Arjun and I ran together through the crowd feeding off the energy of the cheering spectators. Even though it was 5:00 AM and most of Auburn was still sleeping, people were going wild and recording with their phones. Drones buzzed overhead. It was a powerful and uplifting send off. We charged in a pack up the hill of a dark residential street and headed for Robie Point. Along the way a couple of the hundred mile runners passed us coming the other way. They looked pretty wrecked, but they were less than a half a mile from the finish line, on the home stretch. I can only imagine how brutal it must have been for those guys in the heat. Once we reached Robie Point, we began a descent down the Western States Trail towards No Hands Bridge. Arjun and I were chatting as we ran down the switchbacks but we broke off from each other about two miles into the race. Our approach was we would run together until one of us needed to either drop back or felt like pushing ahead, similar to what we did at FOURmidable. Even though we only shared a couple of miles together, I wished him the best. This was his first 100K and it was really cool to see him out here jumping into unknown territory and testing his limits. All of us were from different walks of life and hailed not just from California, or even the United States, but from all over the world. We all had our own lives and our own shit going on. But today we all shared one common goal that connected us all: getting to the finish line.
I ran across No Hands Bridge and before long, I found myself climbing up Training Hill, which is notorious in the Auburn area for being a real ass kicker. I was beginning to realize that this course was going to essentially be a combination of the FOURmidable 50K and the Way To Cool 50K courses. This year marked the third time the Canyons 100K course had changed since I first started running in 2017. A new course was conceived in 2021 post pandemic and slightly modified in 2022. This brand new course that we were following this year was mainly created due to damage to the Western States Trail from the Mosquito Fire in September and October of 2022. Additionally, it had been a huge winter in California with record snowfall, and a good chunk of the old course was still buried in snow. Despite the setbacks, I was thankful that Chaz, the race director, and his team were able to jump through hoops to make sure this year's race could still happen. By the time I reached the crest of Training Hill, the sun had risen. The views of the foothills from the top were breathtaking and several runners were stopping to take pictures and admire the scenery. As I made my way downhill into the meadow I could feel myself beginning to sweat. The air felt crisp and pleasant, but I could tell we had a hot day ahead of us. I prefer to travel as light as possible when I run, so I didn't have a backpack. I ran with a small fanny pack and two handheld water bottles with pouches to store the supplies I needed. Having a backpack not only would add extra weight but it would also generate more body heat. At least I wouldn't have to worry about having my back drenched in sweat.
So far things had been working out pretty well. I was drinking water out of one water bottle, and electrolyte sports drink out of the other. I was consuming salt tablets early on, and eating at the aid stations. I passed through the first aid station in Cool (yes, there actually is a town in California named "Cool") at about mile eight. This was one of the aid stations where spectators and crew could see runners. As I was walked up I noticed another runner kneel down and open his arms. His kid was running towards him and they hugged. The kid looked to be maybe three years old. After a few seconds the dad stood up and headed for the food table. The kid ran after him. "Wait, Daddy, where are you going?" "I'll see you later!" the dad called back. The kid began to cry, but the mom picked them up and said they'd see him again later. A year ago, I would have barely noticed this interaction and thought nothing of it. But now that I had a son of my own I had an entirely different perspective on these types of encounters. I knew that would be me in a couple of years. I would never force running on Aidan as a child, but I definitely plan on exposing him to it. As long as I'm able to keep running ultras, he's going to have a front row for the "Daddy gets his ass kicked on the trail" show. Although it was a reflective moment, I shifted my focus, refilled my water bottles and continued onward. The course followed a trail loop that I had previously ran at FOURmidable a couple of months prior. Only this time it was much more comfortable because I was wearing my trail running shoes instead of my five fingers. I ran down a stretch of rocky fire road towards the American River and then back up the switch backs. There was a stretch of back country road before the course led us back to Cool. As hours passed and miles were covered, the day warmed up and my condition slowly deteriorated. Even though I was eating and drinking, and peeing regularly, the heat was wearing me down. The volunteers at the races are always total rock stars and today their support was a powerful tonic. Over the years of doing races in the Auburn area, I've recognized and formed friendships with other runners and volunteers who have kept coming back year after year, just like me. Even though we only see each other a couple of times a year, it almost feels like we're old friends when we encounter each other on the trail. Volunteers and other runners often witness each other during their highest and lowest moments during these races. We get good look the best and the worst of one another and we provide support when we can. These moments are what create such strong and deep connections within the ultrarunning community.
