Ragnar Trail: The Evergreen State Edition

Ten minutes had passed since we departed the water station along the dark, frigid trail.  The aid station was occupied by a single volunteer who enthusiastically informed us that we only had 1.7 miles left before reaching the transition tent, where my friend Tony was anxiously awaiting our arrival.  Sounds pretty basic, however that 1.7 miles was going to climb a good thousand feet to the summit of a ski resort 7,000 feet above sea level.  My friend Christina and I were powering through the steady climb when suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks.  "Liam?  Do we have to go up there?" she asked.  When I looked up, I saw that her head was tilted upwards and she had her eyes focused on the headlamp lights belonging to a pair of runners at the crest of the climb approaching the summit, well off in the distance.  Up until now we had kept up a constant chatter, her injury was not bothering her, and she was in good spirit. However, when she spoke those words, I sensed a hint of edginess in her tone.  There was a brief pause and when I realized her concern, I answered "yes, but don't look up there.  Just look forward."

In November 2017 I completed my second Ragnar trail race in Warner Springs, Southern California, and shortly after, my friends and I uncovered a Ragnar trail race that looked to be even more epic; Ragnar Trail Rainier up in Washington State.  This race was new to the series and it was quite popular.  We immediately secured a spot for our eight person team.  Several months later after a quick flight from Los Angeles to Seattle, a lucky mishap at Enterprise that resulted in me being rented a Ram 1500 pickup truck at no extra charge instead of the Nissan sedan that I had reserved, and a delicious brunch at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the boonies, my friend Monica and I were driving down a desolate road through the Washington countryside in search of a Walmart.  Wanting to travel light, I had not packed a sleeping bag, tent, or canopy to bring to the race and instead opted to purchase a canopy at a bargain price from Walmart, and rent a sleeping bag from REI for the weekend.  Tony and I would be sharing his four season tent that he was bringing along.  Once we arrived at the store, we purchased a canopy and some drinks and snacks for the rest of the team before heading to closest REI in Tacoma.  I was surprised when I received the news from a sales associate that REI did not rent sleeping bags.  I instead purchased one on sale and thanks to my REI dividend, I walked out only spending $16.  Monica and I were both in awe of how beautiful it was outside as we drove along.  Owing to the fact that Northwest Washington has several "rain days" throughout the year, the wilderness around us featured vibrant colors, including various shades of green.  I admired the pine trees that lined the road.  They were so massive, the branches often stretched all the way across the road above us.  Every once in a while a turnout would emerge on the side of the winding road, and we would pull over to take pictures of the river and surrounding mountains and trees.  When we finally arrived at the race venue, we rendezvoused with Christina, Dave, and Iris, and began hauling our gear over to our campsite.  We were going to be spending the next couple of days camping at the base of the Crystal Mountain Ski Resort while eight of us took turns running around the clock to finish twenty-four "legs", equal to around 127 miles of rugged, but beautiful terrain.  There were three different trail loops, all three beginning and ending at the ski resort, and each of us would run them one time on a rotating basis.  The race would be over when all eight of us finished our three loops.  This meant that everyone would get to enjoy the experience of running at different times of the day including in daylight and in the dark.  The course is designed to offer each runner a little bit of daylight and darkness.  Ragnar Mount Rainier was quickly becoming one of the most popular Ragnar trail races in the series, and hundreds of teams of eight runners had traveled from all over to partake in the adventure.  As we walked towards our campsite, we passed by other runners, through the village, and walked past booths belonging to corporate sponsors who were giving away and demoing their products.  I loved where our camping area was.  All around us in every direction were towering mountains covered in tall green pine trees, with small ski huts resting about halfway up some of the slopes.  Iris, Dave, and Christina had arrived early and met up with Monica and I, and the remaining members of our team, Denis, Yesenia, and Tony, would be arriving later that night.  Just as we finished setting up camp, we saw that Denis had messaged our Facebook thread advising us that he and Yesenia's flight had gotten delayed and they wouldn't be arriving until 5:30 AM the next morning.  Their plan was to fly into Portland, Oregon and make the three-and-a-half our drive to the resort in their rental car.  Our race was scheduled to begin at 6:30 AM so they would be arriving in the nick of time.  Tony was scheduled to arrive in Seattle at 2:30 AM so after we had dinner at the lodge, I headed to the truck to get a couple of hours of sleep before I had to leave to go pick him up.  Thanks to the comfortable seats and the thermal blanket that Monica lent me, I was able to get a some solid sleep despite the cold temperature outside.

Six hours later we were driving down the pitch black road in my rented pickup truck, me behind the wheel, Tony next to me in the front seat with his gear in the back.  We had just passed a flashing "elk crossing" sign so I was taking a cautious and reserved approach along the winding, tree lined road that led back to the ski resort.  I had picked up Tony from the airport around 3:00 in the morning and he was entertaining me with stories of his recent successful summit of Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, Africa.  Once we arrived back at the resort, we unloaded Tony's gear and enjoyed some brief down time before heading to the transition area to watch Iris, our first runner, kick off the race.  When the gun went off, she ran from the start line and began pounding up a long climb before disappearing up the mountain and into the wild.  The three trails consisted of a green, yellow, and red loop.  The green loop, which was 2.9 miles long and rated as the easiest, was the loop that Iris was running.  She was an avid hiker and a solid runner, having finished several marathons, along with the Elk 50K in Oregon during fall of 2017.  That first incline looked daunting, but nothing she couldn't handle.   Denis and Yesenia had not arrived yet due to their delay being longer than expected, so we had to reconfigure the order of the runners a little.  When Iris finished her loop, I would be heading out to tackle the yellow loop, which was regarded as one of the toughest trails of the entire Ragnar Trail series.  Forty minutes later, I found myself powering along up the same climb that Iris had gone up during the green loop before banking right at the junction where the trail split.  The yellow loop was 4.9 miles long and featured a merciless 2,500 foot climb to the summit of the ski resort.  I ran underneath the ski lifts as I made my way along the ridge, the Ragnar village resting far below to my right.  I ran steadily up the climb through the towering pine trees until the trail leveled out and passed by a clear blue mountain lake and through a vibrant, green meadow.  I was running along through the pine trees gracefully, enjoying the setting, when suddenly, a tree root caught my shoe and I lurched forward.  To my relief, my reflexes were spot on, and I was able to stop myself from falling on my face.  Once I overcame the rattle from my stumble, I was again able to enjoy the beautiful mountain scenery that engulfed me.  As I ran, I noticed a strange cold feeling on my right foot near my big toe.  It felt as if I had run through water and the front of my shoe was wet, but I had hopped over all the creeks along the trail and stayed dry.  When I looked down to inspect my foot, I was shocked to discover the source of the cold sensation.  When I tripped over the tree root, I had torn the whole front of my shoe open.  The tear in the lining was a good three inches, and the left side of my foot, where my first three toes were, was completely exposed.  There was nothing to do but keep moving forward and just be extra cautions not to trip on any more roots or kick any rocks until I finished this loop.  The rest of the run was challenging, but majestic.  It was a foggy morning and I couldn't see much, but the setting was mesmerizing.  The cool air felt clean and trees of different shades of green continued to line the trail as I made the final push to the summit.  When I arrived at the transition tent, which marked the end of the loop, Monica emerged from the crowd of runners and took off down the red loop.  As I walked away from the crowd at the transition tent, I saw the other team members snapping pictures.  We hopped on the gondola and when we made it back down to the Ragnar village, Denis and Yesenia had arrived and were setting up camp.  My plan was to find some duct tape to repair my shoe but luckily, Solomon was sponsoring the race and letting runners test out their shoes for free, so I grabbed a pair from the booth to use for the remainder of the race.  Now that the team had arrived in its entirety, Denis and Yesenia got some sleep while Tony and I walked over to the lodge to fill up on the $15 breakfast buffet that was made available to runners.  When we walked into the warm building, the aroma of delicious breakfast food filled the air.  The selections were marvelous.  Pancakes, sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, potatoes, muffins, fruit, you name it.  We piled food onto our plates and made ourselves cups of piping hot black coffee.  The food was delicious, and the ski lodge really rose to the occasion, much to our delight.  The building was open all day and night, offering clean restrooms and a place for runners to come warm up rather than freeze their butts off at the campsites at night when the temperatures were forecasted to drop to the low forties.

