The crowd of 378 runners charged forward through the start
line and down Foresthill road. After
making a right on Bath road, we picked up the single track trail and began
making the descent into the first canyon of the course. The trail was steep and cluttered with rocks
and stones as we followed the switchbacks.
We had to do a lot of stepping around and hopping over. Before long, I came upon a short line of
runners waiting to cross the river at the pit of Volcano Canyon. It was still very early in the race, so the
pack hadn’t spread out along the course yet. As I pulled up to the back of the line, the
guy in front of me turned around. “Is
this a river crossing coming up?” he inquired.
I recalled from last year that the river was about 10 feet wide and the
water depth was up to my knees. “Yep” I
answered. “It’s not too bad, it’s about
knee deep”. The look in his eyes went
from curious to dubious and a smile of skepticism spread across his face. “Wait, are you fucking with me?” he asked. I laughed as if to say, “I wish I were, but
nope.” His name was Chris and he had
also traveled from the Los Angeles area to participate in this race. He was training for the Wasatch Front 100
coming up in September. Wasatch is one
of the toughest 100-mile ultramarathons in the United States, but looking at
Chris, it certainly appeared that he was equipped to gut out those long miles. We crossed the river safely and made our way
up the ascent towards Michigan Bluff.
The uphill was steep at first but as we climbed out of the canyon, the
terrain leveled out and tall pine trees lined both sides of the trail. The trail eventually widened into a twisting
fire road which followed a gradual downhill route to the first aid station at mile
6.2. “Hey nice shoes, man” I heard from
behind me. Coming up on my left was a stout
man who looked like a seasoned veteran.
He was referring to my Vibram 5 fingers.
These “glove shoes” as they’re sometimes known as, match perfectly with
my running style of taking light steps to minimize contact with the surface,
which helps to mitigate soreness. “Thanks! Uh…Ernesto” I responded as I inspected
his race bib for his name. Ernesto was a
native of Mexico City but had been living in Reno for several years. He was an accomplished runner and was
training for the Ouray 100 coming up in July.
He talked about how he’d come home from long training runs on weekend
mornings and his mom would cook a big hot breakfast. This sounded appetizing, but also reminded me
that I should eat something soon. Wanting
to keep my guts stable, I didn’t eat anything before the race. We ran along and soon arrived at the first
aid station. There were 12 aid stations
along the course, all consisting of white tents, card tables stocked with salty
snacks, fruit, candy, and pitchers of water and Gu electrolyte sports
drink. I paused at Michigan Bluff for a
few minutes to fill my handheld water bottle full of sports drink, parting ways
with Chris and Ernesto as they gobbled down some food and used the restroom. I’m not sure if you could even call Michigan
Bluff a town. Really, it was just an
outpost with nothing more than a half a dozen houses and the small road we ran
along before hitting the trail again.
Cars were parked around the aid station and some of the locals had come
out to cheer on runners.
Leaving the aid station, I began the 3-mile run down into El
Dorado canyon. I followed the
switchbacks through the trees along the side of the mountain, deeper into the
canyon, admiring the views as I ran. Through
the trees, I saw green, tree filled mountains all around me. When I arrived at the aid station at the
bottom of the canyon, I decided it was time to eat something. I grabbed a piece of peanut butter and jelly
sandwich and wolfed it down with a half of banana, topped off my water bottle,
and began the longest climb of the course, a 4-mile, 2,600-foot climb to the
pump aid station at mile 13.5. I hiked
at first but eased into a slow jog as I climbed. With my slightly faster pace, I began passing
other runners feeling pretty good, but hoping that it wouldn’t come back to
haunt me later in the race. As we neared
the top of the climb, tall pine trees again began lining the course. Coming into the pump aid station, I grabbed
another piece of peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a couple of orange slices
before continuing. Running down the
trail towards Devil’s Thumb, I was in awe of my surroundings. It was simply gorgeous. I felt as if I were running straight through
a picture of pristine mountain wilderness that you’d see on a post card or
magazine cover. Pine trees towered over
the path, their fallen needles and bristles covering the trail, sawed up tree
logs lay scattered off to the side on of the trail on both sides, pine cones
cluttered the trail, and the sun was shining through the trees. After passing through Devil’s Thumb, I began
the steep descent into Deadwood Canyon.
