The Long Way up the Mountain

“Damn it.  Did I seriously just go in a circle?” I asked myself out loud.  After a few seconds of assessing the situation it occurred to me that the answer to my question was “yes, I definitely had”.  Great.  I was less than a mile up the trail and I was already getting lost.  To add to the complexity, it was 3:45 in the morning and this trail was notoriously difficult to navigate in the dark.  The path was rugged, and the scattered rocks and boulders created a setting that loosely resembled a maze, making it difficult to stay on course.  But I had been here before.  I had first visited this trail three and a half years earlier during which my friend advised us that if we followed the white dots painted on the rocks, we’d stay on course.  This area wasn’t maintained by any government organization, but over the years, fellow hikers and volunteers have generously marked the route by painting large white dots on the rocks that lay strewn along the path.  Remembering my friend’s words, I plodded along from the trailhead following the dots until I took a wrong turn, banking left instead of right, following the terrain as it curved, and taking a right instead of going straight, effectively ending up exactly where I had been a few minutes prior.  After gathering my thoughts, I decided to back track, heading back the way I came to determine where I had gotten off track.  After a few short minutes, I realized my blunder and once again began seeing big white dots on the rocks every hundred feet or so as I resumed forward progress.  The moon was only casting off a sparse amount of light so I mainly moving forward with the power of my flashlight.  What was I doing out here all alone at 3:45 in the morning?  Great question.  Most people are at home sound asleep during this time on a Saturday morning.  Not roaming around on a trail in Palm Springs up the side of Mount San Jacinto trying to find their friends.

 

A week prior, my friend Edith had organized a group event in which a small handful of us would be attempting one of the most challenging hikes in the United States.  The route begins at a trailhead behind the Palm Springs Art Museum and climbs 10,300 feet over sixteen miles to the summit of Mount San Jacinto.  This route is respectively referred to as Cactus to Clouds, the name deriving from the route beginning at the desert floor and climbing up above the clouds at 10,834 feet.  Mount San Jacinto is a popular attraction for tourists visiting Palm Springs.  In late 1963 the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway was created as a means of transporting people through Chino Canyon up to Long Valley and Mount San Jacinto State Park, which lies 8,300 feet up the mountain.  Long Valley offers a variety of outdoor activities and there are gift shops and two restaurants near the tram station.  Many hikers ride the tram to the station in Long Valley and hike to the summit, which is an eleven-mile roundtrip trek with about 2,500 feet of elevation gain.  Rather than taking the tram, those who hike Cactus to Clouds climb up to Long Valley, where the Skyline trail ends.  From there, they proceed up another trail from the tramway station to the summit.  When Edith created the event, I jumped at the opportunity.  However, due to my work schedule, I was going to be starting three hours later than the rest of the group.  Many Cactus to Clouds hikers begin their trek well before sunrise not only to avoid the intense heat, but due to the length and difficulty of the route, an early start is needed to finish at a decent hour later that day.  The group was planning to start around midnight on Saturday morning.  Meanwhile, I would leave work, get some sleep, drive out to Palm Springs in the middle of the night, and begin around 3:30 AM.  The plan was for me to haul ass up the trail and catch up with my friends somewhere along the path before we reached Long Valley.  It was quiet and still as I sat in my car in the vacant parking structure outside of the museum with my driver’s side door open.  I was making my final preparations when I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.  A white F-250 pickup truck pulled into the structure slowed down considerably as it approached my car.  The windows on the truck were dark and I couldn’t see inside.  I then remembered that my friend Dave, who was attending this hike, drove a white F-250, but the group had started hours ago.  The truck stopped behind my car and cut the engine.  What was going on? There was a split second where I wondered if some psycho was going to jump out and come at me with a shotgun, but just then, the door opened, and Dave and Christina hopped out.  “Hey guys!” I said with great relief.  They had started hiking with the group but promptly turned back due to a nagging Plantar Fasciitis injury that Christina had been battling.  She was an accomplished hiker having tackled many challenging climbs over the years, but in the last few months her injury had temporarily sidelined her.   They advised me that the group had started around 12:45, a little later than planned, which was a good thing because that meant I’d likely catch them more quickly than anticipated.  They bade me farewell and drove off to park the truck and get some sleep for a little while.

