Enough Sunshine, Already!

The first indications of dawn were lighting up the sky behind the Diablo Range in the distance as I made my way through the light Friday morning airport traffic.  Minutes earlier, Sam had taken a final swig from her to-go cup of coffee.  We hopped out of the car, I gave her a hug, and she headed into the terminal with her rolling suitcase.  She was on her way to New Orleans for a long weekend to celebrate her friend's bachelorette party.  I was excited for her that she had an opportunity to visit a cool city with her friends before our little dude arrives.  Not that him coming will completely put our lives on hold, but things will certainly be different.  While she was beginning her journey for the long weekend, I was heading out on a little adventure of my own.  The sun gradually made it's way into the sky as I headed out of Silicon Valley, across central California, and eventually through the Sierra Nevada mountains.  I passed by Pinecrest, stopped at Kennedy Meadows to take some pictures and look around, and soon found myself driving up the steep and winding section of highway 108 that traverses over Sonora Pass, elevation 9,624 feet.  The views were breathtaking.  The highway closes during the winter due to heavy snowfall and it had just opened back up about a week prior.  All around me in every direction were towering, snowy mountain peaks as far as my eyes could see.  The road followed a curvy incline that cut into the mountainside, and although it was easy to get distracted by the beautiful scenery, the drive required concentration to avoid potential disaster.  Eventually I made it over the pass, drove down several thousand feet, made a right turn onto highway 395, and arrived at my destination, the charming town of Bishop, California.  I had also stopped by Mammoth Mountain along the way for old times sake.  I used to go snowboarding there quite a bit when I lived in Los Angeles and hadn't been there in four years.  It was good to be in Bishop and I had a nice brunch at a local restaurant when I arrived, but I needed a nap.  It was around 1:30 PM and fortunately the motel I was staying at on the main road in town allowed early check ins.  I brought my stuff into my room, laid down on the king size bed, and shut my eyes.  It had been a long drive and I needed all the rest I could get.  The next morning I would toeing the start line of the Bishop High Sierra 50-miler, a race held mainly on jeep roads that cut through the massive Eastern Sierra mountains that hovered over the town.  I wasn't entirely sure how this race would go, but I had the advantage of having been on the course before and it certainly helped that the race had a generous cutoff of nineteen hours.  We would be climbing and descending a total of around 8,800 feet averaging about 7,500 feet of altitude.  I felt confident that I could finish, it was just a question of how long it would take and how I would feel.  I decided that I would simply do the best I could, which was my last thought before drifting into a deep sleep.

The view from the Pacific Crest Trail at the top of Sonora Pass.  This photo doesn't do it justice.

I woke up two hours later feeling refreshed and more alert.  I headed out to the pre-race briefing, met some other runners, picked up my bib and shirt, and drove to Upper Crust for some pizza and beer.  Among the crowd of runners at the pre-race briefing was Catra Corbett.  She lives right in town and would also be running the 50-miler the next morning.  I had met her before, so I said hey, petted her dog, and wished her luck.  After I stuffed myself full of pizza and washed it down with a brew, I was back in my motel room preparing to call it a night.  I laid in bed sipping water with a Nuun tab, thinking more about how the next day would go.  The weather was supposed to be pleasant for this time of year in Bishop, meaning sunshine and temps in the low eighties.  That's still pretty hot, and heat is not my friend.  My ideal running temperature is around forty degrees.  The colder, the better.  Running in heat presents a challenge to me, but tomorrow I would have no choice but to contend with the discomfort.  I had experience running in heat and I knew how to keep from cramping up and overheating.  As I drifted off to sleep, I reminded myself once again that I had nineteen hours to finish and I would simply do the best I could.   

Race morning, arriving at the start line

Arriving at the starting area at Millpond County Park the next morning, cup of coffee in hand, breathing in the cool and crisp pre-dawn air, I felt energized and ready.  After a few minutes of mingling with runners in the crowd, myself and sixty other 50-mile runners lined up behind the start line near the pond.  The Bishop High Sierra Ultra offers five distances: a 100K, 50-miler, 50K, 20-miler, and a 6-miler.  To avoid crowding on the course and overwhelming the aid stations, each distance was starting separately five minutes apart from one another.  The 100K runners had just taken off and after a few minutes, the pack of 50-mile runners charged forward across the start line.  The imposing peaks of the Eastern Sierra mountain range rested directly in front of us as we made our way through the parking lot towards the trail.  The first twenty miles of the course were a gradual uphill that gained around 5,300 feet.  Needless to say the going was a little slow during the ascent, but it didn't come as much of a surprise.  I recalled this part of the course from when I ran the 100K in 2019 and had studied the elevation map of the course prior to the event.  It wasn't as awful as you might think.  For the first few miles I ran with a group of marines who were stationed near Joshua Tree.  They were cool guys and one thing I really admired about them was that the three of them said they would stick together during the entire length of the race.  No one would get left behind.  I chatted with a few other runners who were wearing swag from previous races I had done, such as Canyons and Broken Arrow.  When I came into the first aid station at mile six, I saw that Tim Tollefson was working as a volunteer.  It was so cool to see him there and I was a bit star struck as I greeted him with a smile and knuckle pound.  He's a really cool dude and he lived in Mammoth Lakes, not too far away, but he had taken time out of his day to come hang with us and volunteer, which I thought was super dope.  It wasn't far to the next aid station, only about four miles.  That's one of the really nice things about this race, there's an aid station about every four miles.  Some of the other races I did had the aid stations spaced out further apart, every eight or nine miles.  This gave me plenty of opportunities to keep my water bottles full and take down some food.  My strategy for staying hydrated and keeping from cramping was simple;  I would fill my water bottles at every aid station, one with water, the other with Tailwind, drink from them consistently, and consume two electrolyte tablets every two hours.  Things seemed to be going pretty well during the first several miles.  I was feeling good and enjoying the spectacular views.  The jeep road which we were traversing cut through the mountains as it steadily gained elevation and snowy mountain peaks dominated the horizon in front of me and to my right.  

