Anyone who has run a long distance race knows what it feels like to struggle. Running long distances is hard and it's taxing on the body. We've all seen those people at races who are really having a tough go at it, but they keep moving forward. No one wants to ever be in that position, but we always try to offer psychological support when we see someone who is deep inside the pain cave. That was me at the Cool Moon Trail 50-Miler in Cool, California on June 1st, 2024. I was the guy who was hurting badly. The guy who everyone was concerned about. The guy who everyone saw and said "wow, are you okay?". I was the guy who needed the psychological support. No one wanted to be in the position that I was in, but everyone felt sorry for me. After dropping out of the Canyons 100K at mile forty-eight in late April, I signed up for Cool Moon hoping to redeem myself. The logic was the fact that I was able to cover forty-eight miles in about fifteen hours on the challenging terrain of the Canyons course. There was no way my body could have taken me another fourteen miles, but I could have gutted out another two miles if it were a 50-miler. It would have been painfully slow, but I believed I could have pulled it off. The Cool Moon Trail 50-Miler had far less elevation gain than Canyons, and it had a thirty-five hour cutoff, which was incredibly generous. It would be difficult and painful, but I figured I could cross the finish line. I would have plenty of time. Well, not only did I not cross the finish line, but my performance at Cool Moon marks the most epic failure I've experienced at a race up until this point.
My Cool Moon journey started off on Friday evening, the night before the race. I loaded my car up with my running gear, a pillow, a sleeping bag, a sleeping pad, and other provisions, and hit the road. The plan was to drive to Cool and find a place to camp out in the back of my car near the race start line. I cruised along highway 80 through Sacramento, took the highway 49 exit in Auburn, and followed the winding, pitch black country road for several miles until I arrived in Cool. Everything was closed down for the night when I arrived, and I didn't see a single car or person. The race start and finish line was right next to the El Dorado County Fire Station located off of highway 49. I parked in a nearby parking lot and shut off my car. When I stepped out to stretch, it was dead quiet, except for the sound of a dog barking at a house out in the distance. Even though they were closed, the nearby shops and restaurants were lit up, but beyond that it was darkness. The lack of city lights helped mitigate the light pollution, and the sky was filled with shining stars. I brushed my teeth, rolled out my sleeping bag in the back seat, wiggled into it, and closed my eyes, hoping for the best in tomorrow's race. When I woke up at 5:45 AM the next morning, I got some coffee at a nearby gas station, made my preparations, and headed for the start of the race, which was less than a tenth of a mile away. I greeted the volunteers, picked up my race bib, and mingled with other runners at the start line. It was a smaller, more personable race, with around three hundred people, which was a nice contrast to Canyons. At 7:00 AM we lined up near the start line, the race director gave some pre-race announcements, and we were off.
Things started out pretty good. I had a good cadence going, and since it was supposed to be a warm day, I was drinking a lot and taking plenty of electrolyte tablets. Or so I thought. The course consisted of two twenty-five mile loops. The terrain was pretty to look at, and even though some of the climbs were challenging, a lot of the course was pretty runnable. I also chatted with some pretty cool people, including a sixty-four year old runner originally from New Zealand. He complimented me on my form and consistency, which I appreciated. I was enjoying myself. I finished the first loop in five-and-a-half hours, and decided to sit down at the halfway point and take a little rest. It felt nice to be off my feet, but I was feeling pretty good, and wanted to keep the momentum going. Things didn't go well in the second half. The temperature was rising, the afternoon California sun baked the exposed course, and the lack of training was catching up with me, just like at Canyons. After an arduously slow and painfully steep climb up K2, my legs seized up. I was able to sooth them and keep going for a little longer, but at around the thirty-two mile mark, they seized up again. This time it was so bad that the cramping essentially forced me to collapse onto the grass along the trailside. I laid there in agony as my legs throbbed and tied themselves in knots. A runner came by and offered me some pickle juice. I drank it down, but the intense cramping still persisted. The next thing I knew, I was laying on my side, puking up everything I had consumed that day. I was glad no one was around to see that. By this point, the pack had become pretty spread out along the course, so I wasn't encountering as many runners as I had on the first loop. I laid down in the grass next to a puddle of my own vomit for the next hour, unable to move. Luckily, it was in a shady spot, so I wasn't being cooked in the sun. About a half a dozen runners came by during that time. I can only imagine what they were thinking when they saw me laying in the grass like a body that had just been dumped from a car trunk. They all asked me if I was okay and if I needed anything. Even though I was in so much pain I could hardly move, I told them I was okay and I was just taking a rest. I don't think there was much they could have done for me.