Time passed, miles were covered, runners finished their loops, and later on that afternoon, our team was gathered near the transition area awaiting Tony's arrival.  He had taken off to tackle the green loop fifty minutes prior but we hadn't seen a message on the Facebook thread from him notifying us that he was closing in.  Our rule was when each runner hit the one mile mark from the finish area, they would message the Facebook thread so that the next runner could be ready to roll once they arrived.  Tony was a seasoned long distance hiker, having summited Mount Whitney numerous times, the highest peak in the forty-eight states, as well as several other significant peaks including Mount Fuji in Japan, and most recently, as mentioned above, Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, Africa.  In addition, he was also an accomplished runner with several marathons and a few ultramarathons under his belt.  An hour had now passed since he departed the transition tent and we still hadn't heard from him.  It shouldn't be taking him this long to run 2.9 miles, even on this rugged terrain.  Something was wrong.  We waited in confusion, hoping he hadn't twisted his ankle or hurt himself, which is not uncommon while running on trails.  Seconds later, a message from Tony popped up on the thread; "I think I took a wrong turn.  I don't see anyone.  Trying to find my way back to the trail".  Realizing that he was okay and that he had only gone off course, we breathed a sigh of relief, then began laughing hysterically.  How could he have gone off course in broad daylight on the easiest loop of the race?  We couldn't wait for him to arrive back at the transition area, not only so Yesenia could take off on the yellow loop, but more so because we were all dying to hear his explanation of how he managed to miss the turn.  When he finally arrived at the finishing area, he explained that he was so in awe of the beautiful surroundings that he decided to pull out his cell phone and capture a video, but missed the left turn from the fire road onto the single track trail in the process.  He ran a mile further down the fire road before realizing that there were no other runners in sight and no Ragnar signs marking the course, so he made a U turn.  We gave him plenty of grief for that one.

Dinner that night was a delicious selection of various types of pastas, meatballs, salads, and giant chocolate chip cookies and brownies for dessert.  We laughed like hyenas at our table as we looked at photos that we had taken from the race earlier that day.  About an hour earlier, Christina had finished the challenging red loop, and although her Plantar Fasciitis injury had not flared up to the point of grave concern, she was sore and cramping during the final half-mile push up the road to the finish area.  Realizing that she was struggling, Monica decided to run down the road to help.  Dave and Iris had asked Monica to hold on to their jackets and water bottle while they ran off to the restrooms, so Monica took off down the road, two jackets in one arm, a water bottle in the other, and her bag slung over her shoulder.  When she returned with Christina ten minutes later, she also had Christina's jacket crammed into her hoodie pocket, and was carrying Christina's phone.  Dave captured photos of Christina's finish with Monica at her side hauling everyone's belongings along the final approach, which looked hilarious when we zoomed in on her.  She didn't look like a happy camper, but in addition to being a strong hiker and runner, Monica was always willing to lend a hand when needed.  She was essentially our team mom.  She had joined Tony on the expedition to Mount Kilimanjaro and told stories of the men who worked for the trekking company known as "porters".  The company had assigned three porters per hiker to carry all of their gear up the mountain such as the tents, sleeping bags, etc. while Tony, Monica, and the other hikers carried only day packs.  Upon viewing these photos, we began calling her "Porter Monica" because she seemed to be carrying everyone's gear while Christina freely made her way to the finish.

By my estimated time calculations, I would be running the green loop around 11:00 PM, so after dinner I retreated to Tony's tent to get some sleep for the night shift.  Later that night, I watched as Dave came cruising into the transition area.  When I rushed over to high five him, he was covered in sweat and looked like pure, one-hundred percent energy.  Dave had been hiking for over twenty years, so strenuous trails were no stranger to him.  Upon seeing Iris finish her first 50K in fall of 2017, he decided to start running and ran the LA Marathon earlier in the year.  Seeing him finish the 8.2 mile red loop with such conviction was inspiring.  He looked like he could have gone and done it again.  After fifteen hours, it was finally time for me to run again.  I dashed off into the night and gave kudos to other runners as I pounded up the climb.  Once into the wilderness, the trail narrowed considerably and I hacked along with my arms in the dark through the overgrown brush.  After banking left at the top of the hill, the trail widened into a fire road and followed a descent further into the wild.  My pace picked up on this smooth path but it was very dark and my world was confined to the beam of my headlamp.  It looked as if I were running through a tunnel with massive pine trees appearing out of nowhere along the side of the trail.  After powering down another descent along some single track trail, the fire road dumped me out into the parking lot of the resort and I ran the last half-mile freely into the transition area, where Christina was waiting for me.  She was going to be running the yellow loop immediately after me and I had volunteered to go with her, given her injury, cramping, and owing to the fact that the yellow loop can be very sketchy at night.  Contending with a 2,500 foot climb with cramping and a PF injury all alone in the dead of night didn't seem all that appealing.  We hiked along up the climb and into the meadow through the midnight wilderness exchanging stories and laughs.  Christina had summited  several 14er's in California, including Mount Langley and Mount Whitney several times, but over the past year she had been battling Plantar Fasciitis; an injury that involves inflammation of the plantar fascia tissue and causes a great deal of pain in the heel and foot, making it extremely difficult to hike and walk.  Those who suffer from PF often have good and bad days, and fortunately for Christina, her injury wasn't bothering her too much.  We passed through the aid station at mile 3.2 at a steady pace, but the final mile and a half climb to the summit was taking a toll on her.  Fearing that she would get discouraged, I advised her to just look forward instead of further up the mountain where we could see the headlamps of other runners approaching the summit.  I turned and looked back as we marched up the switchbacks.  A line of headlamps made their way up the trail behind us as the distant mountains glowed in the silvery moonlight.  I stared at the full moon above as it cast a bright glow over the tree tops.  It looked like the DVD cover of a scary movie, but it was a beautiful night.  Nearing the crest, a volunteer sat in a chair alongside the trail wrapped in a blanket, blowing a police whistle and enthusiastically cheering on runners as they passed.  Her energy was a powerful tonic, and we powered up the last quarter-mile climb towards the transition area feeling strong.  It was approaching 3:00 AM when we arrived and after greeting us with a high five, Tony took off into the night down the red loop.

