A Little Cool Moon With Some Golden State

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!  

Identifying the Problem

In Dean Karnazes' latest book "A Runner's High" he talks about a conversation he had with Billy Yang at the start line of the 2018 Bishop High Sierra Ultras.  Dean was signed up for the 100K, and asked Billy if he was running the 100K as well.  Billy's response was "no way, dude.  I'm running the 50K.  I haven't been training.  I know better".  My problem at this year's Canyons 100K was that I didn't know better until after the race was over.  Unfortunately, I dropped out of Canyons for the second year in a row on April 27th, 2024.  My race came to an end at the Driver's Flat aid station at mile forty-eight after I missed the cutoff by fifteen minutes.  It had been a long ass day.  I was disappointed in the result, but I was still grateful for the experience, and the exciting day I had out there.  

Just like my prior DNF's there was a lesson to be learned.  This year, early on, everything seemed to be working in my favor.  I drove out to Auburn early on Friday morning and worked all day out of a coffee shop before signing off at 3:00 PM to go pick up my bib at the pre-race expo in downtown.  After that, I made a run to Target to get some supplies, and made a stop for some food, before checking into my hotel in Rocklin.  I had plenty of time to myself to get some rest before having to wake up at 2:00 AM to get ready.  I got some decent sleep, and felt pretty awake when my alarm went off.  By 3:30 AM, I was on a shuttle bus at Overlook Park that was bound for the start line at China Wall, just outside of Foresthill.  This year, the race started where the 2022 race finished, and we were essentially going to be running the 2022 course in reverse, finishing in downtown Auburn.  It was a pleasant ride out to China Wall.  The ride was just like the early years when the race started and finished at the Old Foresthill Elementary School.  It was pitch black and dead quiet.  We drove past darkened houses and a few cars parked off to the side of the road near the overlook.  I stared out the window as a thick fog rested in valley of the foothills.  The air outside was cool and crisp, and the sky was clear.  It felt energizing.

Before long, we arrived at China Wall, and the race kicked off at 5:00 AM.  I started off feeling good.  The weather felt nice, my backpack felt just right from a weight standpoint, and the crowd was giving off good vibes.  We had a steady downhill for several miles, and eventually climbed up to Deadwood, to the first aid station, ten miles in.  The volunteers were very helpful, including my friend Kaycee, who I had seen working aid stations at countless other races in the area.  Pretty soon, we were descending into Deadwood Canyon down to the swinging bridge.  It's a notoriously steep descent, and after we turned around at the swinging bridge at the bottom of the canyon, it was an 1,800 foot climb in 1.8 miles back up to Devil's Thumb.  On the way up, I began chatting with a couple who introduced themselves as Bill and Mel.  They were from Dana Point, an area not too far from where Samantha, Aidan, and I are planning to move this fall.  We chatted about all kinds of stuff, including kids, life in Orange County, how freaking hard this race was, our jobs, etc.  It's always cool meeting new people during these events and being able to have a distraction from the brutality of the course with some engaging conversation.  Even though it was challenging, this section is my favorite part of the Canyons course.  There was no shortage of beautiful views of green foothills and snowy mountains in the distance, and tall conifer trees lined portions of the path.  Bill, Mel, and I left the aid station at Deadwood together and hung with each other during the four-mile plunge into El Dorado Canyon.  I had a nice cadence going, so when we arrived at the bottom of the canyon, I powered up the climb to Michigan Bluff while Bill and Mel took some pictures by the river.  During the 2,000-foot climb up to Michigan Bluff there was a guy hiking behind me.  I asked him if he wanted to pass, but he said I had a good pace going, so no need to let him by.  "Okay cool" I said.  "I'm glad you don't mind staring at my butt for a couple of miles".  "Nah, man" he responded.  "I'm checking out your shredded calves"  we both had a good laugh at that one.  He was Brandon from Cupertino, and coincidentally enough, he also had a toddler son named Aidan, although spelled differently.  

At the top of the climb, I rolled into the aid station at Michigan Bluff with an hour to spare before the cutoff time.  I recognized another familiar face, a local named Steph, who was offering runners an ice soak on their way out of the aid station.  I had met Steph's sister in our local running group in Mountain View, and Steph and had come out to run with us when she visited Silicon Valley.  Most of the aid station volunteers at these races are local runners living in the Auburn area, and they often come together as a community to make the race experience enjoyable for runners.  That's really cool to me.  Although I've paced a few half marathons through Beast Pacing over the years, and I've volunteered at a few marathon expos, I have yet to volunteer at an ultramarathon aid station.  I need to do that sometime.  I said hey to Steph, thanked her for coming out to support us, and headed out towards the halfway point in Foresthill.  Mel and Bill had also caught up with me at Michigan Bluff, and about a mile down the trail towards Foresthill, the pushed onward, and I told them I'd hopefully see them later.  After another twisting plunge into Volcano Canyon, I crossed the creek, climbed up to the main road, and arrived in Foresthill at about 1:30 PM.  I was still feeling good, and it was a relief knowing that I was halfway through the race and the hardest section was now behind me.  The one thing that I found somewhat troubling was that I arrived in Foresthill with only forty-five minutes to spare before the cutoff time.  I was about thirty minutes behind where I wanted to be, but I tried to not let the anxiety get to me.  I sat down for a few minutes, freshened up, and left Foresthill thirty minutes before the cutoff time.