The twisting trail was littered with rocks and stones and had tight
corners. There were now oncoming runners
who had already turned around making their way out of Deadwood. We gave kudos to each other as we passed by,
feeding off each other’s energy. After
descending 1,700 feet in a mile and a half, I finally made it to the swinging
bridge, where I would turn around. Standing
at the bottom was a woman in a multicolored unicorn costume. She was not just anyone though. Her name was Ann Trason and she was a
world-renowned ultramarathon runner, having broken 20 world records during her
career. She has won several ultramarathons
around the world and set the women’s course record for the Leadville 100 in
1994, which has yet to be beaten. I was
star struck and shook her hand, introducing myself as she handed me a rubber
bracelet that I would need to wear to prove I had reached the turnaround. “Great job! I’m looking forward to seeing you
at the upcoming aid stations” she said.
I thanked her, turned around, and began the climb back up to Devil’s
Thumb. The ascent was so steep, I was
forced to hike at a modest pace. On the
way up, I met Heidi who was from Saskatchewan, Canada and Margae, who was from
the Bay area. They were old friends and
running together. As a distraction from
the brutality of the climb, I enlightened myself by asking Heidi what a typical
day was like in Saskatchewan in January.
She went on to tell me about how temperatures regularly dropped to
twenty degrees below zero in the winter, and some roads were barely drivable. Returning to the pump aid station, a volunteer
helped me take off my backpack and offered to refill my camelback while I
grabbed snacks. To my delight, the
volunteers were really rising to the occasion.
They were enthusiastic, encouraging, and very helpful. Volunteers play a tremendous role in races,
often spending an entire day catering to the needs of runners. They can also be helpful in providing
psychological encouragement and infusing runners with energy. After I wolfed down some salted nuts for
sodium intake, the volunteer handed me back my camelback and I took off. The next section of the trail would drop back
down into El Dorado Canyon. I had a nice
pace going, and a guy ran with me down the path. This guy, Charles, was a from Washington and
we traded opinions about the race and course as he ran behind me down the
trail. He was a Western States 100
finisher in 2012, completing the race in just over 28 hours. We parted ways at the gorge of the canyon as
I crossed the bridge over El Dorado Creek and began the long climb back up to
Michigan Bluff. As I made my way up the
trail, I was beginning to feel the effects of fatigue in my body. I had been running for nearly six hours now
and exhaustion was beginning to set in along with some slight anxiety. The lyrics of a Green Day song kept flashing
in my mind: “Question everything, or shup up and be a victim of authority.” The parts I was dwelling on were “question
everything” and “or shut up”. Billie Joe
Armstrong is a phenomenal song writer, but I decided to alter these lyrics
slightly, into a line that was more fitting for my current situation; Question everything
or shut up and run. The first option was
to question everything. How far have I
gone? How many miles do I have left to
go? How many miles to the next aid
station? What was my current pace? How many runners were behind me? How many were in front of me? Was I drinking
and eating enough? Can I even finish
this run? Or would I crumble again and be forced to quit? Then there was the
second option. Shut up and run. Don’t worry about how many miles you’ve covered,
how far many are left, or what your current pace is. Will I finish? Or will I collapse in a heap
on the trail or be forced to quit for timing issues? Forget about it. Don’t clutter your mind with negative
thoughts. Just keep taking deep breaths,
light steps, and keep moving forward. Focus
on what you can control right now, and just let things play out. I have always chosen the latter option during
long runs, and this race was no exception.
However, due to the length and difficultly of this race, my mental
toughness would be tested like never before.
My philosophy was to stay focused, but don’t think too much. Thinking too much could psych me out and
weaken my spirit. And if that happened,
my goose would be cooked. Question
everything or shut up and run. It had a
nice ring to it, and I kept repeating it in my head.
Rounding a corner, I came up behind a runner wearing
sandals. I was astonished that he had
been rallying along these trails with nothing but a pair of flimsy sandals, but
then I was amused. He was Travis from
the bay area and had been down a long road with running footwear. He explained that he used Vibrams for a while
but found them unsatisfactory, so he tried running with sandals. That was five years ago, and he had been
doing it ever since. After an hour-long
climb, we finally crested the hill. I
ran along a dirt path past a telephone pole that had a 2x4 piece of wood nailed
to it with “Michigan Bluff” painted in white letters. Up next was another steep descent into
Volcano Canyon followed inevitably by another tough climb up the rugged trail
back to Foresthill. “Question everything
or shut up and run” I kept telling myself.