Emerging from the tent later that morning and watching the sun glow through the cracks of the partly cloudy sky onto the mountains filled me with energy and excitement.  bundled up in a sweatshirt, a fleece jacket, a pair of long pants, and socks while rolled up in a sleeping bag, I managed to stay warm and get a few hours of sleep.  After another delicious visit to the breakfast buffet, we congratulated Yesenia on finishing her last loop.  Being a solid hiker and runner, she came tearing through the finish with strong conviction.  Next, Christina and Monica would be running the green loop together.  In an effort to help runners finish the race earlier, the race directors had given us the option of "doubling up", meaning we could run our remaining loops together.  Christina and Monica would run green together, Dave and Tony would run yellow, and Denis and I would bring it home by running the red loop together.  Shortly after noon, Denis and I met Tony and Dave at the summit of the ski resort and took off down the trail for the final loop of the race.  At 8.2 miles, the red loop was the longest of the course and featured a six mile descent down a winding trail from the summit, followed by a two mile incline to the finish.  Our teammates had warned us that the footing was tricky during the first couple of miles and it was easy to fall, so we powered along cautiously while enjoying the view.  Denis had served in the military for several years and had lost forty pounds after taking up running and hiking.  We had climbed Mount Shasta together and he was one of my teammates for Ragnar Los Coyotes.  We talked casually as we ripped down the switchbacks through the pine trees.  The downhill was pleasant and gradual and the scent of pine filled the air.  When we finally reached the bottom of the gorge at mile six, we passed by a water station and began a gradual incline up a fire road before diverting onto a single track trail that featured abrupt uphills and downhills.  We ran through water, mud and over sharp rocks before finally emerging onto the road for the final push.  People cheered us on, and as we ran up the final approach, our entire team joined us and we all ran across the finish line together.  All eight of us embraced in a group hug in the tent after bursting across the finish line.  It had taken us thirty-two hours, we had experienced set backs and obstacles, but we succeeded as a team.  It was a euphoric moment.  After collecting our medals and packing up our campsite, we congregated at a brewery nearby for a celebration dinner before retreating to the hotel room that Tony, Monica, and I were sharing.  By the time I took a shower I was dead tired and my eyes were bloodshot.  Lying down in the hotel bed felt heavenly compared to lying on the cold, rocky ground of the Crystal Mount Ski Resort, and I promptly passed out.  The next day, our flight back to Los Angeles was leaving at 4:00 PM so we had a few hours to kill.  After breakfast at the hotel, we admired the stunning views of Seattle from the top of the space needle.  It was a cloudy morning and we were unable to see Mount Rainier in the distance, but the views of the city were breath taking.  Later on at the airport as I was going through security check, the TSA workers asked me if they could take a look through my carry on.  I agreed, and it turned out that my Ragnar medal was setting off the medal detector.  The agents apologetically informed me that because the medal had jagged edges, they couldn't permit me to take it onto the airplane but offered me the option to have it mailed to me.  It was approaching our flight boarding time and I would have to go to a customer service counter, fill out some paperwork, and wait in the line to go back through security again.  I calmly told the agent that they could toss the medal.  I've collected dozens of medals over my nine years of running, all of which are in a plastic bin in my closet.  Once in a while, usually when I'm re-arranging my closet, I pull them out and reflect on the memories.  Of course it's cool to have the medal and it serves as a nice memento, but it's the experience that matters not the medal.  I was bummed and it was unfortunate that I had to give up my Ragnar medal, but in the end,  the object itself wasn't what was important.  What was important was the incredible experience of running through the mountains with my friends, growing closer, working towards a common goal, and reveling in the accomplishment together.  Nothing could ever take that away from us.  Over the next few days after I arrived back home, my body was yelling at my mind to let it rest.  I had been burning the candle at both ends for the last few months and the exhaustion in my body was making its presence known.  They say endurance never sleeps but sooner or later, we all need a break, and I was looking forward to mine.   

The Role of a Pacer

                                                  

Many people cannot fathom the thought of running 100 miles.  There is simply no way a human can travel that far on foot.  Even if it is possible, why would anyone want to put themselves through so much anguish? Running 100 miles requires a supreme level of physical fitness, along with mental toughness of biblical proportions.  Granted, only a small underground group of runners are interested in these types of races, but 100 milers are held all over the world every year.  In order to maximize their chances of finishing strong, most runners have "crews", a group of two or three people, usually family or friends, to help them.  Crews have access to runners at certain aid stations throughout the race and often provide nourishment such as food, drinks, changes of clothes, a place to nap, etc.  Having a good crew plays a significant role in the success of a 100 mile runner and can sometimes be the difference between finishing and not finishing.  Another significant role in a 100 mile race is the role of a pacer.  A pacer is someone who will rendezvous with the runner at a certain point in the race and run the last thirty or forty miles with them to the finish line .  The pacer's job is to provide psychological encouragement at the right times, keep the runner moving, and give them some company, especially in the dark when it can be easy to get distracted and wander off course or get injured.  The most exciting part of pacing someone, especially in their first 100 mile race, is providing the motivation to propel them to the finish line.  Being someone's pacer, in my mind, is an honor because you get to play a role in their success.  So, when I was presented with the chance to pace my friend Juan Carlos (JC) in his first 100 mile race, I jumped at the opportunity.  He had signed up for a race called the Kodiak 100 in Big Bear Lake, California, and when he told me he was originally going to run alone, I offered to pace him despite having no experience.  He accepted the offer and we mapped out our plans for me to meet him at mile fifty-nine in a remote area of the Southern California wilderness.

Big Bear Lake is one of my favorite places in California.  Nestled in the San Bernardino Mountains two hours outside of Los Angeles, it is a year round destination for skiing and snowboarding in the winter and jet skiing, kayaking, and fishing in the summer.  The Kodiak 100 is a race of extremes.  The course circumnavigates the entire Big Bear Valley in a single loop, climbing and descending several mountain peaks along the way, including two ski resorts; Bear Mountain and Snow Valley.  The race is run almost entirely on trails and fire roads, and lies mostly above 7,000 feet.  Not only is there around 17,000 feet of elevation gain, but runners must also contend with the dangers of running in high altitude and unpredictable weather.  I had left work around 4:00 PM, and after weaving through some Friday night L.A. traffic, I arrived in Big Bear shortly after the sun set for the day.  I would be meeting up with JC at an aid station called the dump, which was a small parking lot where the Pacific Crest Trail intersects with the CA 18 highway.  I had been tracking his progress online since the race started at 8:00 AM that morning.  Last I saw, he was at Snow Valley, putting him right on target to meet me at midnight, as planned.  My friend Edith was also coming up to Big Bear to pace her friend Violeta, and her crew had rented an RV for the weekend.  Once Edith arrived and we found each other,  it was decided that it was best for me to drive to the dump, try to sleep for a couple of hours in my car, and wait for JC.  When I arrived, I saw runners crossing the road, an aid station was set up in the parking lot, and crew vehicles were parked all around.  It was energizing to see so many enthusiastic crew members and strong runners out here in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night.  Stepping out of my car, I breathed in the crisp, refreshing mountain air.  The sky was filled with stars, and the half moon cast a silvery light on the road.  After checking in the with the staff and signing my paperwork, which by the way mentioned the possibility of serious injury or death, I reclined the seat in my car and tried to get some rest.  It was around 10:30 PM so I had some time to try to sleep before JC arrived.  Two and a half hours later, after barely getting a wink of sleep, I refreshed the tracking page on my phone to see if JC came through.  Still nothing.  Something had to have been wrong.  It was approaching 1:15 in the morning and he definitely should have arrived by now.  Had I missed him?  Just then, a text from him popped up on my phone, indicating that he had arrived.  I jumped out of my car and soon found him sitting in a camping chair wrapped in a blanket, eye glasses on, enjoying a bowl of hot soup with ramen noodles.  Despite being stung by two bees earlier in the race, he looked pretty fresh and was holding up really well.  We greeted each other and I introduced myself to Eligia and Sheny, his two crew members, who were selflessly supporting not just JC, but also his friend Alex during the race.  Alex was about an hour behind JC and was expected to arrive shortly.  I also met Maricris, who as one of Violeta's crew members and was awaiting her arrival.  Sheny and Eligia had their SUV stocked with snacks and drinks and had been doing a great job keeping JC and Alex nourished.  While JC was regrouping, I changed in my car, grabbed all of my provisions, and at 2:00 AM on the dot we bade the crew farewell and took off down the trail together to tackle the forty mile journey to the finish line in Big Bear Lake Village.