As I made my way down into the valley along the Western States Trail, I began to slowly deteriorate.  In 2021, the Mosquito Fire had burned a significant portion of this land, including many of the trees, so this section of the trail was more exposed than it had been in the past years.  The weather was great, much cooler than last year, but the afternoon California sun was still beaming strong.  When I eventually arrived at the Cal2 aid station at mile thirty-eight, I was tired, but still focused on keeping moving.  Another runner who came in after me was expressing his concern over not being able to make the next cutoff at Driver's Flat.  We had to be there by 7:45 PM to stay in the race, which was about three hours and twenty minutes away.  "Don't worry man" another runner told him.  "If you leave within the next few minutes, you just have to do twenty-minute miles, and you'll make it".  With that in mind, I took off from the aid station, and tried to take advantage of the two-mile downhill section that followed.  I had been on this course enough times that I knew what was next after that two-mile downhill: a steep climb up to Ford's Bar.  That climb was brutal, and depleted a significant amount of the energy I had left, but I made it to the top, and continued along the rolling hills.  As the miles carried on, my energy levels plummeted.  My running was reduced to shuffling, and when I finally arrived at Rucky Chucky, mile forty-six, the wheels totally fell off the bus.  I had no more energy left, and my legs felt like they had 200-pound weights attached to them.  I felt completely drained, and it became a struggle to move forward at even a twenty-minute-per-mile pace.  I stopped at a picnic table near the river and sat down to try to regroup.  Another runner named Jeremy sat with me for a few minutes and gave me some words of encouragement before moving on.  I sat there for probably twenty minutes trying to regain some of my energy, but the all this break was doing for me was providing me relief from the physical beating of forty-six miles, rather than restoring my energy.  I only had about another two miles to the next aid station at Driver's Flat, but unfortunately, it was all uphill on a dirt road.  As I sat there and did the "trail math" so to speak, it became pretty clear to me that my race would be coming to an end at the next aid station.  

When I finally started moving again, I had thirty minutes to get to Driver's Flat.  Normally I could do two miles in thirty minutes easily, even on an uphill section, but not today.  It simply wasn't going to happen.  I had very little energy left, and I couldn't even run anymore at this point.  All I could do was march forward.  I huffed and puffed up the climb, and finally arrived at 8:00 PM, fifteen minutes after the cutoff time.  I greeted the volunteers.  They were encouraging and asked me if I needed anything before getting on the shuttle back to Overlook Park.  "No thanks, not unless you can fix my damaged ego" I responded jokingly.  The volunteer put his hand on my shoulder and said "look at me".  So, I did.  "You did some amazing things today.  Don't worry, there is always next time".  He was being sincere, and I appreciated his compassion.  "Thanks man, that's much appreciated.  Thanks for being out here." I said with a smile.  I hopped onto the shuttle, and an hour later I was back at my hotel room ready to take a shower and pack it in for the night.  I got some good sleep, and the next morning I checked out of the hotel, had a nice hot breakfast at Granite Rock Grill, and headed home to be with Samantha and my little dude.  

During the drive back to Silicon Valley, I had a lot of time to think.  I spent the drive home reflecting on the events of the prior day.  Most of the thoughts were positive, but I wasn't going to ignore the elephant in the room.  The elephant in the room was the fact that I dropped out of this race two years in a row.  When I dropped last year, I blamed it on the unusually hot weather.  But after dropping out this year, I was beginning to think that the heat was likely only part of the issue last year.  I spent quite a bit of time on the way home thinking about what caused me to drop out again.  I needed to identify the problem because something was clearly off.  It became increasingly obvious to me.  The problem was I hadn't put in enough training.  I thought back to the years that I finished the race and what I had done differently back then.  Back then I was doing more races and putting in more miles.  Over the last couple of years after Aidan was born, my running has slowed down compared to the pre-Aidan days.  I thought about how many miles I had put in leading up to the 2023 and 2024 Canyons 100K.  It wasn't enough, and that's why I ran out of energy at the forty-eight mile mark.  With the volume of training that I've been putting in these days, I can get through a 50K fairly easily, and I can grind my way through a 50-miler if there's a generous cutoff time.  But a 100K race? Namely, the Canyons 100K?  Nope.  I just haven't been putting in the proper miles.  With my current training volume, fifty miles is probably about the maximum I can go.  If Canyons had been a 50-miler with a generous cutoff, I would have had it in the bag.  I could have rolled into Driver's Flat and gone another two miles to the finish line, even if it was slow and painful.  But at that moment, with my lack of training, I was in no condition to go another fifteen miles.  I typically go into races a little undertrained, but for the last two years, I simply had not put in enough volume.  There's no running a 100K race without having paid your dues.  It certainly doesn't mean I'm not capable of finishing a 100K.  I've finished that distance before.  But the times I've finished it, I've trained properly.  I'm not giving up on Canyons, or the 100K distance, but if I sign up for Canyons next year, I need to make sure I put in the proper training.  No more half-assing it.  Will I be able to put in enough training to finish Canyons next year?  Who knows.  It all depends on what life will throw at me over the next year.  We'll just have to wait and see, but I sure as hell will do my best.  If I can't put in the proper training next year, I'll take Billy Yang's approach, and sign up for 50Ks and 50-milers, because hopefully I'll know better, like he did.  In the meantime, I feel like I have some unfinished business out there on the trail, so I recently signed up for the Cool Moon Trail 50-miler in Cool, California on June 1st.  I know nothing is guaranteed, but I'm hoping I'll have that one in the bag so I can have some redemption.