Mile 19-ish

By the time I reached Overlook point I had crested the top of the long, 20-mile climb.  By this point I had passed through several aid stations, met a lot of people along the course, and I felt good that I had successfully made it to highest point of the race at 9,300 feet.  This section was an out and back, so after resting for a few minutes at Overlook, I headed back down the way I came.  Running downhill felt good and I was able to throw down some faster miles from Overlook back to the Edison aid station at mile twenty-four.  A few more miles passed and I eventually was deposited from the trail onto a remote back country road, which I would follow to the Bishop Creek Lodge aid station at mile twenty-nine.  As I ran along the side of the road, bearing in mind the close distance between the aid stations, the lines from a couple of Ramones songs were floating in my mind.  I kept singing them to myself.  "It's not hard, not far to reach" from the song "Rockaway Beach" and "hang on, a little bit longer" from the song "Locket Love".  The next aid station wasn't hard and not far to reach, and all I had to do was hang on, a little bit longer, and I would be there.  Eventually the aid station came into view, and when I arrived the volunteers handed me a cup of hot soup broth.  I sipped it down, drank down a 5-hour energy I had in my pocket, and took off back down the road, cheering on other runners as I passed by, including my new buddies in the marines.  We stopped and chatted for a minute and although the course was taking a toll on them, they stuck together and were still grinding it out.  A few miles later at the Intake aid station, a couple of the volunteers were cooking quesadillas with guacamole.  That's another thing about this race.  The volunteers are friggin' awesome.  Don't get me wrong, the volunteers at every race I've done have been super cool and helpful, but these guys seemed to have certain personality and enthusiasm about them.  They genuinely seemed excited and happy to be there and there was a good vibe in the air.  A quesadilla looked tempting, but I wanted to save real food for after the race was over so I could savor it.  

At mile thirty-five I passed through the Edison aid station for a third and final time, only this time I needed to sit down and be off my feet for a few minutes.  That did me some good, and I headed down the hill and made a left, now traversing the same terrain I had in the first eighteen miles.  I sang to myself again.  "It's not hard, not far to reach.  Hang on, a little bit longer".  I could feel the anticipation building up of reaching the McGee aid station at mile thirty-eight.  Shortly before arriving there, I entered the small stretch of the course that actually had shade.  I'd say about ninety percent of this course is completely exposed in direct sunlight.  Due to Bishop and the nearby mountains being in a high desert environment, most of the expanse is populated with desert plants and bushes with very few trees.  The next couple of miles of the course were through more of an alpine environment with tall trees lining the trail, providing some much needed relief from the sun.  The shade felt refreshing, and the aid station soon emerged through the brush.  I greeted the volunteers and took a seat once again, while snacking on some ginger cookies and crackers.  Two large off-road SUVs were parked next to the table.  Due to the remote nature of the course, most of the locations of these aid stations could only be accessed by off-road vehicles, which transported the volunteers and all of the goodies for the aid stations.  I could feel myself getting tired.  I knew that I hadn't trained enough this year.  Going into Canyons, I was foolishly optimistic that even with a lower volume of training, my mental energy could get me to the finish line.  It ultimately did, but not without a struggle.  I could feel the lack of training and relentless sunshine beginning to catch up with me.  But I still had twelve miles left to cover.  After a few minutes of gathering myself, I stood up, waved to the volunteers and said "thanks guys, I'm out of here", and continued onward.  

On the way down from Overlook, mile 22-ish

At the Buttermilk aid station at mile forty-two, I again greeted the volunteers with enthusiasm, but I could really feel the wheels coming off the bus at this point.  My stomach was now feeling weird, probably because I wasn't eating enough.  Maybe I should have had a quesadilla with guacamole ten miles ago after all.  When I told the volunteers how I was feeling, they had just the solution.  An older guy who I recognized from an aid station at Canyons walked away for a minute and came back with a paper cup of Ginger ale on ice in one hand, and a handful of candied ginger in the other.  Ginger is a popular solution for ultrarunners who are suffering from nausea and it can really help in times like this.  I drank down the Ginger ale and popped the pieces of candied ginger into my mouth, three at a time until they were gone.  After a few minutes of sitting down the ginger began to work it's magic so I thanked the volunteers and took off.  At this point, the remainder of the race would be mostly downhill with a few inclines along the way, and I plodded along the course feeling a little more with it, thanks to the ginger.  Unfortunately that only lasted a short while, and miles forty-three to forty-eight were pretty much a colossal suck fest.  At this point I had been on the course for over twelve hours, since 5:20 AM that morning.  The afternoon sun was merciless and it had been shining on me all damn day.  I knew I would make it if I just kept moving, but it was slow going.  I felt like Dorothy in Wizard of Oz when the wicked witch cast a spell on the field of poppies.  All of the other guys can see Emerald City in the distance and want to run to get there, but poor Dorothy says "guys, I can't run anymore, I'm so sleepy".  I was tired, fatigued, and hot.  The course was relatively flat at this point, but I only ran when I could and mostly walked.  After a few short minutes in Wizard of Oz, the good witch reverses the wicked witch's spell and makes it snow on the poppy field which wakes Dorothy up and restores her energy.  At that moment, I wanted nothing more than a full on snowy blizzard to magically roll in and bring me sweet relief.  Heat sucks the big hairy meatball.  

