring Fork
photo: Leadville Race Series

The descent was much steeper than the northern side, and I picked my way down slowly, surrendering a spot or two, but I felt generally OK as I neared the halfway mark.  However, I hit a real down period on the three-mile rolling trail that stretched from the bottom of the descent to the turnaround at the Winfield aid station.  This section was much longer than I had anticipated, and my energy levels dipped precipitously.  I ate a gel, but it wasn't enough, and when I reached Brian at halfway I may have been at my lowest point all day.  Still, though, I was in good shape, exactly 10 hours in; I had moved up about 15 places since leaving Twin Lakes, and 21 hours was still a possibility.  I sat for the first time all day, eating some noodle soup, bananas, and Coke.  After a few minutes we made our way back out on the trail.  It took a few minutes of walking for me to get my legs back under me, but once the calories kicked in I started moving pretty well again, and we picked up a couple more folks as we approached the return climb.

Return climb on Hope Pass
photo: Brian Oestrike

Once we hit the climb I locked in my poles again and started hiking like a madman.  We caught three people in the first few minutes and I was not about to slow down.  Fortunately Brian recognized that the effort was not sustainable.  He gently took the lead and slowed the pace down enough for my breathing and heart rate to get back under control.  We were still making up ground, but at a much more manageable rate.  I flagged a bit as we neared the top and the climbing got very steep, but we had picked up another seven spots by the time we reached the top.  I jogged the first several minutes from the summit very cautiously before settling into a better rhythm just beyond the aid station.  The upper slopes were not particularly enjoyable, and I surrendered a few spots here.  But in the last two miles of the descent I hit my stride (despite one rather loud and unpleasant fall, which miraculously did not result in any injuries) and arrived back at Twin Lakes tired but happy that Hope Pass was behind me for the day.  Here I took the longest break of the day, sitting in a chair while Kevin dried my feet and changed my socks (thanks buddy, sorry to put you through that) and crushing a PBJ and more Coke.  By the time Brian and I headed back on the trail I was feeling pretty good again with just over 40 miles to go.

Kali has a frightening encounter with the Pacer Squirrel.
photo: Katie Oestrike

I was once again probably overly aggressive on the climb up to the Mount Elbert aid station, passing several folks and getting myself into a bit of an energy deficit that I paid for a few miles later.  Brian was able to do a nice job of steadying my effort level and getting the pace to be much more consistent over the next several miles.  I went through another down patch from miles 68 to about 74, but my spirits were revived by my crew at a brief stop at the Tree Line aid station, when Kevin burst out of the woods in full squirrel gear.  Brian and I covered the last few miles back to Outward Bound (mile 77) at a nice clip, recovering a couple of spots, and I was happy to have the whole crew, including my parents, Jodi, and the girls, meet me there.  After changing into a long sleeve shirt and powering on my headlamp, I started the next section with Kali along as pacer #2.

We ran very comfortably on the road section for a couple of miles but unfortunately missed the turn (along with a few other runners) off the road and added on about 3/4 of a mile with that mistake.  However once we found the trail and started the Powerline climb I was moving well again.  Having been warned by Brian, Kali kept me in check, and for once I didn't give back any spots on the way down, in fact picking up another place or two in the last mile before reaching May Queen, slightly more than 12 miles to go.

I had left Outward Bound with what I thought was an outside chance to break 22 hours, but our missed turn, which had cost us probably ten minutes, had wiped that out.  As I left May Queen with Kevin, my last pacer, I needed to run the last 12.5 miles in under 3 hours to break 23:00.  This was not a guarantee; I remembered all too well the final 3 miles of the 10K the week before, which climbed almost 500 feet--not an insurmountable grade, but one that I though likely would reduce me to a walk at this stage.  Twenty-minute miles were not out of the question.  I figured I needed to reach the base of the climb with an hour to spare in order for a sub-23 to be relatively safe.

I got quite cold leaving May Queen, and Kevin and I took a few minutes to get going while I put on my winter beanie and my Patagonia Houdini jacket.  A few minutes later it started to rain, and it rained fairly hard for the next ten minutes or so.  We covered the first few miles at 13-minute pace, walking in a few spots, but I started to find my rhythm on the north side of the lake and settled into the 12:00/mile range.  Kevin was very aggressive about pushing my calories and fluids, making sure I didn't neglect any needs, and as we hit the road section leading from the lake to the climb I actually felt very strong, pushing the pace down near 10:00/mile.  We hiked the first minute or so of the uphill, strewn with ruts and loose rock, but as we reached the graded dirt road, the slope eased off, and I found maintaining an 11:00/mile jog was pretty easy.  We walked for about 4-5 minutes with about two miles to go, partly to ensure we'd finish strong and I think partly to savor the moment.  Before I knew it we were back on 6th street in Leadville, with the finish line stretched out before us in the distance.

Jodi and my dad were at the finish, along with Katie, Brian, and Kali (the kids were mercifully asleep back at the house with my mom).  I was struck in that moment at how far they had all come and what they had sacrificed to get me to this point, and I broke down in the medical tent afterwards, overwhelmed by gratitude and so happy to have them all there with me.  Safe to say this experience will stay with me for quite some time.  The race was incredible: the organization, the trail, the scenery, the competition, and the time I was able to share with my family and friends out on this course.  Leadville truly is one of the greatest US trail races, and I hope to be back many times again.

Gear
Salomon Sense Ultra and Agile shirt
Injinji Ultra No-show socks
Patagonia Stride Pro shorts
Black Diamond Distance Z trekking poles
Orange Mud Single Barrel Hydraquiver, miles 0-40 and 60-100 (also used an old-school Ultimate Direction AK vest for Hope Pass)
GU Roctane and gels, mostly Birthday Cake, that's just delicious
Orange Mud trucker cap and beanie (also used my GU five panel crusher for Hope Pass)
Petzl Reactik + headlamp