Hey! Its Been A While

I know it's been several months since I last wrote a blog post.  But it wasn't until after I typed "blogger" into my search bar on Google Chrome and nothing popped up in my history, that it dawned on me how long its been since I've visited this website and written a piece.  So, here I am!  Hey, world.  It's been a while and it's good to be back.  The last time I wrote anything on here was when I told the story of my experience running the Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K in July of last year, when it was 103 degrees Fahrenheit up in McCloud.  That was an incredible day, and I loved it.  But I suck at running in heat.  And on that day, I was forced to face my demons point blank.  Fortunately, I won the fight, and I crossed the finish line without dying, although it took a while.

The last nine months have been pretty exciting.  Shortly after publishing my last post about the Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K, I went to work on writing a book.  It was something that I had wanted to do for quite a while, and it seemed like a great time to knock it out.  I didn't go into it with a lot of expectations, and I just started writing.  I took various stories from these blogs, re-wrote them to make them fit into the narrative of the story, and wrote a bunch of new material as well.  Keeping in mind that I also had to be a husband, a dad, and devote adequate time to my career, I tried my best to block off certain times of each day to write.  It would write for roughly an hour to an hour and a half each day.  The book came together over a period of about three and a half months.  After I edited it and created the front and back covers, I was ready to put it out there.  The only remaining issue was how I was going to put it out there.  The traditional path that most people would follow is to write a manuscript and submit it to several publishers.  Some people even hire an agent to submit their manuscript to publishers on their behalf.  If a publisher likes it, they'll decide that they want to market it and put it out, and they'll throw together a contract for the writer to sign.  This usually results in an advance payment to the writer, and if the book doesn't sell the agreed upon number of copies, or if the writer doesn't fulfill their obligation, the advance payment needs to be returned, and the deal is off.  It all sounds good on paper, but that wasn't the route I wanted to take.  I knew I had something special.  I knew I had a good story to tell.  Why should I wait around for some big shot publisher to decide they like it and they want to put it out?  Why should I have them tell me "well, it'll be easier to market this book if you change this or take out that".  The hell with that.  There was nothing stopping me from becoming a business man and jumping in there by putting it out myself.  And that's exactly what I did.  I wrote the whole thing out on a massive Microsoft Word document, uploaded it to Barnes and Noble press, and added my artwork for the cover and back cover.  The first copies were delivered in December of 2023, but the formatting was a little misaligned, so I wasn't ready to start promoting it yet.  I fixed the formatting issues, and by January of 2024, my book, Running Rebel, was ready to make it's debut.  I started promoting on social media and before I knew it, boxes of books were arriving at our apartment, and I was selling them and shipping them out.  I had all kinds of people reaching out to me who wanted to read my story.  My current friends, old friends, family members, co-workers, former co-workers, even people from high school that I hadn't heard from in twenty years.

Getting my book out there and into the hands of people was a really cool feeling.  The feedback I received from readers was a powerful tonic.  I wanted to inspire runners, and non-runners alike.  I didn't want to convey the message that people should run and that will make their lives more vibrant.  I wanted to inspire people to follow their dreams and do things that brought them joy and peace.  My book isn't a guide on how to become an untouchable endurance athlete.  It doesn't tell people what to eat, how they should train, or what kind of gear they should use.  It's a story about my childhood, the difficulties I had to overcome, how skiing and snowboarding brought me a better quality of life as a teenager, and how running did the same for me in my adult life.  The book has been out for almost four months now, and it's been an exciting journey.  At some point I'll likely record an audio book, get written copies for sale on Amazon, and market the book in other ways than just through social media stories.  Maybe at some point it will catch the attention of a publisher, but I certainly don't plan on giving up my accounting career.  I don't want to be a full time writer, so I don't plan on that ever happening.  My book sales are technically a business that generates a small profit, but it's a very grass roots operation, at least for now.  The profit that I made from the first batch of books I sold was spent on a nice Valentine's Day dinner with Samantha.  Who knows what kind of adventures this book will take me on, but for now, it's a fun side project that brings me a small passive income.

Since my last blog post was written, Aidan has evolved from a crawling infant to a full on toddler whose greatest joys in life are running around our apartment, climbing on things he shouldn't, playing on the playground, being read to, eating, and sleeping.  He loves to laugh and smile, and it seems like he has a genuine appreciation for the outdoors.  We've taken him on a few trips to the mountains over the last several months, and he's always curious and wanting to explore when he's out in nature.  He's a great eater and will generally eat anything we put in front of him, including chicken tikka masala, Thai curry, and a wide variety of fruit.  We're trying to work on vegetables, but that's been more of a challenge.  Being a dad continues to be a big part of my identity and one of the coolest experiences of my life.  I took a quick trip back home to Michigan in mid-February.  It was fun to catch up with family and hang out in my hometown for a few days, and my role at work has continued to evolve, which is always exciting.