I had a popsicle at the second to last aid station at mile forty-six, which helped a little, and after what seemed like hours, I arrived at Tungsten City, the final aid station at mile forty-eight and a half.  With just a mile and a half of downhill terrain to go, I was able to move in a way that somewhat resembled running, and soon the finish line at Millpond County Park came into view in the distance.  The sight of the finish area put some life back into me and my pace quickened.  Todd Vogel, the race director, got some really cool pictures of me as I crossed the finish line with a big, shit-eating smile on my face.  Despite everything I had been through, I had managed to push through the lack of training, the fatigue, and unforgiving sun exposure.  I arrived at the finish line fourteen hours and nineteen minutes after I had crossed the start line in that same area earlier that morning.  If felt so good to be done and it had been an awesome journey.  The highs, the lows, the struggle, overcoming the struggle, taking in the beautiful mountain scenery, meeting a lot of cool runners and volunteers, I loved it all.  No matter how many times I do an ultra, no experience is every quite the same, and there's always a story to tell.  It's one of the many things I love about this sport.  The rest of that night was very uneventful.  I hung around the finish area for a little while congratulating runners, then went back to my motel, took a shower, and fell asleep around 10 PM.  I would have liked to have gone out to have a nice hearty dinner but I was simply too exhausted.  I ended up eating leftover pizza, which worked out just fine.  Breakfast the next morning was glorious.  A big plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and country fried steak, with sourdough toast.  A guy sat next to me at the counter at the restaurant.  We got to chatting and it turned out he was a thru hiker on the Pacific Crest Trail.  He was taking a break for a couple of days and staying a hostel in Bishop.  We told stories, and I had so many questions for him.  He had already done the Appalachian Trail and the Continental Divide Trail, so this was his third thru hike to get the triple crown.  What a badass.  With my stomach full, I stopped at the Looney Bean to get a piping hot coffee and hit the road for the trip back home.  I took in the beauty of the drive once again and arrived back home around 4 PM on Sunday.  Another one down.  These adventures never get old and I cherish each and every one of them.  I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to keep this up, but I'll keep doing it for as long as I'm able to.  We'll see how that goes when a kid enters the picture, but I'm hopeful.  With my heart full, I settled back into reality after another great ultramarathon adventure. 

Mental Health Awareness Month And Back To Bishop

Now that it's been nearly seventeen years since I've lost my mom, it almost seems fitting to me that Mother's Day occurs in May every year, which also happens to be mental health awareness month. Of all the hardships that I've endured in my lifetime, the untimely death of my mother ranks at the top among the most difficult to overcome, without a doubt.  It was especially hard for me because I was nineteen at the time and too young to understand how this kind of tragedy can impact my mental health.  

It was a chilly November day in 2005.  I was rummaging around my apartment not too far from my college campus getting ready to go to work.  My two friends and roommates, Sean and Hugh, were on campus consumed with their studies, so I was alone when there was a knock on the door.  When I answered I saw my dad standing there.  Because of the look in his eyes and the fact that he showed up unannounced, I could tell right away that something was wrong.  He began crying, hugged me, and told me that mom had died that morning.  I don't remember a whole lot of how the rest of that night went.  I remember being in too much shock to cry.  I remember gathering clothes and other items and throwing them into a bag and riding back to my hometown with my dad in the backseat of my aunt's boyfriend's car.  He drove and kept pretty quiet while my dad and I attempted to console each other.  I knew my mom had a drinking problem.  It started late in my high school years.  She was what could arguably be described as a functioning alcoholic.  She hid her drinking well and I was too young to fully understand the devastating effects that it was having on her body.  Perhaps I was in some denial as well.  She always liked to drink, but for reasons that I still don't know to this day, her drinking got out of hand when I was around sixteen years old.  Sadly, for my mom, there was no chance at ever getting help for her problem.  She died in the early hours of November 10th, 2005 in her sleep.  The cause was organ failure due to excessive drinking.  My sister, who was sixteen at the time, found her lifeless body in her bed when she was getting ready to go to school that morning.  