Crossing the river in Volcano Canyon felt good this time around and I
caught up with Chris during the climb up.
He looked to be in good shape and we had a strong push together to the
halfway point of the race in Foresthill.
I had set timing goals before the race and arriving at the halfway point
at 1:35 PM, I was right on target. My
timing goal was to leave Foresthill by 1:45 PM, so I had a few minutes to kill. I was hoping to make it down to the second
turnaround point at Rucky Chucky by 6:00 PM and leave by 6:15 PM, which would
give 5 hours and 15 minutes to get to the finish line to beat the 18-hour
cutoff for the Western States 100 qualifier.
I took a seat on the curb of the elementary school parking lot. It was the first time in 8 hours that I had
sat down. I stretched for a few minutes
then headed to the aid station to refill my water bottle and camelback and wolf
down some more bananas, PB&J, and nuts.
I resumed forward progress at 1:47 PM, hoping to stick to my target
pace. The course from Foresthill traveled
about a quarter of a mile down Main street, then banked left onto California
Street. I ran down the windy street
before hitting the single track trail once again. The next three miles to the Cal1 aid station
at mile 35.5 would be all downhill, dropping about 1,300 feet into the valley. Exhaustion was again setting in, but I wasn’t
hurting too badly. I was in better shape
than last year and hoped to keep the momentum going. I had a strong section heading down to the
bottom of the switchbacks and pushed forward to the Cal1 aid station. All was going well until I hit the elevator
shaft halfway between the Cal1 and Cal2 aid stations. The elevator shaft is a section where the
trail took a steep 900 foot drop further down on some less than ideal
terrain. As I ran down this descent, my
legs began to burn from the downhill pressure.
I decided it was best to just take it easy and amble down this descent
with reserve. I was probably capable of
going faster, but the thought of blowing my quads out was becoming all too real. I didn’t want to take that kind of a gamble
right now.
At the bottom of the elevator shaft the trail rolled for
about a half a mile until I pulled into the Cal2 aid station. Here, I saw Ann again in her unicorn costume
along with the same volunteer who had helped me earlier at the Pump aid station
on my way out of Deadwood Canyon. “Hey!
We thought we’d see you coming through pretty soon” they said. I greeted them with high fives and grabbed
some snacks. After refilling my water
bottle and camelback, they sent me on my way and said they’d see me in a little
while on the return trip to the finish line.
I looked down the trail as struggling runners on their way back from the
turnaround were making their way into the aid station. It was 7 miles to the turnaround at Rucky
Chucky, so these guys were already 14 miles ahead of me, and they still had 8.5
to go. Some looked fresh, others looked
totaled. “Thank you, guys!” I said to
Ann and the rest of the volunteers. “I’ll
see you in a little while”. I took a
deep breath, trying to remain optimistic, hoping that I actually would be
passing through here later, and that I would make it by the cutoff time. From the Cal2 aid station, the trail drops
down a series of switchbacks for about a mile and a half. When I reached the bottom of the drop, about 20
minutes after leaving the aid station, I came face to face with my biggest low
point of the race. In the earlier stages
I had experienced minor episodes of self-doubt, as most runners did, but this
time things really got ugly. When I left
Cal2 and ran down the switchbacks, I watched as more struggling runners hiked
their way up. I offered words of
encouragement, but some of these folks were so spent, they couldn’t even respond
to me. All they could do was pass by
with a grunt. I myself, was completely
exhausted. Maybe I could make it to
Rucky Chucky, but how was I possibly going to make it back up these harsh
inclines in time to make the cutoff at the aid stations? And to make matters worse, right in front of
me was yet another steep uphill climb. I
put my head down and hiked up the ascent, growing angrier with each step. Halfway up, a voice behind me said something
that made me chuckle; “This is fuckin’ steep”.
My first thought was “No shit, really?” but then I laughed and turned
around. “Yes, it is” I said. Dropping back down the hill after the crest,
I saw more miserable oncoming runners, which only enhanced my doubts. This situation was becoming more hopeless
with each passing step. I was running
out of energy and these oncoming runners looked tired and haggard and they
still had to climb up to the Cal2 aid station, up the elevator shaft, and up
the final climb back to Foresthill. And
they were 10 miles ahead of me. It
seemed impossible. As the trailed rolled
along, I began yelling at myself mentally, as the negative thoughts took over. Why hadn’t I just done the 50K instead? It was going to be demoralizing to have to
tell everyone that once again, I had to drop.