Now let's talk running.  I haven't run any ultramarathons since the Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K last July, but I'm still getting ample miles in.  On a Friday evening in mid-October, I left my home in Sunnyvale and drove seven hours down to Big Bear Lake.  By the time I arrived in the middle of the night, the Kodiak Ultramarathons by UTMB were in full swing.  I had been in contact with my good friends at Anytime Runners, a local running group in Los Angeles.  A friend of theirs's, Jose, was running the 100-miler, and they offered me the role of pacing him the last thirty-three miles.  I jumped at the opportunity, and I was beyond excited to spend some time in the mountains of Southern California with my old friends and meet new people.  Jose and I had never met prior to my arrival in Big Bear, except for a thirty-minute video call earlier in the week to go over logistics.  When I arrived in the wilderness in the dead of night, it was similar to my experience pacing JC at the same race in 2018.  I parked near the Sugarloaf Mountain aid station at mile sixty-seven, met up with my friends Sheny and Cori, the leaders of Anytime Runners, and took a three-hour nap in the back of my car while I awaited Jose's arrival.  He eventually made his way into the aid station, and we hit the trail together at around 2:00 AM and began the long climb up to the summit of Sugarloaf Mountain.  We rallied through the night and into the next day, climbed and descended several prominent mountains in the area, and Jose crossed the finish line after thirty-four hours and thirty-three minutes on Saturday evening.  We had plenty of time on the trail to get to know each other, and he turned out to be a great guy.  He showcased impressive grit and determination, and nailed his first 100-mile race.  Cori, Sheny, Lisa, Angelica, and several other members of Anytime Runners did a great job crewing for him and taking care of him at the aid stations.  I was proud of him and it was a pleasure to be a part of his journey.  

In January, I ran a half marathon with my good buddy Chris down in San Juan Bautista.  When I arrived down there, I popped into a local bakery for some pre-race doughnuts and coffee.  I found Chris at the race day registration area near the start line.  Normally I enjoy running alone, but when he said he was shooting for a two-hour finish we decided to run together.  Two hours sounded like a nice pace to me, and I felt like it would be fun to change things up by running with someone.  We stayed together throughout the entire race, and even though we had hung out during the holidays at some gatherings, it was nice to chat and catch up.  About five weeks later, I was supposed to run the Way Too Cool 50K, but it was cancelled last minute due to inclement weather that involved sixty mile-per-hour winds.  In light of the cancelled race, I decided to run a homemade solo half marathon on the Stevens Creek and Bay Trails in Mountain View.  On a Friday night in late March, I embarked on my traditional annual solo through-the-night 50K run through Lake Tahoe.  I left the Bay Area at 9:00 PM, arrived in Tahoe City at 1:00 AM, and ran through the night along highway 89.  As usual, I was lit up like a running Christmas tree to avoid getting hit by a car.  It was a beautiful night, and although I was tired during those last few miles, I made it the whole fifty kilometers on my own.  I took a nap in my car in a McDonald's parking lot in Truckee, and after ordering some hash brows, sausage burritos, and a piping hot cup of McD's coffee at the drive-thru, I headed home to be with Samantha and Aidan.  I also ran a couple of local races in a dog costume to promote Samantha's pet care business, and most recently, I paced the two-hour group at the Run Rocklin Half Marathon, which is always a lot of fun.  It's always cool to help runners achieve their goals. 

All of this recent activity will lead up to a race that has become the de facto centerpiece of my annual running calendar for the last several years: The Canyons 100K.  Just like every other year that I've done this race, I'm feeling cautiously optimistic.  I've finished the race three times and dropped out three times, so anything can happen.  The weather was brutal last year, and I had to drop out at mile forty after the intense heat took all the life out of me.  The forecast is calling for much cooler temperatures this year, and I like to think that my training has been pretty adequate, so I'm looking forward to heading back to Auburn this coming weekend.  Unlike last year when I had Samantha and Aidan with me, and I ran with my buddy Arjun for part of the race, I will be going at it alone this year.  We'll also be running a different course, starting at China Wall in Foresthill, and finishing in downtown Auburn.  A lot can happen in sixty-two miles.  It's not a sprint, or even a marathon.  It's a journey.  It's a journey that involves lots of highs and lows, trips to the pain cave, pushing the body and mind to unthinkable limits, and sometimes moments where it almost feels like I'm talking to God.  Not everything will go right on race day.  That is to be expected.  But I'm hoping that I will have the strength to push through the challenges and get to the finish line in once piece.  Even if I have to drop out, it will still be a memorable experience.  It always is.  That race course has seen me at my best and at my worst, and regardless of the outcome, it's always an adventure.  Let's see what the 2024 Canyons 100K has to offer.  I'm looking forward to having a good story to tell afterwards.     

         

      

 

Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K Part 2: Milk Was A Bad Choice

                                              The race start/finish line at the Bartle trailhead

The pack quickly broke off into smaller groups as we ran into the forest back towards McCloud.  The Great Shasta Rail Trail measures eighty miles total in length and connects McCloud at one end with the town of Burney at the other.  The start of the race was roughly halfway between the two towns.  Unlike most of the other ultramarathons I've run in California, which include single track trail with rocks and tree roots, today's trail was roughly eight feet wide, smooth, and well maintained.  It reminded me a lot of the Badger 50-Miler put on by Ten Junk Miles, which I ran in the summer of 2021.  I had a nice cadence going in the early miles and hung with a small group of two other runners.  They were Alan from Redding and Kari from Klamath Falls, Oregon.  The three of us ran together for a while and talked about all kinds of things.  It almost felt like I was going for a morning run through the wilderness with two new friends I had just met.  After we passed through the first aid station our group broke off.  Kari pulled ahead, Alan was between Kari and I, and I hung back, a hundred or so feet behind Alan.  We had twelve hours to get to the finish line, plenty of time.  It was already starting to get warm out and I didn't want to risk burning myself out, so I kept my pace steady.  