The next several months subsequent to her passing felt like a haze.  After the funeral and spending time with my family, I returned to college a week later.  You would think that I would go to therapy or quit drinking given what I had just been through.  You think I did that?  Absolutely not.  Instead I tried to go about my life like nothing happened and that everything was fine.  My friends were worried about me.  They were spooked by how normal I was acting and how I would casually mention the fact that my mom just died with very little emotion.  People repeatedly asked me how I was able to be so nonchalant about the situation.  My response was always "it happened.  It's over, I can't do anything about it.  So why be upset?".  I kept partying, I kept drinking, and I kept trying to live a normal life even though I knew my life was anything but normal.  That summer I had a full time summer job that I liked.  My dad, sister, and I took a trip to Hawaii with my aunt and uncle.  But something was strangely amiss.  It almost felt like I was dreaming.  Like I was there, but I wasn't there.  Looking back now, I think this was the result of my nineteen year old brain trying to get over the shock of an unexpected tragedy.  That next year at Western, my roommates and I moved into a house with two more of our buddies.  The partying and getting hammered every weekend continued as if nothing had happened.  It was around December of 2006, during my junior year of college when things took a turn.  My reality was no longer hazy and I now began to feel a different kind of energy in the air.  I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but I felt like I was being watched.  Not necessarily being spied on or stalked, but watched.  Of course, I concealed all of my feelings from my friends and family.  On the surface, everything was fine.  I was just another college kid at Western whose only cares in the world were passing my classes, making it to work on time, and finding a good party.  But I now had this underlying feeling that someone was watching me.  There were times when I felt okay and other times when I felt scared.  I began questioning everything I had done in my life up to that point.  Was I a good person?  Was I doing the right thing?  I'm not a very religious guy but I began wondering if I died would I go to Heaven or Hell.  All I knew was that my thinking was becoming clearer and I became more aware of the decisions I was making and how they affected others.  I wasn't a bad guy, I was a typical college kid.  But I began to realize that the universe had other plans for me than being a typical college kid.  Halfway through my junior year I joined a business fraternity, made a lot of new friends, and had more exposure to the business world.  I began treating people with more understanding and compassion.  I started making smarter choices.  As the year went on and all these things happened I gained a new perspective on what was happening.  I wasn't being watched, someone was looking out for me.  It could have been my mom, or someone else up there.  But someone was watching out for me, that was for sure.  It almost felt like a warning sign to not go down the wrong path.

Life became simpler once I understood what was going on.  I began to realize what was important in life and things took on a new meaning.  The biggest takeaways were don't take things for granted, and you only have one life, don't waste it.  My senior year of college turned out to be my best of all four of the years.  I'd been through a horrific tragedy, gone through several phases of grieving, and adopted a new mindset.  I still went to parties and bars when I was a senior, but it wasn't until then that I really began to appreciate the social aspect of partying.  Instead of seeing how drunk I could get I began seeing partying as an opportunity to socialize, strengthen the relationships I had with my friends, and create new friendships.  I discussed my mom's death frequently with other people, and talking about it made me feel at peace.  Instead of chasing girls like I had in the past, I looked forward to just having conversations with them.  In my earlier college years I'd show up to parties dressed to impress in nice clothes, but at this point I would come home from work at 11:30 PM and show up to house parties in a hoodie, gym shorts, and flip flops.  I would still have a few beers, but I was more interested in socializing than seeing how much beer I could drink.  In other words, I was doing what I wanted, making smarter decisions, and living my best life up to that point.  I made a lot of great friendships in my business fraternity (shout out to Delta Sigma Pi), made friends with the people I worked with at my restaurant job, had a great spring break trip to South Padre Island with my friends, I smoked cigarettes for a little while but eventually kicked them, I did decently in my classes, and ultimately I graduated in June of 2008.  By the time I left Western, my heart was full.  At twenty-two years old I still wasn't very knowledgeable about mental health.  I hadn't been to a single therapy session or taken a single anti-depressant pill.  Perhaps some mental heath treatment would have done me good back then, but who knows.  I'll admit that it wasn't healthy of me to conceal my feelings from my friends and pretend like my life was totally normal in the months after my mom's passing, but I have absolutely no regrets.  I wouldn't change one damn thing about how things happened.  They played out the way they did, and I felt that by the time I returned home from college, my mental health as I knew it had improved tremendously and it was as good as it could have been at that time.  And that was before I discovered running...  

Speaking of running, the Bishop High Sierra 50-Miler is next weekend!  I'm really looking forward to this race.  Running, especially running ultramarathons through nature has been a major component of improving my mental health over the years, but we'll get into that in a different blog story.  Most people don't know where the town of Bishop is or anything about it.  I can't say I blame them.  It's a small town of around 3,500 people that lies sandwiched between the foothills of the Eastern Sierras and the Nevada Border in the Owen's Valley region of Eastern California.  The views of the mountains from the town are breathtaking.  While most of the town is residential, the main street that dissects the small downtown area features an eclectic mix of family owned restaurants, bakeries, coffee shops, bars, motels, and outdoor activity stores.  Given that the town also serves as a gateway to Mammoth Lakes and other resort areas further up highway 395, there are also several gas stations, fast food restaurants, and big chain grocery and drug stores on the town's main street.  Let's talk about getting to Bishop.  From Sunnyvale, it's about a six-and-a-half hour drive that involves driving past Pinecrest on highway 108 and up over Sonora Pass, then south on the 395.  It's a beautiful drive through the California mountains and wilderness and something that I'm looking forward to as part of the adventure.  Sam will be spending a long weekend next weekend in New Orleans with some of her girlfriends celebrating a bachelorette party, so this will be a solo trip.  Her flight leaves early in the morning on Friday so I'll be dropping her off at the airport on my way out to Bishop.  Even though she won't be drinking because we're expecting our little dude in just a few short months, I'm happy that she's getting the opportunity to go on this trip.  She's been putting in a lot of work over the last several months, not to mention she's been growing a kid.  She deserves to have a fun weekend with her friends in the jazz and shrimp capital of America.  Lastly, let's talk about the race.  I ran the 100K race in 2019 as a final training run for Tahoe Rim Trail 100, so I at least have the advantage of having been on the course in the past.  I successfully finished The Canyons 100K a few weeks ago and I gotta say, those climbs kicked my ass.  Having run the Bishop High Sierra ultras before, I can say that this race, although still a long distance, is more gentle on the body than Canyons.  There is about 8,800 feet of climbing, most of the course is at around 8,000 feet of elevation, and the terrain is composed mainly of jeep roads that cut through the Eastern Sierras.  Most of the course is above tree line, and therefore is pretty exposed with little shade to hide in.  The forecast for next Saturday is looking like lots of sunshine with a low of forty-five degrees and a high of around eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit.  It'll be a warm day, so I'll need to remember to stay hydrated out there.  It'll hopefully be a great day and I'm looking forward to a weekend trip back in Bishop.  

