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!
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