I had gone out shirtless because I knew I was going to warm up quickly, which worked well for me for the first ten miles.  At that point, even though it was still pretty early in the morning, the wilderness was warming up and I could feel the hot sun on my back.  My shoulders began to sting a little, so I decided it was a good time to put my shirt on.  I hopped off to the side of the trail, dropped my handheld water bottles to the ground, unzipped my fanny pack, and pulled out a long sleeve running shirt.  I figured I would need it at some point, so it was strategically folded, rolled up, and tucked away.  I never in a hundred years thought that I would find myself wearing a long sleeve shirt while running an ultra in the middle of the summer, but I also needed to protect my skin from the sun.  Oddly, as soon as I put my shirt on, I felt cooler.  It made sense because the material was shielding my bare skin from the sun, but it still just seemed bizarre to run in heat with long sleeves.  I progressed onward.  The path was pretty straight forward except for a few gradual directional changes here and there.  There were also no major climbs, just gradual inclines and downhills.  Every once in a while, I'd come to an intersection with a remote back country road.  The entire course was lined with tall pine trees on either side and we were treated to a view of Mount Shasta shortly before the turnaround point.  

I stayed within eyesight of Alan and Kari and the three of us reached the aid station at the turnaround point at roughly the same time.  The aid stations were set up in remote areas of the Shasta-Trinity National Forest and were being worked mostly by Jen's family and friends.  They had plenty of provisions and good enthusiasm to keep us going.  After we turned around, Alan and I ran together for a short while again until he pulled ahead.  Now we were running towards the sun, which made things more challenging.  I took my backwards hat off and rotated it forward to shield the sun from my face.  At the halfway point of the race my stride had slowed down, but I was still moving.  I felt tired, but not overheated.  At this point I began seeing the four runners who were behind me coming the other way.  I had only met one of them before the race, Jessica, who was at the back of the pack.  She had also come down from Klamath Falls, Oregon and was looking for redemption after DNFing her first 50K about a month ago.  She looked pretty solid and I offered words of encouragement as I passed by.  When I rolled into the aid station at mile nineteen, my running had become pretty sluggish.  I was glad to have made it to the next milestone.  By the time I had arrived, the same volunteers at the 50K turnaround point six miles back had packed up that aid station and made their way over here, which was impressive.  The temperature was probably around 90 degrees at this point and I was feeling the heat.  I had some food, filled my hat with ice, and placed it back on my head.  That proved to be a good move and I instantly began to cool down.  Even though the ice had put some life back in me, I decided to walk instead of run when I left the aid station.  I needed to regroup a little.  

                                                          The world's prettiest treadmill

The next six miles were a combination of running and walking.  There was now a considerable distance between Alan and I, along with the people behind me.  I didn't see another runner for quite a while.  The trail was completely straight and stretched out in front of me for miles.  It dissected the wilderness like the space between a loaf of bread that had been sliced in half.  Before the race I overheard one of the runners who was from the area, refer to this trail as the world's prettiest treadmill.  I was starting to get that feeling as well.  There was one section with a down tree where we had to veer off course, but other than that, it was very straight forward.  It was repetitive, but also beautiful and majestic.  I was staying hydrated and had peed a couple of times, which was a good sign, but most of the course was pretty exposed except for a few stretches of shade here and there.  It was becoming hard to stay cool.  As I approached the next aid station at the race start line, I saw Jen standing by the trail in the distance waving to me.  I waved back and threw my arms in the air.  Even though by this point the sun had parched the hell out me, I was enjoying myself and tried to convey that message from a distance.  Throwing my arms in the air was the best way I knew how.  When I arrived at the aid station it was 12:20 PM.  I was happy to be there, but I was completely exhausted and overheated.  Even doing a brisk walk at this point was challenging.  When Jen asked me how I was feeling I replied with a chuckle and a smile "I feel like death, but I'm having a lot of fun".  She offered me a seat in a camping chair underneath the canvas tent.  Man, it felt good to finally sit down out of the sun.  Jen poured a bunch of ice down the back of my shirt.  This sounds more like a prank that you'd play on someone at a summer barbeque, but after you've run twenty-five miles in the heat, it feels amazing.  I took some deep breaths, drank some water, and tried to pull myself together.  Talking with the aid station crew helped lift me up as well.  I got the unfortunate news that Jessica had dropped.  She ran out of water, succumbed to the intense heat, and couldn't go on.  She got a ride back to the start line from an aid station volunteer, and I noticed that her car was gone, so she had already hit the road back to Oregon.  I felt bad.  She came out here hoping for redemption, but had to go home with a second DNF.  I hoped that she wouldn't give up and would keep trying.  