There was only modest elevation change as we followed the trail through the pine trees and along the edge of an ink black canyon before arriving at the next aid station in Burns Canyon four and a half miles later.  As we approached, we saw a small group of runners sprawled out in camping chairs, eating and drinking, trying to regroup.  When I asked one of them how he was doing he just shook his head.  "Wrecked" he answered.  We paused at Burns Canyon only long enough for JC to sip some hot coffee before disappearing back onto the trail and into the wild, our headlamps lighting the way.  We talked casually as we carried on, enjoying the tranquility of the midnight wilderness.  JC told me that his girlfriend, who lives in Modesto, was proud of him for even having the courage to sign up for this race.  He was grateful for her support, and he said that he had "promised her a buckle", meaning that he was going to do whatever it took to earn himself a finisher's belt buckle.  We plodded along the gentle terrain for a while before the trail began a gradual incline up the side of the mountain and became littered with rocks.  The more rugged terrain forced us to slow our pace as we climbed around the sharp, loose rocks.  Through the constant chirping of crickets, there was not a sound to be heard except for our footsteps and the occasional dog bark from houses near the base of the mountain, several thousand feet below.  A clicking sound in the distance shook me from my focus.  It was the sound of trekking poles making contact with the ground behind us.  When I looked back, sure enough, a headlamp was quickly closing in on us.  As it got closer, JC and I stepped to the side of the trail to let the runner through.  "Hey, how's it going?" I asked as the man approached.  No response.  When his face emerged in the beam of my headlamp, he looked like he had just seen a ghost.  He had a look of panic in his eyes, and he passed by us frantically along the rocks with the help of his trekking poles, not even acknowledging our presence.  As we crested the top of the hill and made our way down the descent, the first rays of sunshine began lighting up the sky behind us.  The morning sky quickly filled with vibrant color as we ran down the switchbacks towards the next aid station.  By the time we reached the checkpoint at the base of Sugarloaf Mountain, mile seventy, the sun had risen, and Eligia and Sheny were at the aid station awaiting our arrival.  JC took a seat near a battery powered space heater, trying to warm up as Eligia and Sheny brought him food and fresh clothing.  A few minutes later, Edith emerged from the crowd and greeted us.  She was waiting for Violeta to arrive and was preparing for her journey of pacing her to the finish line.  Following closely behind Edith were JC's friends Alex, Nelson, and Gus.  Alex was also running the 100 miler and Gus and Nelson had been taking turns pacing him since mile fifty-two.  I introduced myself and we chatted as I sipped some insta-coffee and JC chowed down on an order of McDonald's pancakes, compliments of Edith.  My watch read 6:49 AM when we checked out of the aid station and began the five mile, 3,000 foot climb to the summit of Sugarloaf Mountain.  I admired the beautiful scenery as we made our way up the trail, running when capable, but mostly hiking.  Here's a little fun fact about Sugarloaf Mountain; there are a lot of false summits.  There were at least two instances where I thought that we were most definitely approaching the summit, only to see another distant peak further in front of us.  There was nothing to do but keep moving.  The course descended the same route that it climbed and several runners were making their way down as we trekked to the turnaround at the summit.  About a mile from the top, a man wearing a white skirt and sandals flew by us down the mountain as we moved to the side of the trail.  It took a moment to register, but I soon realized it was the first time I had seen a Tarahumara runner in person.  The Tarahumara are an ethnic group who reside in the the deep canyons of the state of Chihuahua in Mexico and are known internationally for their ability to run effortlessly for hours on end.  The skirt the man was wearing was traditional Tarahumara clothing and his sandals, properly termed "huaraches", were the trademark footwear of Tarahumara runners.  Many people wonder how these men can run so gracefully with just sandals on their feet, but the truth is they don't know any different.  Up until today, I had only read about them and seeing them in person tearing up the mountain was incredibly exciting. A short time later, the summit finally came into view.  We stood on the highest point of the course, elevation 9,952 feet, as we checked in with the volunteers before continuing.  Several runners greeted JC as we pounded back down the mountain, giving him words of encouragement.  About halfway down the mountain we saw Edith and Violeta making their way up and gave kudos to each other.  As we neared the bottom, we were approaching mile eighty-one of the race.  This is around the time where for most runners, their legs become useless for moving them forward and mental strength takes over.  As we came around a corner, we saw a woman standing on the side of trail, crying.  The climb up to Sugarloaf had crushed her spirit and she had little hopes of finishing.  Sensing her despair, JC and I stopped to help.  We couldn't offer physical assistance or we risked getting disqualified, but in critical moments like this, words can be a powerful motivator.  Ultrarunners will often provide psychological support to another runner in times of dire need and sometimes later in the race, that runner will return the favor.  Team work is crucial, and sometimes hearing the right words of encouragement at the right times can be all a runner needs to keep from quitting.  After giving her a quick pep talk, we continued down the trail and soon the aid station was upon us.  To my delight, Sheny and Eligia really rose to the occasion and went to work on JC and Alex as soon as we arrived, changing their socks, soaking their feet in ice water, and providing snacks and drinks.  I gobbled down watermelon, pickles, chips, and all kinds of goodies from the aid station while JC and Alex sat down and regrouped.  I sat down nearby and took a good look at JC.  He was eighty-two miles into his first 100 mile race and even though I knew he was exhausted he looked completely fresh.  It was my first time pacing someone and it was his first time running 100 miles.  It was uncharted territory for both of us, but I was determined to do whatever it took to get him to the finish line.  I would be lying if I said that I didn't feel a little pressure.  As a first time pacer, I didn't completely know what to expect before the race.  It is not uncommon for runners to have at least one major meltdown during a 100 miler.  If JC were to fall apart, it would be up to me to convince him that yes, he could go on.  And what would happen if I couldn't get him moving again?  Would I turn into the alter ego and start yelling at him to show him tough love?  Would I have to restore a sense of hope in him that he lost after so many soul crushing miles?  I knew that if JC didn't finish, I would be mostly to blame.  If his journey came to an abrupt end, the questions would forever linger in my mind.  Did I not push him hard enough?  Or did I push him too hard to the point where he broke down?  I was hoping for the best but prepared for the worst.  Seeing him at mile eighty-two in good spirit was a huge relief for me but I knew that our journey was not over yet.  JC and Alex were counting on Sheny, Eligia, Gus, Nelson and I, and it was up to us make sure they made it to the finish.  We would either succeed or fail as a team. 

We departed the aid station at 11:46 AM and began making our to the next aid station at the base of Bear Mountain, five and a half miles away.  After throwing down some pretty fast miles during the descent, we rolled into the aid station at Bear Mountain, mile eighty-seven, feeling strong.  After checking in with a volunteer, JC calmly informed me that he was falling asleep on the trail a few miles back while we were running.  I was shocked but not particularly surprised.  He had been running since 8:00 AM the morning prior with virtually no rest.  Despite his drowsiness, he looked focused and determined and my concerns about whether or not I could get him to the finish line were beginning to slowly melt away.  He was doing an amazing job, but I reminded myself that we still had some distance to go and I needed to be prepared for anything.  The race wasn't over until he crossed the finish line.  I wondered how Edith, Violeta, Alex, Gus, and Nelson were doing.  We hadn't heard anything from them so we assumed they were surviving.  Once we left the aid station, we picked up the single track trail shortly down the road and began the ascent up Bear Mountain.  The climb was moderate compared to Sugarloaf and JC glided along the rolling hills and up the inclines with me following closely behind.  After rolling through the Skyline aid station at mile ninety, we ran swiftly down a graded fire road that offered sweeping views of Big Bear Valley.  The beautiful mountain scenery was a nice distraction, but this section was very exposed and the afternoon sun was beating down on us.  At the bottom of the hill at mile ninety-five, a couple of guys had parked their pickup truck and were providing ice to runners.  As JC popped some ice cubes into his mouth and I threw some down the back of my shirt, we prepared ourselves mentally for the final climb of the course.  I knew it was going to be a doozy, but I didn't completely know what was in store for us until we talked with the two guys in the pickup.  They advised us that the final aid station was at the top of the hill.  Unfortunately, between us and the aid station was a two-mile, 1,500 foot climb.  I didn't realize how challenging this climb was going to be until we were making our way up at a snail's pace, barely able to move forward.  We exchanged few words along the way except for me giving JC occasional words of encouragement and him thanking me for stopping him from sliding backwards down the hill a couple of times.  About halfway up, we decided to stop for a few minutes and sit on a rock to gather our senses.  "You know I can't carry you right?  That's against the rules" I said.  Although JC was on the brink passing out, he got a kick out of my weak attempt at humor and we soon pressed on, step by step towards the next aid station.  Just when we thought our bodies couldn't contend with one more step of this monster of a climb, we heard the sounds of aid station volunteers cheering runners on and waiving them in to the aid station.  The aid station at the top of the hill was just another two switchbacks up the mountain and when we arrived, the volunteers greeted us with enthusiasm and were incredibly accommodating.