The way things were going, I was certain I’d get pulled at the aid
station on the return trip for not making the cutoff time. I never learn. What would be my excuse this time? Maybe it
was time to just face reality and accept that I wasn’t ready for 100 kilometers on
this kind of terrain. Sure, I was a good
runner, but this course had 15,000 feet of elevation gain. I was in no shape to contend with another 20
miles of this run. All I could do was
keep moving forward grimly.
As I came around a turn, I saw a young man sitting on a rock
on the side of the trail. He was wrapped
in a blanket and accompanied by a couple of runners and a lady who was speaking
frantically on the phone with medical staff.
As I pulled up, they explained that he was having vision problems and
had consumed too much caffeine. I took a
look at the guy. He looked to be young,
around 19 or 20. Just then, another pair
of runners caught up. It turned out they
were both doctors in the local area and would be escorting him back to the Cal2
aid station where he would get some rest and presumably drop. He appeared dazed and confused and his eyes
wandered. “You’re going to be okay man,
hang in there” I said, giving him a thumbs up.
All he could do was look at me and smile. I continued down the trail with a new
perspective on my situation. I was in a
state of despair, but at least I was moving forward. A few minutes later, I saw Heidi and Margae making
their way back. They greeted me with
enthusiasm and informed me that I had another 2 miles to go until the
turnaround. I picked up the pace and saw
Chris and Charles making their way back as well. The narrow trail eventually gave way to a
widened fire road. I caught up to a girl
I had seen earlier in the race, who also looked to be having a tough go at
it. An oncoming runner, who I assumed
was either a friend or family member, greeted her with a hug. She was upset and almost crying, but her
friend urged her not to give up. As I
pulled up along side her, I said “you can do it”. She managed to smile, despite her grim
situation. “Thanks. I just haven’t had much time to train this
year. I had a baby a year ago”. “We got this, we’re going to make it” I
replied. We motored along and soon, the
tents of the Rucky Chucky checkpoint came into view. Running into this aid station was uplifting
and I was greeted with enthusiasm by the crowd as they rang bells and cheered. My watch read 5:50 PM; I had arrived ten
minutes ahead of my projected pace. Rucky
Chucky rested next to the banks of the American River and was one of the bigger
checkpoints along the course. Several
people were lingering around and sitting in camping chairs, drinking beer, and
cheering runners on. I hobbled up to the
food tent. “What can we get for you?” a
volunteer asked. I grabbed a couple of
pieces of cheese quesadilla, a piece of bacon, and a small handful of nuts and
sat down in an empty chair next to the tent.
It was nothing more than a standard camping chair, but it felt like the
most comfortable couch on the planet. I
sat for a few minutes eating, rehydrating, and regrouping. Rucky Chucky is at mile 47.8 in the course
and was the aid station where I was forced to drop last year due to not
arriving in time for the cutoff. I
fumbled through my pack and pulled out a 5-hour energy shot that I had brought
along in case I needed it. I opened it
up and threw it down. As I sat there
nibbling at my food and drinking, the 5-hour energy took hold, and I was slowly
coming back to life. I looked to my right
and saw Travis sitting on a rock nearby.
“Travis how are you holding up, man” I asked. “Good man! I’ve been sitting here for about
25 minutes regrouping”. Ernesto also
approached, sipping chicken broth from a paper cup. He too was looking pretty fresh. I was now feeling much better thanks to the
food and the lift from the 5-hour energy.
I stood up, topped off my water bottle, thanked the volunteers and wobbled
towards the exit. Wanting to keep pace
with my timing goals, I made sure to leave the aid station no later than 6:15
PM. I ran along the fire road, assessing
the situation. The cutoff time to be
back at Cal2 was 9:15 PM and the cutoff time to be back at Cal1 was 10:45
PM. If I missed either of those, I was
done. It was 6:17 PM, so I had a little
less than 3 hours to go 7 miles. I took
out my phone and did the math. I would
need to do 25-minute miles to make the cutoff to Cal2, then from there, 18-minute
miles to make the cutoff at Cal1. If I
made the Cal1 cutoff, they’d let me keep going.
My mind was rationalizing the irrational. My sights were no longer set on qualifying
for Western States within the 18-hour cut off.