Eventually, I was able to pick myself up, and I made it another two miles up the switchbacks to a junction where the trail intersected with a back country road. I had absolutely nothing left when I arrived there. At the intersection, there was a card table with a water keg propped up on it, and a cooler full of ice next to the table. I collapsed onto the cooler and sat there for a few minutes until another runner approached. "I hate to do this, but can I get some ice out of there?" she asked. I smiled and tried to get up, but instead I just keeled over and crumbled onto the ground. I was a hot mess. I couldn't hide it anymore. Even if I had thirty-five hours, there was no way in hell I was finishing this race. At that moment, I didn't even have the strength to stand back up, let alone cover another sixteen miles. The runner who asked me to get off the cooler could sense my despair. After a couple of moments of silence, she spoke. "Hey, I'm going to push to the next aid station. Do you want me to send a volunteer down here to pick you up?" It was a demoralizing situation, but I said "yes" without hesitation. I thanked her, and she pressed onward. When the volunteer arrived and picked me up, she was sympathetic and encouraging. "Are you the guy who was taking a nap in the grass on the side of the trail?" she asked. I couldn't help but laugh. "yep, that was me" I said. "Ah, okay. Yeah, a few runners came through and told us about you. They said you looked terrible and that we should come and find you. I'm amazed that you were able to make it up to this point". I hated being the guy who looked terrible and everyone was worried about, but sometimes it's okay to be that guy and show some vulnerability. It's been a lifelong struggle for me to accept that, and I still struggle with it even now. But I'm better at showing vulnerability than I used to be, thanks to therapy. The volunteer brought me back to the start and finish line, where I spent another hour sitting in a camping chair trying to regroup. They happened to have a massage therapist onsite who went to work on trying to sooth my leg cramps. It helped a little, and I was grateful for her support. I was finally able to hobble back to my car, but when I arrived, I had to sit down again right away because I was so drained and cramped up. I took an hour long nap in my car on the way home, and finally arrived home at around 3:00 AM.
I had a long recovery after Cool Moon, but roughly a month later, on June 29th, I found myself at the start line of the Golden State 50K at the Fort Ord Day Camp Cycling Area, near Marina, California. After my failure at Cool Moon, I was frustrated. I felt like I had acted foolishly for trying to run a 50-miler after what happened at Canyons. I knew that my problem was the fact that I wasn't training as hard as I needed to, and I wasn't putting in the volume needed to make it through these long races. But I had another problem. I was stubborn. I accepted my defeat twice at Canyons and Cool Moon, but I wasn't done fighting yet. I told myself I needed to finish at least one ultramarathon this year. I knew I could do it. Thankfully, my stubbornness paid off, and I was able to finish strong at the Golden State 50K. Unlike my previous two ultramarathons this year, Golden State was one of those races where virtually everything went as well as it could have gone. When the race started off, the sky was dominated by marine layer clouds, and the temperature was in the mid fifties, which was perfect. I met a lot of cool people out on the course, including a handful of runners who were running an ultra for the first time. Among them was a member of the Marine Corps who was in his tenth year of service, along with an aspiring actress who had come up from LA. I told them that they'd probably view the world differently when they cross the finish line of their first ultramarathon. I know I sure did. The course was beautiful, and featured lots of coastal mountain scenery. Green rolling foothills dominated the horizon, and tall yellow and brownish mountain peaks poked at the sky in the distance. The race featured about 3,500 feet of elevation gain, but the climbs were pretty moderate. The clouds burned off and the sun warmed the course up, but overall things were going really well. That is until about mile twenty-six. One thing I remembered reading in the course description on the website was that there were some sandy parts of the course. I had run through some areas where there was some loose dirt on the trail that resembled sand, but I didn't think much of it. At the twenty-six mile mark, the course took a sharp turn up a short, but steep climb that was literally up a sand hill. I guess that was what they meant when they said there would be some sandy sections. It was a tough climb at that point in the race, but I made it up to the top. During the last few miles I was feeling tired, but I kept moving. With about two miles to go, I came up behind a guy who was walking. He told me he had been puking for the last several miles and couldn't keep anything down, so he was going to walk it out. I felt sympathetic, considering I had a big puking rally at Cool Moon. "I know man, it sucks". I said. "That was me at my last ultra. But you look great, keep going. We're almost done". I crossed the finish line in six hours and twenty-six minutes, which was better than I anticipated. I changed into a new shirt, grabbed a beer from finisher's tent, and sat down in the shade against a tree while I watched runners cross the finish line. Everyone I met on the course finished, and I congratulated all of them when I saw them come in. I had a good day, so I felt like I had to spread the positivity to others. That afternoon I drove home to Samantha and Aidan with my heart full.
Just like all things in life, running ebbs and flows. Some years are better than others. This has been one of the tougher years. When I look back to 2019, the year I finished the Tahoe Rim Trail 100-Miler, I remember the fact that I was running pretty huge miles back then, and that's why I was able to successfully finish. But that was a different era. Back then I was single and childless, and I didn't have as demanding of a career as I do now. Times have changed, but that's life. You have to keep moving forward. I can still be an ultrarunner, but I have to have realistic expectations. And if I'm going to sign up for a race, I better be willing to put in the miles that are needed for the training. I'm glad I was able to finish at least one ultramarathon this year, and we'll see how the rest of the year plays out. All I can say is it's a good thing that I have a stubborn side to my personality and I kept signing up for ultras until I finished one!
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