The final four and a half miles from the last aid station were run with a new mindset.  My concern had completely vanished, and I knew that JC was going to make it.  About a mile down from the aid station, he revealed to me something I didn't know;  rather than showing support, a lot of people in the running community told him that he would not be able to finish.  They told him it couldn't be done and that it would simply be too much for him.  I was appalled at the lack of support that he received and told him the only reason why people were doubting him was because deep down, they were unsatisfied with who they were as individuals.  I told him that when he crossed the finish line in just a few miles, he was going to be a changed man from this day going forward.  Knowing that he was more capable than he ever imagined was going to change his whole outlook on life.  Finishing a 100 mile race was going to be a life changing experience for him.  The last mile was run with pure joy and emotion.  We left the trail and ran down the paved street through a residential area towards the Village.  The last hundred yards to the finish line were lined with spectators and I slowed to a walk during the last fifty feet and watched JC burst through the finish line.  We immediately embraced in a hug and people crowded around him shouting his name out and giving him high-fives.  He crossed the finish line at 6:00 PM in thirty-four hours and six seconds, beating the cutoff time by two hours.  Alex, Nelson, and Gus finished shortly after and Sheny and Eligia rushed over to us and congratulated both JC and Alex on their amazing accomplishments.  Unfortunately, Violeta wasn't so lucky.  She had dropped out at mile eighty-two after twisting her ankle multiple times on Sugarloaf Mountain, but was still in good spirit.  Eighty-two miles was an incredible accomplishment and Edith did a great job of pacing her and giving her pep talks when things got ugly.  She gave it hell.  We knew how tough Violeta was and she was determined to come back next year and finish.  After the awards ceremony, we congregated at Sonora Cantina for a celebration dinner before heading back home.  This day was really for the runners, but it was an experience that I will never forget.  Sheny, Eligia, Gus, Nelson and I had all worked as a team, but in the end, it's the runner who finishes the race.  I was incredibly proud of both of them and I knew that their lives would be forever changed.  The next morning when I asked JC how he was feeling, he thanked me and said "it was hard but we did it".  More like YOU did it, JC.  I was just along for the ride.  A fun and wild ride, if I might add!         

Overcoming the Struggle

The sun had just fallen below the mountains on the horizon as I drove along the 14 freeway.  I had just passed through a mountainous region known locally as "the grapevine" and was now arriving in the city of Palmdale.  Palmdale and Lancaster are two cities that lie close to each other at the northern edge of Los Angeles county.  I always joke that those two cities have just about every restaurant, store, and service imaginable because they are the last cities you pass through before you're out in the boonies and the first cities you arrive in after driving through miles of remote desert and countryside.  My destination for the night was the Schulman Grove visitor center, which is nestled deep within the White Mountains of eastern California, near the Nevada border.  To get there, I would travel north on the dark road, passing through several small towns along the way, turning right in the town of Big Pine and following a winding road through the mountains up to the visitor center which rested at 10,000 of elevation.  I would then wait for my friends to arrive, who were driving separately in a rented off-road vehicle, leave my car in the parking lot, and travel with them on a sixteen-mile dirt road that would take us into an even more desolate area to a trailhead, where we would begin out trek to White Mountain Peak.

The drive from the Los Angeles area to Big Pine, California is about four hours but it always seems to go by quickly.  I've driven this route numerous times to Mammoth Mountain to snowboard in the winter and to the Sierra Nevada mountains to go hiking.  To me, it never gets old.  I love driving through the peaceful emptiness of the desert and through Owens Valley with the mountains to my left and passing through the small towns along the way.  This is a part of California that so many people never experience and is definitely a hidden gem.  After arriving in Big Pine, I continued east up the 168 freeway through the mountains, arriving at the visitor center about forty-five minutes later.  After passing by the visitor center, the paved road gives way to a rugged and rocky dirt road which traverses up and down several hills through the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest and dead ends at the trailhead that leads up to White Mountain Peak.  I had been in contact with my friends along the way but had lost cell phone reception shortly before arriving at the visitor center parking lot.  Last I heard, they were about an hour behind.  After doing some research, I realized that my Camry would likely not do well on the dirt road leading to the trailhead, since the websites all recommend using off-road, high-clearance vehicles.  My plan was to wait here for my friends to arrive and travel the rest of the way in an off-road pickup truck to the trailhead with them, where we would sleep for a few hours and then being hiking.  After parking my car, I got out and stretched, admiring the surroundings.  The sky was filled with stars, I was the only car in the parking lot, and it was pitch black outside.  It was so quiet that I felt like the sound of shutting my car door could have been heard from a mile away.  I was alone in my car, engulfed in darkness, miles away from anything and everything with no cell phone reception.  This is usually the part in horror movies where people get axe murdered.  Who knew what was out there in those dark woods?  I laughed to myself as my imagination ran wild.  I figured it would be at least an hour before my friends arrived so I decided to try to get some rest in the meantime.  I reclined my seat to a lying down position, turned over on my side and promptly drifted off.

I awoke in a panic to the sound of someone tapping on my passenger side window.  I immediately recognized that it was my friend Jose, much to my relief.  I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that it was approaching 3:00 in the morning.  I had fallen asleep two and a half hours earlier, waking up several times thinking that I saw headlights driving into the parking lot, but it turned out to be a false alarm every time.  When I got out of my car to get my gear from the trunk, I saw not only the pickup truck that Jose had rented, but also a twelve person van.  I learned that at the last minute we had some additional people joining us and between coordinating the additional van rental, slow service at a Denny's in Palmdale, and a small mishap at a gas station, the trip up to the visitor's center had gotten delayed.  After saying hello to everyone, I loaded my gear into the truck bed and we began the treacherous drive to the trailhead along the unpaved road.  The ride was bumpy, but we were mostly in awe of our surroundings.  It was unlike anything I had ever seen in the California wilderness.  Bristlecone pine and limber pine trees lined the road in the beams of the headlights as we traversed over the hills.  This area is named the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, owing to the fact that the oldest trees in the world are located here.  In an effort to prevent vandalism, the exact location of these trees has not been disclosed to the public, but they can be found at certain points along trails that pass through the forest.  Once we arrived at the trailhead, I introduced myself to the people I hadn't met yet.  We had a group of twelve, some of us visiting this mountain for the first time, myself included.  I looked up at the starry sky as I made my final preparations.  White Mountain is one of the twelve 14ers in California (mountains with an elevation of 14,000 feet or higher), with a summit of 14,252 feet.  Many hikers say that it is the easiest of the California 14ers to climb, however extreme weather and altitude sickness are still a hazard.  The trailhead is situated at 11,680 feet of elevation, and about fourteen miles of the fifteen mile round trip hike are above 12,000 feet.  Once everyone was ready, we began our trek up the wide fire road.  Unlike the other hikes that I've done in California, the route to the summit of White Mountain features no single track trail and is composed entirely of fire roads and wide paths of dirt and stone.  We began at 5:00 AM and our group quickly spread out with faster hikers pulling ahead.  Merwin, who I had met almost six years earlier, hosted speed hikes at Griffith Park on Thursday nights and was known for being tough and fast on the trails.  When we hiked together, he would often move quickly up the trail and meet the rest of the group at the summit.  He took off with Delores and Tuyet, while I stayed behind with the rest of our group, which included several of my friends with whom I've hiked before; Edith, John, Jose, and Alberto, along with Marielena, Juan, Israel, Maria, and Laura, all of whom I was meeting for the first time.  I was excited that Alberto (or Beto, as we call him) was with us.  He and I had become friends through work when I first moved to Los Angeles and he introduced me to the Los Angeles hiking community which allowed me to meet so many awesome people over the years.  He and I had hiked together several times over the years but we lost touch for a while due to life happening.  This was the first time I had seen him and Merwin in a couple of years and we were having a great time catching up.  The sun began to rise as we approached the Barcroft Station about a mile and a half from the trailhead.  In addition to being a popular destination for hiking, White Mountain is home to the White Mountain Research Center, which is operated by the University of California.  Along the route is the Barcroft Station, and a small station at the summit.  Both stations are dedicated to researching the effects that high altitude has on physiology.  At the Barcroft Station we took a break to delayer and eat, so I took the opportunity to get to know some of the new people.  Juan, Israel, Marielena, and Maria had gotten to know Merwin through his Thursday night workout hikes, and Laura was a friend of his.  Marielena, Laura, and Israel were natives of Mexico, Juan was from El Salvador, and Maria from Colombia.  We had a diverse group, and meeting new people for the first time was is something I've grown to love about going on these adventures.