After ten minutes in the chair I felt better and I prepared to head out.  The final six mile stretch was an out and back in the opposite direction, which would bring me back here to the finish line.  I walked the whole damn thing solo.  It was all I could do to keep moving forward.  I tried to run a few times, but each time, I would make it about twenty steps before I nearly puked from heat related nausea.  Nobody wants to be vomit boy or vomit girl.  It happens sometimes, and that's totally okay.  But the thought of puking on the trail in this heat just because I wanted to run instead of walk didn't sound too appealing.  When I arrived at the aid station at the turnaround point, Christy was in her truck on the trail side blaring dance music.  When she saw me approaching, she turned the music down, jumped out of her truck, and walked over to the tent.  Christy and Jen's young son Kyle were the only two volunteers working the aid station.  They filled my water bottle with fresh, ice cold water and gave me a healthy dose of psychological motivation while I rested in a camping chair again.  A few minutes later I was back on the trail.  Those last three miles were like a death march.  I laughed to myself as I thought about the infamous scene in Anchorman:  "It's so damn hot!  Milk was a bad choice".  I hear you Ron.  The heat was sweltering and I was moving slowly, but mentally I felt great.  I knew that at this point I had this race in the bag.  All I had to do was keep pushing a little longer.  When the tents at the finish finally came into view I really wanted to run, but my body said "no way dude".  I hiked it in and threw my exhausted arms in the air as I walked briskly across the finish line.  The small crowd clapped, cheered, and rang bells.  My finish time was eight hours and six minutes.  Certainly not the time I wanted when I signed up three months ago, but given today's circumstances, I was happy with it.  Within the next thirty minutes, three more runners finished behind me, so I had come in fifth out of eight 50K finishers.  Kari and Alan had finished long ago and had taken off at this point.  What an awesome day it had been!  Jen put on a great race, especially for a first time and it was really cool to have her family, including her kids out there volunteering.  Christy and the other volunteers took good care of us, and I finally got a chance to meet and chat with the other 50K runners that came in after me as we all sat around recovering at the finish line.  Barbara and Tim, the last two finishers, were both in their seventies.  I can only hope that I'm still doing this when I'm their age.  They were awesome.

It was a long rally to get home that night.  I pulled over and took a nap for about forty-five minutes, but I was mostly riding on the energy that this weekend had given off.  It felt incredible to redeem myself after the heat forced me to drop out of Canyons a few months prior.  I found out that the temperature was 103 degrees when I crossed the finish line shortly before 3:00 PM.  And I felt every bit of it the whole way.  It was exactly how I expected it to feel going into the race, but the question I had was could I overcome my weakness and get to the finish line?  I had my answer now and it was the answer I was looking for.  I confronted my weakness for running in heat and gave it a good kick in the nuts.  There was still work to be done, but I felt like it was a big step forward.  The high would stay with me for several more days, but at that moment I wanted nothing more than to just get home and be with Sam and Aidan.       

      

                                                                      Finish line photo

Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K Part 1: Good Vibes In McCloud

Sunrise in McCloud on race morning

It was approaching 10:00 PM when I exited the 5 Freeway and found myself traveling along a dark, winding road through rural Siskiyou County.  I admired the tall pine trees that lined both sides of the road, but all I could see in front of me beyond the beams of my bright headlights was blackness.  This remote road would eventually lead me to my destination of McCloud, California.  Even though I had been on the road for the last five and a half hours, I hardly felt tired.  A sense of excitement was coursing through my veins.  I was happy to be up here.  This is a really beautiful part of California, an area that I feel is somewhat of a hidden gem within the Golden State.  Definitely a pretty awesome place to run an ultra.  I was stoked for tomorrow morning's Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K.  It was going to be great to get back out there in nature once again for another ultramarathon journey and test my physical and psychological strength.  And man, did I have my work cut out for me this time.  Compared to some other races I've done, the course was going to be relatively flat and gentle.  But the high temperature was forecasted to be 104 degrees Fahrenheit.  That's pretty damn hot.  Not an ideal temperature for a race, especially for someone like me who fares better running in cold weather.  If I had a choice between doing a race in 100 degree weather vs. 10 degree weather, I'd take the 10 degrees, no questions asked.  But on race day, all I can do is play the cards I'm dealt and make the best of it.  Attitude is everything.  If the forecast for tomorrow was accurate, this would be the hottest ultramarathon I've ever run.  My weakness for running in heat would be tested like never before, but I was up for the challenge.   

When I rolled into McCloud shortly after 10:15 PM, the town was quiet.  I turned off highway 89, where I found a liquor store, a gas station, and a restaurant, all of which were closed for the night.  I drove past what looked like a community center, and I saw a door open to the building with a bar inside.  I slowed down and noticed about six or seven people at the bar.  I thought it would be fun to go in for a few minutes, have a beer, and chat with some locals before turning in for the night, so I parked my car nearby and walked over.  When I got there, I saw an older guy standing outside having a cigarette.  "Hey, is this place still open, or are they getting ready to close down for the night?" I inquired.  This guy looked like the kind of guy you'd see as an extra in the movie Napoleon Dynamite.  He had the rugged, country guy image, like he'd been living in McCloud for decades.  He seemed intrigued by my presence and exhaled smoke as he answered me.  "Well, it'll probably be open for a little while longer, but it's only for veterans." I noticed a sign on the building and it dawned on me that this was the American Legion Hall of McCloud.  "Ah, okay, cool.  I'm not a veteran, but hats off to you guys, thanks for serving"  I said with a smile.  I started to walk back towards my car when the guy spoke again.  "You know what? Come on in.  I'll sign you in as a guest.  Just be respectful."  I thought that really cool of him to do that.  Here I was, just this guy in his late thirties who rolled into this small town from Silicon Valley wearing sandals, sweatpants, a "Keep Tahoe Blue" T-shirt, and a backwards baseball hat, with no military service to speak of.  The guy could have easily turned me away, but he didn't.  His kind gesture gave me a good feeling inside.     