I simply wanted to have the strength to make it to the finish line
without being pulled. My second wind was
picking up and I had broken through the mental wall that haunted me on the way
to the river. Those feelings of
hopelessness and self-doubt were replaced by feelings of determination and
hope.
The trail ran parallel to the American River and as I gained
altitude, the view got even better. Several
runners that were behind me continued coming in the opposite direction heading
for the turnaround. “Great job, you got
this!” I said to them. Some were
optimistic, others replied with “I’m so done” and “I don’t think it’s going to
happen”. I urged them to keep trying and
not to give up. I ran at a nice pace
along the rolling hills, eventually arriving at the base of the mile and a half
climb that would lead back up to Cal2.
By this time the sun had set, and I was now moving along with the power
of my headlamp and flashlight. I hiked
my way up the switchbacks, step by step, knowing that I was getting closer and
closer. The climb was tough, but I was now
in an up zone and plodded along pleasantly.
Question everything or shut up and run!
Eventually I could see the lights of the Cal2 aid station through the
trees, and after a couple more switch backs, the tents finally came into view
at the crest of the climb. “Hey, welcome
back!” the volunteers called out. “Hey
everyone!” I responded. It was a small
crowd with four people manning the aid station, and three other runners sitting
down and regrouping. I stood in place
near the tent, hands on my knees, trying to stretch my legs to avoid cramping. A woman walked up and put her hand on my
shoulder “What can we get you?” I looked up to see Ann standing next to me. “Hi Ann! Can I just get some more electrolyte
drink?” The volunteer I had seen earlier at the pump and on my way to the
turnaround filled my water bottle. She
introduced herself as Tiffany. “You’d
better get moving soon” Ann advised me as she handed me back my water
bottle. “You have to be back by 11:30 to
qualify for Western States”. “Yep” I
said. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to
be able to make it for the qualifier. My
goal was just to finish”. Ann took a
look at me. “Well, you look pretty fresh, and it looks like you still have some
energy. I definitely think you can do
it” she said. It was like time froze for
a few seconds. Here I was, standing on a
trail in the middle of nowhere in the dark, 55 miles into this run, and here
was one of the most elite ultramarathon runners on the planet telling me that
she thought I looked strong and I had what it takes to qualify for Western
States, my dream race. It was the most
euphoric and profound moment of the race.
“Thanks! I’m going to go for it”
I answered. I thanked her for her
encouragement and headed back towards the course. “I’ll see you at the finish!”
she said as I ran off into the night. My
eyes filled with tears of joy as I began the 8.5-mile rally to the finish.
Half way through the climb up the elevator shaft, I heard a
voice behind me call out. “Liam!” “Hey, who’s that?” I answered without looking
back. “It’s Travis”. He caught up and pulled alongside me. “Dude, did you see that mountain lion back
there?” “No” I answered as I laughed. “You seriously saw one?” “Yeah, it wasn’t a big one, but he was in the
trees watching us”. There were frequent
mountain lion and bear sightings out here on the Western States trail,
especially during this time of year.
Western States 100 participants run along this course in June and must
also contend with possible encounters with rattlesnakes. I had read in Scott Jurek’s memoir that at
one point, he was so in the zone during Western States, that he stepped on a
rattlesnake and didn’t even know it. Travis
kept pushing up the climb and before long, I was on my own again. There were no other runners in sight and the
next aid station was probably about a mile and a half ahead. Running along with just the power of my
flashlight and headlamp, I felt alone and vulnerable in the dark. I moved forward at a modest pace, as a few
stronger runners passed by. I hated
being passed, but it didn’t make sense to compete with others when all I was
trying to do was get to the finish line.
I began to see the lights of the Cal1 aid station through the trees in
the distance, and after a series of turns and rolling hills, I came running in.
“How are you feeling?” the small crowd
of volunteers asked. “Pretty good! Just trying to make it back in one
piece.” I paused for a moment. “Hell,
not even one piece. I’ll carry the other
pieces of me to the finish if I have to”.
The small crowd got a kick out of my feeble attempt at humor as I sat
down for one final rest before the final stretch. The finish line was just 3.5 miles away. Unfortunately, that 3.5 miles was almost
entirely uphill, climbing 1,300 feet back up to Foresthill. My watch read 10:01 PM, which was 44 minutes
ahead of the aid station cutoff time, so I was in good shape. If I could gut out those last few miles, I
was home free. The question was could I
make the 18-hour Western States cutoff? I
stood up, thanked the volunteers for being out there, and exited the final aid
station. Next stop, the finish line in
Foresthill.