After departing from the Barcroft Station, we began climbing up a series of switchbacks that led us to a wide, open bowl surrounded by mountains with the summit directly in front of us in the distance.  The setting was beautiful and serene.  The entire hiking route was above the tree line (a point in elevation where the environment becomes to harsh for trees to grow and survive), so the basin and mountains in front of us were completely bare of trees and had a green, mossy color to them with grey, rocky peaks.  The path that we were hiking along weaved through the basin and up towards the summit, and was visible several miles in the distance.  The sun was making its way into the sky and was now shining overhead, casting light on us.  I had been feeling cold and tired from lack of sleep, so the sunshine was putting life back into me, much to my delight.  As we continued along, we admired the grassy fields, multicolored rocks, and the occasional marmot running around.  After descending further into the bowl and coming around a bend in the climb back up, we caught up with Tuyet.  She had started with Merwin, but decided to move at a slower pace when she began feeling the effects of altitude sickness.  John volunteered to stay with her so she could continue safely and we advised her to take her time before we pressed on.  After climbing to around 13,500 feet, the terrain shifted from grassy fields to scree and rocks with small purple, red, and yellow wild flowers scattered about, adding color to the terrain.  By this time, Merwin and Delores had made it to the summit, Edith was a couple of hundred feet behind me, and everyone else was taking it easy to ensure that all twelve of us could make it to the top.  The small research station, which marks the summit, was now very close, but as Edith and I traversed the switchbacks, we could see below that other members of the group were struggling.  The whole group had gotten barely any sleep and Jose drove the whole way, so he hadn't slept a wink.  Going more than twenty-four hours without sleep is draining even under normal circumstances, but when you throw five hours of driving, and a fifteen mile hike, most of it above 12,000 feet into the mix, the results are even more taxing and it was evident that Jose was struggling.  We continued up the final switchbacks, and soon the summit and research station come into view.  Merwin and Delores were waiting at the summit and upon our arrival, they embraced Edith and I, congratulating us on our effort.  After a quick victory hug, we remembered how badly the other group members were struggling, so Edith, Merwin, and I decided to drop our bags and run down the trail to the others and help them by carrying their packs and offering some psychological encouragement.  When we approached them, Maria had given her bag to Edith to carry and Tuyet, although still battling altitude sickness, was trudging her way up the trail.  I ran down to help Jose but he advised me that Beto was behind him and was so defeated, he didn't feel like he could make it.  I ran a few hundred feet further down and when I found him, it was clear that he was suffering badly.  He was sleep deprived and the altitude was throwing his body into a tailspin.  He was barely moving forward even with the help of his trekking poles, and it looked like he was about to stumble over with every step he took.  Seeing him in this weakened state crushed me.  He was the guy who had introduced me to this whole hiking world and was one of the strongest hikers I knew.  He had summited several challenging peaks over the years and attended Merwin's notoriously tough workout hikes regularly.  He had been here before.  Not here, per se, but he had suffered before when attempting challenging hikes and had pulled through.  I knew he could make it to the summit and I was determined to help get him there and not let him give up.  When I approached him, I grabbed his backpack from him, threw it on my back, and walked behind him up the trail, assuring him that we would make it and we would just go nice and easy.  I trailed directly behind him as he made his way, step by wobbly step up the trail.  Up ahead, Edith was carrying Maria's pack and helping Jose up the trail.  "I know you can do this man, you're are a tough SOB" I said as I patted Beto on the back.  "We're going to go about 200 more feet, then it's one more switchback to the summit" I said to him.  During the final steps he began moving faster.  The adrenaline had kicked in, and seconds later, the five of us, Beto, Jose, Merwin, Edith, and I arrived at the summit together.  All twelve of us summited, and we celebrated and embraced each other, congratulating one another on our accomplishment.  In my mind, the one who makes it to the summit last and suffers the most is the toughest.  For so many of us, it doesn't require tremendous effort to climb mountains, but for those who are suffering and on the brink of quitting, it's amazing to see them push through the physical obstacles and the mental walls and continue the fight, refusing to give up.  These are qualities that separate the merely tough from the unbreakable.  In my eyes, Beto, Jose, and Maria were the toughest ones out there that day.

On the way down the sleep depravity and high altitude were beginning to have an effect on me as well.  We were about halfway down, John, Jose, and Tuyet about a tenth of a mile behind me, Maria and Edith about a tenth of a mile in front of me.  Our group had again become spread out along the trail.  During the ascent that morning we had descended into the bowl a couple of times, but on the way back the climbs back up were brutal.  I hadn't taken into account that we were going to be climbing back up these descents on the way back.  As I moved forward, I felt pressure on my head and my eye lids were getting heavy and dense.  Keeping my eyes open became a challenge.  Going up the inclines, my breathing became labored and the pressure on my head grew more intense.  I admired the scenery and I plodded along, and when I finally came over the top of the hill, the Barcroft Station came into view below.  When I arrived, Maria was sitting on a log near the station.  "Maria, como estas?" I called out.  "Muy consado" she answered with a weak smile.  "Yo tambien.  Pero es muy bonita a fuera" (Me too. But it's very pretty out here) I replied.  We sat for a few minutes to rest, and after chugging some water and wolfing down a little food, I felt slightly more coherent.  A few minutes later, Jose, John, and Tuyet came over the hill and began making their way down towards us.  Maria pressed on, and once the three of them arrived, we continued down the last mile and a half all together.  Chatting with Jose, John, and Tuyet for the last section helped put some life back into me, and when the cars in the parking lot finally came into view below, my headache wasn't completely gone but I felt much more alive.  Down in the parking lot we rendezvoused with the rest of our group and packed our gear up.  We planned to go have a celebration meal together, but it turned out Tuyet was under a time constraint and had to attend a family event early the next morning in San Diego.  Since the rest of the group had traveled in two vehicles, I agreed to give her a ride to the Rosamond area, where her and her husband lived. 

The ride down the dirt road back to the visitor center felt more rugged than it did that morning for some odd reason.  We could see the trees and views more clearly in the daylight and admired the scenery.  We were so sleep deprived we began seeing things along the road.  Tuyet thought she had seen a dead horse along the roadside, but it was really just a log.  Edith thought she had seen a goat on the hill but it was just pile a rocks.  The bristlecone pine trees along the way were leafless trees with twisting branches and we commented to each other on what they resembled from our point of view.  Jose thought that one of them looked like a dragon and another looked like a wolf howling at the sky.  All of these comments were followed by bursts of laughter.  We had been awake for way too long.  Tuyet and I told stories and shared laughs along the way during the drive home, which served me well since I was dead tired.  After dropping her off, I arrived home a little over an hour later.  Between the altitude, the sixteen mile off-road rally to the trailhead, and the scenery, this trek had been unique in many ways.  I loved the experience, but the part I enjoyed the most was getting my friends to the summit when they were struggling.  I live for the moments that I see people in such a state of despair but they refuse to give up.  If we challenge ourselves like we should, all of us will be in that position

one time or another.  Let's just hope that when it does happen, the right people are there to help us!

Minnesota Tough

“Aww man, I thought this was all over”.  When I raised my head, I saw another runner cautiously making his way down the hill towards me.  When he passed by, all I could do was give him a nod and a smile.  I couldn’t respond to him.  I was too busy trying to stop myself from sliding backwards down a steep dirt trail with two cramped legs.  Within seconds, he disappeared and there was not a sound to be heard except for the rumble of thunder in the distance.  I was thirty-nine miles into a fifty-mile ultramarathon and it had gotten to the point where whenever I ran downhill, the pressure would immediately trigger a round of excruciating leg cramps.  In an effort to mitigate the pain, I resorted to crawling down the hill backwards on all fours, stretching out my legs.  After painfully slow progress, I finally reached the bottom.  I waded through a river crossing and finally, after another ascent and descent, the trail deposited me onto a back-country road.  As I rolled into the aid station I was greeted with enthusiasm by the volunteers.  “Yay!  You conquered the power lines!” they shouted.  We exchanged high fives and I proceeded to gobble down pickles, chips, and every other salty snack in sight.  I was convinced that the most treacherous section of the race was now behind me.  If only I had known what was waiting for me during the last few miles of the race.