As I continued onward, the trail cut further into the mountain range and became easier to follow.  The path was initially composed of rock and loose stone but had now softened into smooth dirt with occasional rocks littering the path.  Even though the sun hadn’t risen, it was very warm outside, and perspiration began dampening my shirt and bandana.  I gulped water from my camelback to stay hydrated.  The good news was the ranger station at Long Valley offered access to potable water, so we could fill up once we arrived and have enough water for the remainder of the hike.  I marveled in the surroundings as I ran along.  The sky was filled with stars as I followed the trail east with the towering mountain range sitting above me to the right and the city lights of Palm Springs to my left far below.  Rocks and desert plants continued to line the path and there were no trees as far as I could see.  Periodically I’d see lights from other hikers well off in the distance and wondered if it was the rest of the group.  As the trail weaved and turned westward, the crack of dawn began lighting up the sky behind the San Bernardino Mountains above the city lights of the Coachella Valley.  There were several points along the way where there were “short cuts” which would cut uphill through the rocks past the switchbacks but for the most part, I stayed to the designated path.  As the sun began lighting up the sky, I was enjoying the tranquility of the quiet trail and making pretty good time, running and speed hiking.  By the time I passed the second water stash box along the trail it had been about three hours since I began moving and there was still no sign of the group.  I was listening to music and in between songs it was dead quiet with no hikers were in sight.  Was I still on the right path?  I kept moving forward hoping that I wasn’t traveling in a huge circle as the trail rolled along.  Finally, I looked up to my left and saw a line of hikers moving up the switchback.  I instantly recognized my friends and was ecstatic that I had finally caught up with them.  “Morning guys!” I shouted out.  Finding them was a big relief that I was on the right path all along and having the camaraderie of other hikers, especially my friends, brought me comfort.  We all said hello once I caught up to the end of the pack.  “Why are you so happy?” they jokingly asked me.  I had my hands on my knees and when I looked up I could see that the heat and challenging terrain was getting to them as well.  The sun had now made its way into the sky and my clothes were wet from perspiration.  “Because I found you guys!” I exclaimed.  “It was getting pretty lonely out here”.  Among the group was Juan Carlos (JC), Janet, and Felipe, who were all attempting this hike for the first time, Jose, our hike leader, Tuyet, who had attempted Cactus to Clouds once prior, and Edith, the organizer of the event.    After a few brief minutes, we pressed on with about three miles ahead of us before we reached Long Valley.  The trail had rolled for a while along the ridge and was now beginning an increasingly steep ascent that would lead to a series of switchbacks during the final push.  Along this challenging section of the trail the group grew quiet and we took frequent breaks to sip water, delayer, and eat.  Most of the group was going on very little sleep and Tuyet was struggling to stay awake.  There was a lot of discussion about how much more distance we had left and how long it would take.  Some people said it was two miles, some said a mile and a half.  Some people said we’d be at Long Valley in an hour and a half, others said it would be an hour.  There were a lot of conflicting responses.  “We have about two more miles until Long Valley, right?” Jose inquired as he looked at me.  I had been quiet in the discussions about mileage and time up until this moment.  “I think we should not worry about how much distance we have left and how long it’s going to take” I said.  “No one knows for sure how much further it is or long it’s going to take so we might as well just enjoy it and not worry.  We’ll be there before you know it”.  I’ve never questioned the mileage or used a GPS tracker during hikes and ultramarathons.  Psychologically, a GPS is my biggest enemy on the trails.  When I’m hiking with a group and other hikers use audio GPS, I just tune it out because I’d rather not know how much longer it is until we get to our destination.  If the distance is on my mind the whole time it distracts me from why I’m there in the first place; to enjoy nature and spend quality time with my friends.  There as a brief pause but then the group seemed to understand where I was coming from.  More miles were covered, and we were soon making our way up the final push along the switchbacks.  Over the last few miles the mountain terrain had shifted from rocks and desert plants to pine trees and granite rocks.  Occasionally we’d look up and see that the horizon where the ground met the sky was getting closer.  Finally, the trail leveled out and Long Valley came into view.  The entire group crested the climb and we embraced each other, congratulating one another on our arrival.  We had climbed 7,900 feet from Palm Springs and the most difficult part of the trek was now behind us.  As far as natural beauty goes, it doesn’t get much better than Long Valley.  The mountain air was fresh, laced with the scent of pine, and considerably cooler than Palm Springs.  All around us were dirt trails leading to campgrounds, tall pine trees, pine cones, granite rocks, and sawed up tree logs.  The group seemed to come back to life as we walked along the trail.  From the end of the Skyline trail it was about a half a mile walk to the ranger station in Long Valley where we would pick up another trail that would take us an additional five and a half miles to the summit of Mount San Jacinto.  After refilling our water and taking a quick break at the ranger station, we began our push to the summit.  Compared to the Skyline trail, this section was much more maintained and orderly.  The topography had completely transformed from an exposed, rocky trail to a dirt path surrounded by alpine forest.  Even on this more modest terrain, the sleep deprivation was catching up with us and we took frequent breaks.  When we reached the saddle, it was clear that the mounting drowsiness was having an adverse effect on some of the group.  Hiking through extreme sleep deprivation can be dangerous especially on trails with long, steep drop offs.  Judgment is impaired and one wrong step could end in disaster.  I advised the group that if anyone felt that they were too tired to continue to speak up.  The mountain will always be there, and no summit is worth dying trying to reach.  Making our way out of the saddle, the views were remarkable.  A field of pine trees rested below us to the side of the trail with the tram station visible in the distance below.  As we reached the last quarter mile to the summit, Janet and Felipe began falling behind from the group.  As Janet sat on a rock, she calmly announced that she was feeling the effects of altitude sickness, specifically dizziness.  We advised her to take deep breaths and drink some water, and eventually she was able to stand and move forward.  We moved together as a group as the trail gave way to a pile of boulders.  We proceeded very slowly, scrambling over the boulders for about a hundred feet, until the summit came into view.  The whole group was together and after sixteen miles and 10,300 feet of elevation gain, we had finally made it.  We were overcome with joy and accomplishment and Janet immediately came back to life once we reached the summit.  We sat at 10,834 feet of elevation on the highest peak in the surrounding area, admiring the panoramic view.