Since it's mental health awareness month, I'd like to say that I'm grateful that I finally made the decision at thirty-one years old in 2018 to go into therapy.  I've been seeing my therapist for four years now and it's done wonders for my mental well being.  I can't think of a better way to acknowledge mental health awareness month than by thinking of my mom on Mother's Day, running an ultramarathon in a beautiful place, and writing blog posts about my life.  Hopefully I come back from Bishop with a fun race report to write!

The Decision: My 2022 Canyons 100K Story

In June of 2021 I took a step forward in my running and bought a Garmin GPS watch.  It was a great purchase and 100% worth the investment.  I love all of the features it offers and it's served me well over the last several months.  But as I waddled my way down Bath Road heading for the entrance to the Western States Trail, thirty-four miles into the 2022 Canyons 100K, all I could think about was how much I hated my watch in that moment.  I almost decided to take it off.  "GPS watches are the devil" I thought to myself.  My watch was inflicting a form of psychological torture on me that was making me seriously question whether or not I was going to be able to make it to the finish line.  My watch was not fully charged, so I didn't activate the tracking for this race, however I was able to track my heart rate, along with the time, date, and several other pieces of data.  I was running downhill on a winding paved road through the wilderness at a very modest pace, probably no faster than twelve minutes per mile.  I kept looking at my watch and my heart rate was hovering in the mid to high 150s.  That seemed exceptionally high for running downhill at such an easy pace.  I was becoming more than slightly concerned.  What the hell was happening?  My heart seemed to be operating in overdrive and it freaked me out when I pondered what the long term consequences could be.  Would I eventually pass out from exhaustion on the trail?  Would I have to be rushed to the hospital to get emergency treatment to lower my heart rate?  I was moving like a slug, but I slowed down even more to see if my pulse would decrease as a result.  It remained the same.  It just wouldn't freaking go down.  I was now faced with a very tough decision.  Do I keep going and risk having potentially serious issues later on in the race?  Or do I turn around and walk a mile back to Foresthill, drop out of the race, and cut my losses now?  It seems like such a simple decision to make looking back now, but with eight-and-a-half hours and thirty-four miles of running on the trails of the Sierra foothills having its effects on my psychological state, I couldn't bring myself to take a stand in either direction.  Did I have a lot to lose?  Not really.  Getting a DNF (did not finish) is never fun, but it happens.  It's part of the sport.  Sometimes things just don't work out and we either get pulled from the course or we have to make the painful decision to drop out.  A lot of things can happen over a one-hundred kilometer distance.  If I DNF'ed, I also wouldn't qualify for the 2023 Western States 100.  That would be a bummer, but it wouldn't be the end of the world either.  On the other hand, even in my foggy state of mind, I knew that if I voluntarily quit the race I would later have feelings of regret.  I would be pissed at myself for not pushing harder and taking a chance.  It's not like I was in a world of pain.  I hadn't fallen down or gotten injured along the course.  In fact, I really wasn't hurting very much.  I was tired and fatigued, but I was mostly scared of how hard my heart was apparently working, even running downhill at a thirteen minute per mile pace.  As I plodded along I pondered my next move.  It was an important, yet simple decision.  I either keep going, or I turn around, head back to Foresthill, and call it a day.  But I just couldn't decide.

Ten hours earlier, my alarm went off at 3:30 AM.  I clicked on the table light in my small, yet comfortable room at Motel6 just off highway 80 in Auburn, California.  I arrived in town the evening before and had gotten a pretty decent night's sleep.  Most nights before ultramarathons my mind is focused on the journey ahead, and it can be challenging to keep calm and get good sleep, but last night seemed to be okay.  Unfortunately Sam was busy taking care of a client and was not able to join me on this trip, so I was traveling solo.  "Rise and shine" I said out loud as I stood up out of bed and stretched my arms.  I went through the whole ritual of pre-race preparation and soon hopped in my car, stopped to get coffee, and arrived at Overlook Park at 4:30 AM, where I would be catching a shuttle to the start line.  There was a slight modification to the course compared to last year.  Unlike in 2021 when we started at Overlook Park, we would be starting in downtown Auburn this year and heading towards Robie Point and down the trail into the valley.  The starting area was pulsing with activity as I departed the bus.  Several runners were standing around a firepit to keep warm.  Others jogged back and forth down the street to warm up, and several others, including me, were heading towards the pre-race packet pickup area.  It felt energizing to see this downtown area so lively at 4:45 in the morning.  I thought about how much this race had grown since I first ran it in 2017.  Back then it was more of a local underground ultramarathon.  But as the years went by, the notoriety of The Canyons Endurance Runs circulated within the ultramarathon community.  There were some high profile ultrarunners participating in this year's race, including Sage Canady, Jared Hazen, and Brittany Peterson.  Additionally, the popularity of the race and the efficiency in which it is executed led to Canyons becoming the first North American race to be part of the UTMB World Series.  The number of runners had almost doubled since the first year I ran.  I was damn glad to see it.  Epic Endurance Events does a phenomenal job of putting on these races and they deserved every bit of recognition that they were getting.  It felt empowering to be part of an event that had developed such a reputation in the ultrarunning scene.  