About two years prior, I had read a book called “Eat and Run” by legendary ultramarathon runner, Scott Jurek.  Scott was born and raised in Proctor, Minnesota just outside of Duluth, and lived a pretty typical Midwest meat and potatoes lifestyle during his youth.  He was a talented cross-country skier, did well in school, and initially only ran to stay in shape for skiing.  He later befriended Dusty Olson, a kid in Duluth who was not only one of the fastest skiers in the state of Minnesota, but also one of the fastest runners and bike racers.  Although they both shared a passion for cross-country skiing, Scott and Dusty were like night and day by comparison.  Scott trained hard, studied a lot, listened to adults, and generally stayed in line.  Dusty on the other hand, lived a more care free lifestyle, threw parties, and was always getting into trouble.  According to Scott, he would mouth off to coaches and when he won races, rather than congratulate the other students, he would taunt them.  I later learned that Dusty’s persona in the book had been exaggerated and he was actually a really nice guy.  In July of 1993, Dusty won a fifty-mile trail race near Duluth called the Minnesota Voyageur.  For the rest of that summer, and into 1994, Scott and Dusty trained together and after finishing second place in the 1994 Minnesota Voyageur, Scott abandoned cross-country skiing and went on to become one of the fastest and most elite ultramarathon runners in the world throughout the 2000’s.  Dusty followed him in his journey and served as his pacer in all of his races during the peak of his career.  The Minnesota Voyageur had essentially jump-started Scott Jurek’s ultrarunning career, and after listening to some interviews with Dusty and reading about the race, I became intrigued.  Despite growing up in Michigan, I had never visited Minnesota and I decided that a fifty-mile rally through the woods would be a perfect way to explore the country side near Duluth.  So, on the morning of July 28^th, 2018 I found myself standing in front of the high school in Carlton, Minnesota among 400 or so runners, ready to take on the Voyageur.  I flew into Minneapolis the day prior and after driving two and a half hours up to Duluth, I spent most of the day exploring the city, eating at a local hole-in-the-wall breakfast restaurant and visiting Austin-Jarrow, a local running store.  Jarrow Wahman, the owner, had known Scott and Dusty when they were teenagers and had a lot of history with them.  What was especially exciting about this trip was my Dad and Sister were going to be coming out for support.  They left Birmingham early on Friday morning and made the eleven-and-a-half-hour drive to Duluth.  They coincidentally were assigned the room right next door to mine at our hotel.  Shortly after they arrived in town, we enjoyed a nice dinner at a brewery in downtown Duluth.  I had gotten a surprisingly restful night's sleep and felt calm and collected as I breathed in the cool morning air.  I was anxious, but having my Dad and Sister with me helped put me at ease.  My Dad had a tremendous impact on my love for the outdoors.  He was never a runner himself, but he made sure I spent a lot of time outside as a kid, playing catch and tennis with me, teaching me how to ride a bike, and taking my sister and I sailing just about every weekend during the summer months.  It was just a few minutes before the start of the race, and I listened as the pre-race briefing was in progress.  Dusty’s brother Shane had just recently passed away and several members of the racing staff were wearing Hawaiian shirts to commemorate him.  Running in Hawaiian shirts had been a trademark of his for quite some time.  Immediately after the briefing, the pack of runners began charging forward up the road.  I hugged my Dad and Sister and weaved into the crowd, making my way forward.  The adventure had begun.

 

We made our way up a gradual incline on a residential street, banking left onto a paved bike path, and about a half a mile later, picking up the single-track trail.  The scene had quickly shifted from residential streets with small houses lining the way to a dirt trail through a green tunnel with tall trees shading the course.  We had been advised that the first few miles of the course were extremely rocky and chock full of thick tree roots.  It was important for us to pay careful attention to our footing during this section to avoid taking a fall.  The temperature was around 57 degrees, perfect weather for running.  I had monitored the weather forecast closely during the days leading up to the race.  It was forecasted to be partly cloudy with the temperature climbing to around 79 degrees.  The forecast was favorable, however the summer air in Minnesota was much more humid than what I was used to in California.  The humidity level was around 83%.  I wish I could say that the weather was my only concern about this race, but if I did, I would be lying.  This course was hilly and had a lot of climbing.  Nothing I wasn’t used to, but In California, it is not uncommon to hammer through climbs that are between 2,500 and 3,000 feet during an ultra.  Most runners hike up these inclines or alternate between hiking and very slow running.  Most of the climbs on this course were 300-400 feet.  You’d think it would be easier, but this meant that I was expected hike less and run more.  This expectation became more apparent when I was made aware of the cutoff times at the aid stations.  The layout of the course is out and back, meaning it turns around at the halfway point and travels back the same route.  The course turns around at the base of Spirit Mountain in Duluth near the zoo.  There is a cutoff time to arrive at the turnaround as well as all the aid stations on the return trip.  Every aid station has a cutoff time, and if I were to arrive even a minute after, I would be forced to drop, even if I were physically capable of continuing.  I was forced to quit the first 100K that I attempted due to missing the cutoff time at an aid station, so I was adamant to not let it happen again.  I was trying to balance enjoying the scenery and the company of the other runners with staying focused and making my way to the turnaround point with plenty of time to spare so that I wouldn’t have to be worried about making the cutoff times on the way back.  Despite the rugged terrain, the setting was beautiful.  The trail ran parallel to the Saint Louis river, which was flowing through the trees to the left of us.  The view got even better when we crossed over the swinging bridge.  After passing through the first aid station, the course continued down a short, paved path and gave way to a relatively flat trail that weaved through the woods.  There was a lot of local pride in the air.  Several runners were wearing shirts and hats from other local races such as the Eugene Curnow Trail Marathon, which is a point to point race held on this same course from Spirit Mountain to Carlton High School where we started.  One girl, Emily, was wearing a hat from the Birkie Trail Ski Race, which is a 55K cross country ski race held every year on the American Birkebeiner trail.  Virtually all of the runners I talked to were from the Minneapolis area or Duluth, with the occasional Chicagoan here and there.  The runners had spread out since the beginning of the race and after running over some rolling hills and crossing a highway, I caught up to a small pack of runners who were chatting amongst themselves.  One guy, Kyle, was running with his mother who was about a mile behind us.  He talked about how his mom was always a solid runner and he ran his first marathon at ten years old and his first 50K at eleven.  “I’ll bet your Phys Ed teachers couldn’t say anything to you” I joked.  Over the years he had abandoned running to play football and gave up running for fourteen years.  He recently had reignited his interest in the sport and was doing his first ultramarathon since he was eleven.  The girl in front of us, Andrea, was sharing crazy stories about her camping adventures over the years in the Minnesota wilderness.  After rolling through another aid station, we began the notorious “power lines” section of the race.  People had been talking about this section before and during the race.  About how challenging it was and how they hoped it wouldn’t be too muddy.  The power lines are a series of steep, exposed hills with grass fields, dirt trails, and very little shade.  I had reached out to Dusty on Facebook to get some advice on the race a couple of months prior.  One of the things he had warned me about was how steep and difficult the power lines are, especially if it’s wet outside.  Luckily for me, it was pretty dry out.  We made our way up the steep rolling hills and through the grass fields as a group, telling stories along the way.  Once we’d survived the power lines, the trail deposited us back into the woods, where most of the course was shaded by the trees and brush.  The group had spread out again and I soon found myself running alone on the trail.  I came to a junction just before an incline where I saw a volunteer standing off to the side.  As I glided by, he advised me to be careful on the wooden bridge about a mile ahead.  Apparently, some bees had taken up residence under the bridge and when the runners in front of me crossed, it shook the hive and ticked the bees off a little.  Growing up in the Midwest, I learned at a very young age (the hard way) to stay the hell away from bee hives, and if there is any kind of disturbance, you better run your butt off because if bees are disturbed, they’ll chase down and sting the first person they see.  Over the next couple of miles, I ran as quickly as I could over all the wooden bridges on the course.  Fortunately, no bee stings.