I spent the next forty-five minutes chatting with local men and women who served our country.  The guy who signed me in had served in Vietnam, along with most of the other folks inside.  The only other guys in there who were even close to my age where the members of the band who were playing earlier in the evening.  I had a good time sipping my Pabst Blue Ribbon and having cool conversations.  Everyone was in awe of what I was going to be doing the next morning.  Needless to say, they had a lot of questions.  "How long will that take?  Where is this happening?  Will you be able to rest? It's going to be 104 degrees tomorrow, you're going to run thirty-one miles?!".  The older folks exchanged some different opinions with each other on the current politics of the United States.  Siskiyou County, although mostly Republican, has a pretty sizable Democrat leaning population.  Having disagreements over our country's current policies was a pretty normal thing, according to the bartender.  The nice thing about it was it didn't get nasty.  I admired the fact that these guys could have these conversations without being insulting and hateful towards each other.  There will be a whole other blog post on this topic at some point, but for now, we'll focus on the Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K.  How did the race go?  Well, I finished.  The heat took a lot out of me, but I made it to the finish line within the cut off time.  That's how it went physically.  Psychologically, it felt exhilarating.  After I left the American Legion Hall, I parked my car on a residential street in McCloud near a school.  I folded down my back seats, rolled out my sleeping pad and sleeping bag, and got a fairly decent night's sleep in the back of my car.  The next morning I was up at 5:00 AM.  The first rays of sunlight were lighting up the eastern skyline, and I admired the view as I stood outside and brushed my teeth.  The faint sunlight was lighting up the slopes of Mount Shasta which towered over McCloud to the North.  As I made the twenty minute drive to the start line, I felt excited and ready, but very at peace.  Even though it was for a short time before I had to go to bed, I had a good time hanging with the locals the night before.  Also the last text that Sam and I exchanged before I fell asleep was that she and Aidan loved me and were wishing me good luck.  It's always good to have my head in the right place before an ultra. 

                                 American Legion Hall where the guys invited me to have a beer

The ride to the start line was a straight shot east on highway 89 for several miles before I made a left onto a remote road and drove about another mile before the start line came into view.  The Bartle trailhead entrance to the Great Shasta Rail Trail was decked out with two porta-potties and a couple of canvas tents.  Only a few cars were there, and I was one of the first runners to arrive.  This was the first year this event was being held and we were looking at a pretty small crowd.  There were going to be eight other people running the 50K with me, six people running the 30K, and about forty people running the 10K.  The 10K course would be a 5K out and back, and the 30K and 50K courses would follow an out and back one way and a shorter out and back the other way.  I liked the idea of having a smaller more intimate race because I felt like I could get to know the race staff, volunteers, and other runners better.  I asked Jen, the race director, how she was feeling as I collected my race bib and finisher's shirt.  She was going on one hour of sleep.  Being a race director is a lot of work, even for a small event.  All of the logistics and coordinating can be very draining, especially when people have families to care for and full time jobs.  It's always important to show thanks and gratitude to race directors.  They go through a lot to make these events happen.  During that first year, most ultramarathons essentially operate at a loss or they're a financial break even at best.  Assuming the race occurs annually, it usually takes a couple of years for the race to build momentum before race directors are making any kind of profit.  They mostly do it because they love the sport, not so much for the financial benefit.  

The small crowd of 30K and 50K runners gathered in a circle while Jen gave us a pre-race briefing.  The 10K wouldn't be starting for another hour, so for now it was just the fifteen or so of us.  The 50K runners would be heading out with the 30K runners on the same path, we would turn around at the aid station at the twelve and a half mile mark, make our way back here, then do the 10K out and back in the other direction.  The weather felt nice at the moment, a cool 57 degrees, with a sunny, cloudless sky.  But it was going to get brutally hot.  The forecast was still triple digit heat, it hadn't changed since yesterday.  Not that I expected it to change, but I was kind of hoping that by some miracle, the weather forecast from yesterday would be way off and it would actually only be 85 degrees today.  Dream on.  I didn't, however, allow the intimidating weather forecast to break my spirit.  I had good vibes in my head and I was enjoying this mini weekend running trip to McCloud so far.  However hot the weather would be today, I would embrace the conditions.  I really had no other choice except for a DNS (Did Not Start), which wasn't an option.  I would simply do my best today and enjoy every minute of this adventure that I could.  With two minutes left until the start of the race, I ran over to my car, took my shirt off, and showered myself with sunscreen.  We gathered in front of the trail entrance and Christy, one of the aid station captains, counted backwards from ten.  When she reached zero, she sounded a toy siren over a megaphone, and the race was on.  I clapped my hands in excitement, and us runners dashed down the trail, into the wild. 

Onward And Upward

Whenever I drop out of a race I try to give myself some compassion and understanding.  It's happened three times since I've started running ultramarathons, and ironically, all three of my DNFs have been the same race, just different years: The Canyons 100K in 2017, 2019, and 2023.  The first time was hard to digest.  I took it hard because it was the first time, and only my second ultra.  The last two have been easier to wrap my head around because I have more of a running resume these days.  No matter the circumstances or how many times it happens, it's important to not beat myself up over it.  After all, even elite ultramarathon runners drop out of races.  Camille Herron, who holds the world record for the fastest one-hundred mile run, dropped out of Western States this year just beyond the halfway point.  Hayden Hawks, the guy who won Western States in 2022 also dropped this year.  Brittany Peterson, another elite runner, dropped out of Canyons in 2022.  It's part of the sport.  But anyone who has DNFed a race knows the feeling of not being truly satisfied.  I don't want to speak for everyone, but even when I gave it my best effort and there were factors beyond my control, there's always that subtle gloomy feeling that I was robbed of having that magical moment of crossing the finish line and celebrating the journey.  