Not long after leaving the aid station the climb began. The first mile was survivable but after that,
it was pure agony. I knew that if I just
kept moving I would make it, but the steep terrain compounding with the
exhaustion and soreness was pounding me into submission. My steps were labored, and I was barely able
to put one foot in front of the other.
Periodically I’d look up and shine my light on the trail, only to see
more incline ahead of me. I’d see the
lights of runners who were ahead of me and when I noticed how much higher they
were, it crushed me. The hill just kept
going on and on and on. The temptation
to stop and rest was overwhelming, but I knew that if I did so, I risked not making
the 18-hour cutoff. I just kept
moving. Coming around a corner, I saw
two lights about a hundred feet ahead.
As I approached, I saw a runner lying in the middle of the trail with
his safety runner standing over him.
Runners leaving Rucky Chucky after 6:00 PM were allowed to have a safety
runner accompany them to the finish line.
In the light of my headlamp, I could see him shivering spastically as he
lay on the trail. “He’s seizing up
pretty badly” his pacer explained. “I’m
going to push up to the finish and send back some help”. “Do you want me to stay with him?” I
offered. He assured me that I could continue,
and help would be on the way shortly.
The finish was roughly a mile and a half ahead. I looked down at the guy and told him to hang
tight, help was on the way, and he would be okay. He just looked at me like a deer in
headlights and couldn’t even articulate a response. The pacer took off running up the trail in search
of help. Sure enough, about 10 minutes
later, a rescue crew was making their way down the trail to come to his aid. I was relieved that he was going to get some
help. Things can get hairy out here in
the dark. I kept pushing along in agony. It hurt like hell, but nothing was going to
stop me. I was going to finish this damn
race. Just when I thought my body
couldn’t handle one more step of this climb, I noticed a gate up ahead. This is where the course left the trail for paved
streets, which meant it was just over a half a mile to the finish. I began running towards the gate and burst
through onto the road, chasing the 18-hour Western States cutoff. It was going to be close. I banked left on California street and ran
towards Foresthill road. When I reached
the intersection, a man with a clipboard instructed me to go right and informed
me that I had just over a quarter of a mile left and eleven minutes to make the
cutoff. Even in this weakened, fatigue
state, I could manage that! As I ran the
last hundred feet to the finish, it felt as though there was nothing else on
earth except for me and that finish line.
It felt like I was running on a cloud.
A whole year’s worth of frustration was suddenly melting away. I had displayed physical and mental strength,
experienced highs and lows, broken through the walls, and proven that I was
better than I ever thought I could be. I
was going to do it…finally! The announcer called my name out and people
screamed my name from all directions as I ran the final steps. My eyes teared up as I burst through the
finish, arms in the air, smiling ear to ear.
People were all around me giving me high fives and kudos, when Ann broke
through the crowd and gave me a big hug.
I had broken the 18-hour Western States qualifier by 8 minutes. Standing there, legs on fire, every muscle in
my bottle sore, completely exhausted and fatigued, I was the happiest man on
the planet.
I stuck around for a little bit and watched more runners
cross the finish line. Travis had
finished about twenty minutes before me and looked great. Ernesto came in few minutes after me, which
confused me because I thought he was way ahead of me. Turned out he had taken a wrong turn towards
the end and went in the wrong direction for fifteen minutes before he realized
his blunder and made a U turn. Tiffany
was also at the finish and greeted me with a hug, congratulating me on
qualifying for Western States. After
collecting my finisher swag, I walked over to a small bar next to the school to
have a celebratory beer. There were only
about a dozen people inside, a few of them runners. We high fived and congratulated each other
and when I ordered a Bud Light from the bartender, he slid it over to me and
said “it’s on the house. Congratulations”. The quarter mile walk back to my car took
forever but I didn’t care. I was so
hopped up on endorphins I barely felt the pain in my legs. I decided not to eat that night after the
race. It was well past midnight, I
wasn’t that hungry, and I knew that eating at that hour would throw my
digestive system into disarray. Not that
it wasn’t thrown off already by nearly 18 hours of continuous running, but why
make it worse. After a hot shower in my
hotel room, I dropped into bed like a sack of potatoes and promptly passed out.
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