The first several miles of the race went by pleasantly.  At 5:00 AM we charged in a pack across the start line, wove through the streets of downtown Auburn for a couple of miles, passed Robie Point, and began making our way into the valley towards the American River.  It was the early stages of the race and the transition to the narrow trail from the paved streets created a bottleneck effect, and we were forced to run at only a modest pace along the trail to avoid stepping on the person in front of us.  An ant trail of glowing headlamps illuminated the course in the distance.  Earlier in the week the area had been hit with rain and when we crossed over No Hands Bridge a few miles into the race, we were forced to walk on the edge near the railing past a giant mud puddle to avoid getting our shoes and socks drenched.  The first indications of dawn were appearing in the sky shortly after crossing the bridge, however the moon still shined brightly in the clear sky.  The sun had made its way into the sky when I arrived at the first aid station eight miles into the race.  I paused there long enough to refill my two hand held water bottles and have a couple of corners of peanut butter and jelly sandwich before pressing onward.  The terrain was pretty run friendly for the most part and consisted mainly of a single track trail that moved along rolling hills through brush and wilderness with the occasional meadow.  The American River was now visible in the valley below.  This section of the course offered a sweeping view of the greenish blue river flowing in between mountains covered with green Douglus Fur trees.  I admired the marvelous setting as I ran, while also making sure I paid attention to the course so I wouldn't fall on my face.  Shortly after the first aid station I came upon the first big climb of the course along the Foresthill Divide Loop.  The uphill was tough, but we were ten miles in, so I still had a lot of fuel left in the tank.  I continued along, waved to my buddy Scott Rokis, who was taking race photos on the trailside, and eventually arrived at the second aid station at Drivers Flat, mile sixteen.  This was the finish line for the 25K course and the first few finishers were already making their way in.  The path from Drivers Flat was a wide fire road that descended further into the valley for a few miles.  I had a nice downhill section and by the time I reached the bottom of the valley I was running parallel to the American River.  I passed by Rucky Chucky, and soon the wide jeep road gave way to a narrow trail loaded with overgrown vegetation.  I chatted with some other runners as we climbed up the switchbacks to the next aid station at Cal2.  A guy behind me introduced himself as Dan.  As we climbed, he told stories about how his parents had immigrated to the United States from Italy and settled in Silverton, Colorado of all places, before moving to Santa Cruz, where Dan was born and raised.  When I asked him how long he'd been running ultras, he replied "about seven years.  I started when I was fifty-nine, and I'm sixty-six now".  That was about the coolest thing I could have heard at that point in the race.  Dan was a testament to the fact that it's never too late in life to discover new things and make lifestyle changes.  On the surface he was an authentically happy guy.  I'm an authentically happy guy at thirty-five, and I remember hoping to still be that way when I was sixty-six, just like Dan.  I chatted with a woman in front of me about how Sam and I were expecting our first baby this summer.  She went on to tell me that having kids is the most exciting adventure in life and how her husband and five year old son would be waiting for her at the finish line that night.  She joking said she couldn't finish too late or her son would fall asleep by the time she arrived.  It felt surreal to be talking to people during an ultra in 2022 about expecting my first baby.  I definitely would not have predicated that during the 2021 Canyons 100K, that's for sure.

After passing through the Cal2 aid station, I powered up the elevator shaft, which is a short, but steep climb.  The trail rolled on towards Foresthill while gradually gaining elevation.  The course was a net uphill, meaning that although there were several ascents and descents along the way, we would be finishing approximately 3,800 feet higher in altitude than where we started.  Despite the fatigue of running thirty miles beginning to take its toll, I was in pretty good shape as I began the arduous climb up to Foresthill.  During the climb however, I began to deteriorate.  The incline felt substantially tougher than what I remembered.  And I've done it several times.  My steps were slow and labored and I was panting heavily.  I was tempted to move to the side of the trail to rest, but I didn't quite feel like I needed to do that.  Not yet anyways.  I made my way up the switchbacks, step by step, moving along like a snail, and eventually a gate came into view.  This gate is where the course would deposit me onto a paved street in a quiet neighborhood in the town of Foresthill, which meant that the aid station at the thirty-two mile mark was about a half a mile ahead.  When I arrived at the check point in front of the Foresthill Elementary School, I refilled my water bottles, grabbed some snacks, and sat down for the first time all day.  It was 12:50 PM and I had plenty of time before the cutoff, so I wasn't concerned about rushing back onto the course.  Even though it's branded as a 100K, the course is actually 2.7 miles short of one-hundred kilometers, clocking in at 59.3 miles.  "Thirty-two down, twenty-seven to go" I noted to myself.  Having time off my feet felt nice and I wasn't in too much pain as I stood back up and made my way to the exit and back on to the course after resting for about ten minutes.  I felt pretty good and ready to tackle the rest of the race.  That sentiment changed pretty quickly a couple of miles down the course from Foresthill.  My watch was showing that my heart rate was hovering in the 150s, which seemed way too high considering I was moving downhill at only about a thirteen minute per mile pace.  I was caught in a psychological tailspin, torn between making the decision to keep moving or go back to Foresthill and drop out.  The remaining twenty-five miles included the tough canyons section of the course, and the terrain was more difficult that what I'd already covered.  I was convinced that because I was not able to get my heart rate down, I would suffer more dire consequences if I kept going.  After wrestling with my conscience, I finally shared my concerns with a runner along side me.  "Dude, don't worry too much about your heart rate.  If you're feeling good, keep going.  You can make it.".  And that was that.  The decision was crystal clear.  I would keep moving forward.  The camaraderie of other runners in this sport is a powerful thing.  Sometimes other runners can provide just the right words of encouragement at just the right time, and that's enough to keep your race going.  "No turning back now" I said to myself as I approached the river crossing in Volcano Canyon.  