I ran with a couple of runners from Houston and Utah for a little while as we traversed along the rolling hills in the mounting heat. The terrain was beautiful. Mostly single track trails with the occasional stream crossing and consistent switchbacks. The forest was lush and green thanks for all the rain that we had gotten. I don't think I've ever seen this area quite so vibrant with colors. If the temperature could have just been twenty degrees cooler, it would have been perfect. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the surroundings. I needed to sit down and rest when I arrived at Browns Bar at the halfway point of the race. By then, the temperature had risen to the low eighties. There was little air movement in the canyon and the enveloping heat was sucking the energy out of me. When I sat down in a camping chair at the aid station, a volunteer had me lean forward. He put a giant bag of ice behind me and had me sit back. It felt nice and provided some relief after baking for the last ten miles. It was 12:15 PM when I left Brown's Bar and I headed down the trail for the next aid station at No Hands Bridge. About halfway between these two aid stations I encountered my first major low. I had contended with a beastly climb for as long as I could before my movement was reduced to my feet barely clearing the ground and my head hanging down, staring at the dirt. The heat was engulfing me and there was little shade to hide in. Finally, I decided to stop and sit on a rock on the trail side to try to pull myself together. Other runners hiked past me and offered words of encouragement. I had the energy to smile and say thanks but other than that, I was pretty spent. Eventually I made it to the top of the climb, but the terrain didn't feel much easier even though it was more level and downhill at times. "Just get to No Hands Bridge" I kept telling myself. "You can rest again when you get there". Sometimes in ultras when I'm struggling, it helps to not think about getting to the finish line and instead focus on simply getting to the next aid station. Breaking a big goal into small goals helps when I'm feeling overwhelmed. And the thought of going another twenty-nine miles in these conditions felt very overwhelming to me in that moment.
I was able to run at a slow pace during a downhill section that ran near highway 49 which brought a small sense of optimism. At the aid station I squeezed a sponge of ice water over my head, refilled my water bottles, had some chips and watermelon, and the volunteers sent me on my way. It was about four miles until the next aid station at Mammoth Bar. I focused on my next target of getting to there as I slowly walked along the side of the highway to the intersection. The two mile climb up Old Foresthill Road was sheer hell. It was now eighty-eight degrees, the hot afternoon sun shined directly above me, there was no shade, and the uphill climb on the remote mountainside road seemed endless. I sat on the guardrail to rest midway up this climb, wanting nothing more than to evaporate into thin air and get myself the hell out of there. But the only way I was getting out was by walking out. I grunted forward, step by painful step until the course finally diverted onto the Confluence Trail off the roadside. The two mile stretch to Mammoth Bar from there was a net loss in elevation, but there were still hills to contend with. Finally the aid station emerged in the distance at the bottom of the hill. I wobbled down the rocky trail and walked across the gravel parking lot to the aid station. The final steps depleted all of my remaining energy and I sat down as quickly as I was could. Looking down at my watch, I still had an hour and ten minutes before the cutoff to be out of Mammoth Bar, which was assuring, but I wasn't sure if I could go any further. I sipped on a Coke, which helped perk me up a little, but after the volunteer told me what I could expect ahead of me, there was about a seventy percent chance that I was going to call it a day. The last four miles had drop kicked me repeatedly and I was on my last thread. Between here and the next aid station at mile forty-eight I was looking at a 2,000 foot exposed three-mile climb up the trail before I was even halfway to the aid station. And from there, I still had fourteen miles to the finish. To add to that, the heat wasn't going to be letting up anytime soon. It didn't sound doable. More runners hobbled into the aid station. Some were sitting down next to me, others were making their way to the exit. Volunteers enthusiastically helped cater to all of us. There was a lot going on around me, but I was completely in my own world, contemplating what I should do next.
About twenty minutes passed before I made the decision to drop out of the race at Mammoth Bar. I took inventory of my condition. It wasn't good. The heat had really done a number on me and my energy levels were low, borderline completely gone. Next, I thought about what lied ahead of me. That 2,000 foot climb over the next three miles in the sun would most likely do me in. I did trail math and calculated how quickly I would need to move in order to make the cut off times. I didn't see it working out. I knew that I would either miss the cutoffs, or worse, I could be hauled off to the hospital with heat exhaustion. It wasn't worth it. After I informed the volunteers of my decision, I stepped into a van with five other runners who had dropped and we were hauled out of the canyon to the finish line. During the ride I traded some texts with Arjun. He dropped out at the half way point and walked to No Hands Bridge. From there, the volunteers gave him a ride to the finish line. When I was dropped off, the volunteer gave me a hug and commended my efforts. I was sitting on the curb when Sam and Aidan walked over. I stood up and gave them both a tearful hug. The tears were soon replaced with laughter as I told them about my day and made jokes about how the race had punted me in right in the ass and left me face down in the mud.
This was my third time earning myself a DNF at Canyons. The first two times were tough to accept but this time, I was pretty okay with it. I used to suck at accepting DNFs. I took them to heart and I would rag on myself and get upset. In the last couple of years I've come to realize that DNFs are part of the sport and just because I didn't finish a race doesn't mean I'm a bad runner. I also felt like I made a smart decision to not continue in the condition that I was in. That's another way that having a kid has changed my life. I needed to think about my family. I didn't want to risk a trip to the hospital, leaving Sam to care for both Aidan and I while I recovered. I'm not saying that'll never happen, but if I feel like I can avoid it, I'm going to. Still, it stung a little. I was really looking forward to this race. I trained well and had high hopes. I tried various psychological techniques throughout the day to pull myself out of the low points, including the "flying babies" trick I used at FOURmidable, but nothing worked. I just couldn't hold myself together long enough to make it to the finish line. That's life. Sometimes things don't play out the way we want or expect them to, despite our best efforts. All things considered having to quit at mile forty of a sixty-two mile race was nothing to blow an emotional gasket over. Things could have been so much worse. Was I planning on coming back and doing Canyons next year? Absolutely. I never doubted that for a second. But we'll discuss that later. It was time to get back to the hotel, take a shower, and spend some time with Sam, Aidan, and Arjun.