The days and weeks after Canyons 2023 I thought about things a lot.  Not only did I not get the satisfaction of crossing the finish line, but I was faced with the reality that I was not going to be able to enter into the Western States lottery for the second year in a row.  Sure, there was the opportunity to run another qualifier between now and November 5th, but I wouldn't be able to fit it into my schedule.  Canyons was my one and only chance and unfortunately, now Western States 2024 is off the table.  I felt that I had trained well and my head was in the right place but the brutal heat on race day brought me to a dead end at mile forty.  I thought a lot about whether or not I should continue my dream of running Western States.  The race is held in the third weekend of June every year and the thirty plus mile "canyons" section of the course typically brings temperatures in the mid to high nineties, even spiking into triple digits some years.  I thought, how the hell am I supposed to survive thirty miles of running into and climbing out of steep canyons in those kinds of temperatures when I was forced to drop out of a 100K in eighty-eight degree heat?  Maybe running Western States isn't meant to happen for me and I should focus on other races.  I run great in cold temperatures and I had an absolute blast at the St. Croix Winter Ultra in Minnesota in 2020.  Maybe instead of Western States I should try to get into some of these big time Winter ultras like the White Mountains 100 or the Arrowhead 135.  I would probably fare better at those races than the brutal heat at Western States.

These were the thoughts circulating through my head for a couple of weeks after Canyons.  I was seriously considering abandoning my dream of running Western States that I've had since 2017.  But then I started thinking about something else.  I'm not good at running in heat.  I know that and I've accepted it.  Heat is my weakness.  That being said, I have two options:  Either stick with the mindset that running in heat just isn't my thing and therefore put my attention towards other races instead of Western States.  Or I could stick with my dream of running Western States, and find ways to become better at running in heat.  That doesn't necessary mean becoming an expert at it, just finding ways to do better when getting through it.  After about a month or so of contemplating things I decided to go with the latter option and keep the Western States dream alive.  I'm sure as hell going to be heading back to Auburn for Canyons in 2024 and hopefully qualifying for Western States in 2025.  I just need to keep trying.  I still have three tickets in the hat, and even if it takes seven more years, I'll get in eventually.  And when I do get in, heat training will need to be part of the regimen.  I'll need to get creative, but I can do it.  I can find ways to cope with the heat so I can finish Western States.  And maybe it wouldn't hurt to do some Winter ultras again, those are a lot of fun.

Every time I've DNFed a race it's always made me more excited and hungry for the next one.  When I dropped out of Canyons in 2019, I ran the Bishop High Sierra 100K a month later because I wanted redemption.  I was hungry.  I feel the same way about the upcoming 50K that I'm doing on Saturday July 15th.  That would be the Great Shasta Rail Trail 50K up in McCloud, California.  I've been looking forward to this race for quite a while now.  I heard about it on Ten Junk Miles so I decided to check it out on Ultrasignup.com.  When I saw that it was originally scheduled for May 6th I thought tough break, that's right after Canyons.  But maybe next year.  But when I saw that it was postponed to July 15th because of all the snow, I decided to sign up.  The town of McCloud is located in Siskiyou County, about an hour south of the Oregon border, right near Mount Shasta.  It's a really beautiful part of California with lots of alpine forest and breathtaking mountain scenery.  The Great Shasta Rail Trail is an eighty mile path through the Shasta-Trinity National Forest that connects McCloud to the town of Burney.  It's relatively flat, well maintained, and wide, which is an ideal setting for an out and back 50K course.  With this kind of course, we get the beauty of nature without the brutality of climbing up challenging mountain trails.  

My plan is to do this race dirt bag style.  Meaning I'll be driving up to McCloud from Sunnyvale next Friday afternoon and parking my car in the area where the race starts.  I'll be sleeping in the back of my car, waking up on Saturday morning, running the race, then heading back home.  I'll be doing this trip alone without Sam and Aidan, so this seemed like the way to go.  It also makes things a little more fun and interesting.  It's also the first year the race is happening and based on what I've seen so far, it looks like there's only going to be about thirty runners.  We'll see.  But that would be cool to have a more intimate, casual race.  I'm really excited, except for one caveat:  it's going to be hot as hell on race day.  Every time I check the forecast, the friggin' temperature keeps spiking up.  As of today, six days from race day, the forecast for McCloud on race day is sunny skies with a high of 104 degrees Fahrenheit.  That's hot.  I'm not a super religious guy, but I feel like God is trying to prepare me for when I eventually do get into Western States by giving me really hot temperatures on my race days in 2023.  I still have some psychological scar tissue after the heat at Canyons this year.  The race starts at 6:45 AM and I'll do my best to take advantage of the cooler morning temperatures, but if this forecast stands, running in triple digit heat will be inevitable.  I will have no choice but to face it head on.  But it's good to confront our fears and weaknesses.  I don't want the fear of failure to hold me back.  After all, this is a relatively flat 50K, and as far as I know, there isn't a cutoff time.  Even if everything that can go wrong does go wrong, I will finish eventually.  Even if it takes me eleven hours and I'm having a puking rally, every muscle is cramping up, and I'm so pissed that I want to beat everyone up, none of that will matter if I don't have to worry about a cutoff time and I can cross the finish line.  But that's just one way this could all go.  Who knows what the experience will be like.  I can't wait to find out next Saturday.  In the meantime, speaking of heat, congratulations to all the 2023 Badwater Ultramarathon finishers!     

Canyons 2023 Part 2: Tapped Out

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.