To my relief, my heart rate dropped into the 120s as I made the climb out of Volcano Canyon towards Michigan Bluff.  During the climb I told myself I would keep moving and if I got pulled from the course, that would be okay.  At least I would go out in a blaze of glory.  I arrived at the next aid station in Michigan Bluff with plenty of time to spare before the cutoff, and I sipped some hot soup broth from a paper cup.  The volunteers were super cool and enthusiastic, but they were also focused on keeping us moving, so after a few short minutes of rest, I resumed forward progress.  I had a nice cadence going down the switchbacks into El Dorado Canyon, but as soon as I crossed the bridge over the river at the bottom of the gorge, mile forty-two, I began the longest and toughest climb of the course.  In front of me stood a 2,300 foot ascent over three-and-a-half miles to the next aid station.  Nice.  It's not like I didn't know this was coming though.  I'd done this climb multiple times before, but this time it felt slower and harder.  My heart rate again dropped into the 120s, which was comforting, but the uphill just went on and on.  It took me an hour and a half to get to the next aid station at the crest of the climb at Deadwood.  After I contended with this climb for about as long as I could without stopping to rest, the check point emerged through the brush.  Halle-friggin'-lujah.  Whenever I roll into an aid station during an ultra I try my best to show enthusiasm and I always make a point to thank the volunteers for being out there.  They really are what make these races happen.  They always take care of us and therefore I always try my best to show appreciation and friendliness towards them. This time was no exception, however shortly after arriving, I promptly made my way over to a camping chair and flopped into it.  I had gotten my ass handed to me on that climb from El Dorado Canyon and I needed to sit down and regroup for a few minutes.  From here, I would follow a loop that would bring me back through this aid station at mile fifty, which would be the final check point of the race.  The loop was not overly challenging from a technical standpoint.  I passed by Devil's Thumb along the way and followed the rolling trail along the mountain side.  I passed Scott Rokis again during this loop who snapped some pictures of me and congratulated me on my engagement to Sam and our expected kid.  This section provided yet another beautiful view, this time of the snowy mountains near Lake Tahoe in the distance.  The view was a nice distraction and although my running was slow, it felt effortless at times.  Back at the aid station, I sipped another cup of hot broth.  I had stopped eating solid food after Michigan Bluff but the hot soup was keeping me going.  I ran into Kaycee, a volunteer who I'd seen at countless races I had done in the past.  She was a great volunteer and has dedicated a lot of her time to working aid stations at several local races.  She filled my water bottles and reminded me that this was the last aid station before the finish line and advised me to conserve my resources wisely.  With that, I made my way back onto the trail for the final nine mile stretch.  