 

A couple of hours later, I came to the Skyline section of the course, which was two miles from the turnaround.  As we runners came over the top of a slope on Spirit Mountain, we were treated to an astounding view of downtown Duluth, Saint Louis Bay, and the Aerial Lift Bridge in the distance.  We ran on a grass trail along the mountain underneath the ski lifts and began heading downhill towards the turnaround.  Dusty had also warned me that the climbs on the way back were tough and the 800-foot climb back up Spirit Mountain after the turnaround is a doozy.  When I finally arrived, I was greeted with enthusiasm from the volunteers, and took a seat on a rock near the tent.  I gulped down water and Powerade and wolfed down watermelon, PB&J, and chips as I regrouped.  The cutoff for the turnaround was 1:00 PM (7 hours), and I had refused to look at my watch prior to my arrival for fear of psyching myself out.  If I could reach the turnaround with a big enough time buffer, I wouldn’t have to worry about busting my ass to make the cutoff times at the aid stations.  When I checked out of the turnaround point it as 11:38 AM so I had plenty of time.  I was relieved and excited that I could have a little more fun on the way back and I wouldn’t have to constantly worry about being forced to drop.  I climbed back up Spirit Mountain with Kyle and we started chatting with David, a twenty-one-year-old college student from Minneapolis.  He was tall and lean and hoping that today he would be finishing his first ultra.  As we ran underneath the ski lifts, we cheered on runners making their way to the turnaround.  I recognized Scott Kummer from Ten Junk Miles a Chicago based running podcast that I had discovered a couple of months prior.  Scott looked to be having a tough go at it, but he had run over fifty trail and ultramarathons all over the country and I had no doubt that he would finish strong.  I started to feel good as I continued down Sprit Mountain and back into the woods.  I ran with David, Kyle and Andrea for a few miles at a time before we’d lose each other at aid stations and catch up with each other again.  At around mile thirty-four the humidity began getting the better of me.  I felt dehydrated despite carrying two handheld water bottles and refilling them at every aid station and my legs were cramping.  After crossing a river in the gorge, I pulled into an aid station where I scarfed down pickles, chips, and other salty snacks to help balance my sodium levels.  Next to the pickles was a bowl of boiled potatoes beside a bowl of salt.  The idea was to take the potato, roll it around in the salt, and wolf it down.  I decided to give it a try.  It tasted pretty awful, but I was desperate to get my sodium levels back up.  The temperature was approaching eighty degrees and my legs continued to cramp as I made my way further down the trail.  While I was making my way through the power lines for the second time, I resorted to crawling down the hill backwards on all fours.  The cramps had gotten so severe, I couldn’t run forward down the steep hills.  Referring to this challenging section, a guy ran by me while I was on going down the hill and said “Aww man, I thought this was all over”.  When I finally made it to the bottom of the hill, I heard thunder rumbling and some dark clouds were rolling over head.  I made it through the power lines and replenished myself at the aid station, trying to regroup.  There were a couple of stretches of back-country road, but when I picked up the single-track trail again, it had gotten to the point where even running on the flat, gentle trail was making my legs cramp.  I had been battling cramps for several miles and I finally decided I’d had enough.  Having to stop and stretch every hundred yards was demoralizing.  I decided to pull off to the side of the trail and sit down in the brush to stretch my legs out.  I sat there for a good four minutes leaning against a rock with my legs out in front of me, trying to alleviate the pain.

    

Sitting down and stretching helped for a while and I eventually came back to life and was able to throw down some faster miles on the flat sections as I continued on.  The rumbling of thunder continued and suddenly, rain began falling.  I wasn’t excepting it to rain but what choice did I have, really.  I still had nine miles left to go.  Most of the trail was still shaded but the rain came down pretty steadily for about an hour and a half as I lumbered up the climbs and ran through the wilderness.  When I came around a corner, I saw a guy bent over, hands on his knees on the trail side.  I couldn’t tell if he was puking or dry heaving.  “Hey man, you okay?” I asked as I pulled up.  His name was Siva and he was also part of the Ten Junk Miles podcast.  He explained that he had drank some pickle juice at the last aid station and it was making him feel nauseous.  I gave him some of my water so he could rinse his mouth out and hydrate himself a little.  We powered along together for a little while, and when I rolled into the final aid station with just 3.4 miles left, the rain had stopped and the sun had come back out, much to my delight.  I refilled my water bottles for a final time and crossed the bridge for the final stretch.  I had expected the climbs to be tough, the power lines to be challenging, and the humidity to be exhausting, but I was not expecting what I was about to encounter during the last three miles.  I had returned to the rugged section of the course and the rain had left the trail wet and muddy, effectively turning it into a giant mud puddle.  Wherever there wasn’t rocks and thick tree roots, there was slippery mud and puddles of water.  I made my way through as quickly as I safely could, but I was slipping and sliding everywhere.  If you’ve ever seen Home Alone 2, there’s the scene where Macaulay Culkin sets all the traps in the house in New York City.  During one scene, Daniel Stern is slipping and sliding on the floor through a greasy substance before falling and colliding into a shelf full of paint.  That’s pretty much how I felt going through this section of the course.  I approached a shallow trough, only about a six foot drop down a muddy embankment to a small pile of rocks, then back up.  Something I normally wouldn’t think twice about.  I took two steps down the trough when my feet slid right out from underneath me and I came crashing down, ass first, into the mud.  The fall immediately triggered mind blowing cramps in both legs simultaneously.  I rolled onto my side, trying to stand up.  But I couldn’t.  My legs couldn’t pick me up.  I felt pathetic lying there in the mud.  I only had two miles left but at this rate, I felt like I’d never make it.  I was miserable, hot, sore, and dehydrated.  After about a minute, the cramps subsided, and I reminded myself why I do this.  I reminded myself that this was what I loved about ultrarunning.  Having incredible highs and awful lows and priding myself on being able to plow through the lows and come out strong.  “This is crazy” I said to no one in particular (only, I inserted a bad four-letter word followed by “ing” between “is and “crazy”).  “But I love this shit”.  I picked my weary butt up out of the mud and continued my way through the mess.  It was a long slog, but I wasn't stopping come hell or high water.  I had come too far to give up now.  I still slid and stumbled frequently but I used trees and branches to catch my falls.  “Embrace the suck” I said to myself.  Just then, Siva caught up to me again and said he was still not feeling good.  I let him sip some more of my water to mitigate the nausea and he pressed on.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I came to the junction where the course leaves the trail for the bike path.  After a few minutes, I made a right turn onto the street, which meant only a quarter of a mile to the finish.  As I approached, I saw my Dad and Sister standing in the middle of the road about a block ahead.  I had been in contact with them throughout the race, but I was arriving a little later than I had initially told them.  As I ran the final steps to the finish, people were yelling out my name and my Dad and Sister were going crazy.  I crossed the finish line after twelve hours and thirty-five minutes of running, arms in the air, smiling ten miles wide.  Siva had finished just before me and we embraced as I crossed the finish line.  After a round a hugs from the volunteers, I was handed not a medal or a belt buckle, but a hand crafted finishers coffee mug, which I thought was awesome.  Seeing my Dad and Sister at the finish was a euphoric moment.  I thought about how far they had driven and all the support they were giving me, and my eyes filled with tears and I hugged them.  I was sweaty, dirty, muddy, and physically annihilated, but I was on cloud nine as I stumbled to my Dad’s car. 

That night, we had dinner at an Italian restaurant in downtown Duluth where I stuffed myself full of pizza and reveled in the deliciousness of a hot meal.  My flight the next morning was pretty early and I was going to need to leave the hotel around 6:30 in the morning to drive to Minneapolis, which worked out well because my Dad and Sister would have to leave around the same time to get back home at a descent hour.  Despite having to jump out of bed a few times in the middle of the night to stretch some cramps away, I slept pretty decently.  Saying goodbye to my family the next morning was hard, as always, but I was so grateful that they made the trip to Duluth to support me.  Until yesterday, they had never seen me in action, and I was happy and excited that they were able to experience this part of my life up close and personal.  Having them there with me, even for just a short time, made all the difference in the race experience, and it made me want to run more ultras in the Midwest so I can see them more.  I guess now I’ll have to go back and run the Superior Trail 100!  Just kidding, not really.  Not anytime soon.  But maybe someday…