The last nine miles included a three-mile descent into another canyon followed by a six-mile climb that had some steep sections, but leveled out towards the end.  About halfway down the descent the sun had set for the day and I switched on my headlamp.  The bridge at the bottom of the gorge had been damaged by a massive tree that had fallen on it, but it was still sturdy enough to cross.  I hit yet another wall as I began climbing up the trail towards China Wall.  This one was brutal.  Darkness had now taken over and I was powered by the light of my headlamp.  I walked up the trail very slowly, step by awkward step, trying to keep moving forward through the steep terrain as best as I could.  It was at this point in the race that I was no longer worried about my heart rate.  I attributed my high pulse to the fact that my heart had been working in overdrive for the past fifteen hours, and that was just the way it was going to be.  In reality, my heart was perfectly healthy and fine and I had nothing to be concerned about.  I was happy that I made the decision after Foresthill to keep going, especially since by now my chances of finishing were looking promising.  I began doing trail math.  The cutoff to qualify for Western States was nineteen hours, which meant I had to finish by midnight.  However, the overall cutoff for the race was twenty hours, at 1:00 AM.  It was shortly after 10:00 PM and I had about five miles left to go.  If I was going to try to make the Western States cutoff, it would be close.  Eventually the course leveled out and I was finally able to take a minute to enjoy the stillness and tranquility of the night time wilderness.  Contrary to most of my friends who are runners, I actually love running in the dark.  It's great fun.  Even though what I was doing at this point was hardly running, I kept moving forward as I admired the setting and tried to take it all in.  It was a cloudless night in the mountains.  The moon was shining brightly above and the sky was filled with millions of stars.  The distant mountains took on a black tone and rolled on like waves in an ocean.  I came upon a guy who was puking on the trailside.  "You alright man?" I asked.  He gave me a thumbs up and nodded his head.  His headlamp illuminated the steaming vomit puddle underneath him.  "Let it all out dude.  You'll feel much better" I said as I passed by.  I could hear him retching behind me as I continued into the night.  With three miles left to go, the distance was closing in, but so was the clock.  I tried to keep moving as fast as I could to chase the Western States cutoff.  Eventually snow began to emerge on the sides of the trail.  The course was now at 5,000 feet of elevation and while it had rained in the lower elevation areas earlier in the week, it snowed up in this area.  Before long, the terrain surrounding the trail was covered in snow.  It was really cool to look at and I loved how it looked in the moonlight, but unfortunately the snowmelt turned the trail into a muddy shit show.  The terrain was soft and gushy with mud puddles in the middle of the trail every fifty feet.  It became almost impossible to run on this section of the trail.  As I made my way around the muddy edge of a large puddle, my feet slipped out from underneath me and I came crashing down into the water, soaking my shoes, socks and the left side of my body.  "Fuck!" I exclaimed.  I was pissed not only because I had fallen, but because the temperature had now dropped into the high thirties.  Wet and cold are a recipe for disaster.  I picked up my water bottle out of the mud puddle and tried to keep moving forward as swiftly as I could, despite being rattled by the fall.  The guy who was puking on the trailside eventually caught up with me and we leapfrogged for a little while.  His name was Tucker and it was his first time on these trails.  He was from the Connecticut suburbs of New York City, and had moved to California a few months prior.  After a few minutes of idle chat, he pushed ahead and I wished him good luck.  

The finish line at the China Wall Stating Area was now less than a mile ahead and I could hear the finish line announcer talking over the P.A. system in the distance.  As I got closer I could also hear music being played.  I was on the home stretch.  I looked at my watch and came to the realization that I was not going to make the cutoff to qualify for Western States.  It was a bummer, but was I angry about it?  No way.  I had come too far and gone through too much to be angry at myself for not qualifying for Western States.  I already had three years worth of tickets in the hat, and the qualifiers do not have to be consecutive years.  In other words, I could qualify next year and my tickets from the past three years would still be thrown in the hat.  Even though I wouldn't qualify for Western States, I had more than enough time to make the twenty hour cutoff for finishing the race.  I kept Tucker within eye sight for a while as the trail zig zagged through the trees, and before long, the junction where the trail intersected with a desolate road emerged.  This meant that once I crossed the road, the finish line was about a quarter of a mile ahead.  The music grew louder and the lights from the finish line emerged through the trees.  I came around a snowbank, trudged through some more mud, and eventually made my way to the finish chute in the China Wall Staging Area parking lot.  People cheered, screamed out my name, I threw my arms in the air, fought back my tears, and tore across the finish line shortly after midnight, finishing in nineteen hours and five minutes.  Immediately afterwards I was hugged by two volunteers and presented with my finishers medal and hat.  I was overcome with emotion.  I had missed the Western States cutoff my a mere five minutes, but at that moment, that point was irrelevant.  I finished and that's all that mattered.  So many different emotions were felt during this race.  Joy, elation, euphoria, anxiety, anger, tiredness, and everything in between.  I had been through so much in the past nineteen hours that it really did feel like I'd lived an entire lifetime in one day.  I have a similar feeling whenever I finish an ultramarathon, but every time it's a little different.  There's always a story to be told.  It had been one hell of an awesome day.  

After warming myself by a fire for a few minutes, I boarded a warm bus that would take me back to my car at Overlook Park.  Sam and I talked on the phone during this bus ride until I lost reception.  Her, a few of my other running friends, and a few of my family members from back home had been tracking me all day.  The fact that especially my family stayed up until 3:00 AM their time to track me is something for which I will be forever grateful.  The support I get from Sam, my friends, and my family will never be matched and is something that I will always cherish.  After the call with Sam dropped I promptly fell into a deep sleep in my cozy bus seat and woke up an hour later when the bus arrived at Overlook Park.  By the time I eventually made it back to my hotel room I had been awake for almost twenty-four hours and knocked right out after taking a shower.  Shortly after waking up the next morning, I threw up.  It didn't really come as much of a surprise.  The day before I was in motion for nineteen hours and had nothing to eat except aid station food i.e. chips, M&Ms, soup broth, and PB&J sandwiches.  Sometimes you have to throw up to mitigate nausea, and when I finished, relief was instant.  After checking out and having a big breakfast at Black Bear Diner, I made my way back home to the San Francisco Bay Area.  Now, two weeks later, I'm fully recovered, running again, and the itching from the poison oak rash has finally disappeared.  I spent some time thinking about what held me back from qualifying for Western States.  Going into the race, I thought my training had been pretty good, but one thing that I didn't do enough of was vertical training.  Those climbs kicked my butt and I should have put in more training climbing up trails, not just running on flat surfaces.  Something to remember for next time.  Even though ultramarathons involve a lot of psychological toughness, you need to put in the physical training as well.  You're not going to do a 100K race with 14,900 feet of elevation gain without having paid your dues.  I was grateful to have finished the race, but if I'm going to get into and finish Western States, I need to do better.  But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.  Meanwhile, the Bishop High Sierra 50-Miler is in two weeks.  Can't wait!