The trek down from the summit back to Long Valley was about as close to a celebration hike as we could have gotten at that time.  We were exhausted and hurting, but that was all irrelevant.  We had displayed mental and physical strength along the way, helped each other as a team, and accomplished what we set out to do; another successful Cactus to Clouds summit was in the books.  By the time we arrived at the tram station the challenging terrain had gotten the better of me and my legs were on fire.  As we approached the station I took off my backpack and flopped onto a bench, stretching my legs.  Relief was instantaneous.  After riding the tram down to Palm Springs and arriving at our cars we rendezvoused at a Mexican restaurant in town for a hot meal.  The restaurant was crowded, and it took forever for our meals to arrive, but when the waitress finally set our plates down on the table we were in comfort food paradise.  Dinner was full of laughs and stories, and shortly after, I was on the 10 freeway back to Los Angeles.  The hike was fun, but the company was better.  The whole group was connected by a common goal of reaching the summit.  We had broken through mental walls, fought sleep deprivation, given each other support, and accomplished our goal, all while having fun along the way.  These are the factors that create deep bonds and friendships within the hiking community.  You could leave us stranded in the middle of the frozen tundra and we would still make the best of it.  As long-distance hikers and ultrarunners, that’s how we’re wired to think.     

            

Below the Surface

“I used to be a musician.  I was in a band that was making a little noise in our local area but after a while it seemed like we were going nowhere, my bandmates and I started to fight, and every night we were at bars smoking cigarettes and drinking until the bar closed.  The whole musician lifestyle really started taking a toll on me mentally and physically, and one night I saw a video on Youtube about a one hundred-mile race in the Appalachian Mountains.  After seeing that video, I was hooked.  I began running on trails and eventually started running ultras.  That was four years ago, and I definitely like my new life a lot more than my former one”.  I sat and listened as Nathan continued to tell me his story about how he got into ultrarunning.  He was a young guy from North Carolina who looked to be in his mid-twenties with long blonde hair covered by a runner’s hat.  We shared a seat and traded stories as the school bus we were riding drove along the twisting mountain road towards Robinson Flat, the starting area of the Western States training run we were participating in that day.

I enjoyed hearing Nathan’s story.  It was much different than my journey into ultrarunning, but that was precisely why I was so engaged.  In fact, hearing other runners’ stories about their journey into this sport has become one of my favorite parts of running ultramarathons.  Every ultramarathon runner has a story to tell.  No one just wakes up one morning and says “I’m going to run fifty miles today” with no rhyme or reason to it.  Anyone who runs fifty miles has a unique story about what led them to that point, whether they realize it or not.  While running ultras, I engage in conversation with others, as most runners often do.  Some runners like to converse about their favorite races or races they’ve done, but I like to look deeper than that.  I want to know why they’re out here doing this.  This question often remains unanswered, but if it seems like the other runners are open to engaging in a deeper discussion, I’ll ask the one question that always allows me to get into their heads; “So, how did you get into ultrarunning in the first place?”  I’ve gotten a variety of different responses to this question over the years.  Some have been short and simple, others have been more in depth and personal.  Regardless of the response, I love hearing these stories.  Some runners prefer to keep to themselves during a race with little interest in interacting with others, but I’m the sheer opposite.  Why am I so intrigued by other people’s backgrounds?  Why do I always want to hear other people’s stories instead of keeping to myself?  Why do I live for this kind of human interaction during ultramarathons?  All valid questions.  The answer, in short, traces back to my childhood and my upbringing in the suburbs of Detroit.  Allow me to explain why.

Growing up in Michigan was an awesome experience.  We snowboarded and went sledding during the winter and sailed on the lake and swam at the community pool during the summer.  The Detroit area is a very interesting and unique place.  You will find every type of person imaginable.  All kinds of people from extremely wealthy to dirt poor.  Caucasian, African American, Middle Eastern, Hispanic, Asian, you name it.  Unfortunately, when I was growing up, there was a lot of tension between the different races and social-economic classes in the Detroit area.  This tension stemmed from the conservative views of the wealthy people clashing with the more liberal views of the minorities, along with the segregation of these different types of people within the neighborhoods and cities.  Compared to other major cities like Chicago, the Detroit metropolitan area is fairly small, which meant that although these different types of people were mainly segregated, they lived within close proximity of each other.  Sadly, the city of Detroit has been in a state of despair for many years.  There is no shortage of abandoned buildings and partially burned down houses with shattered windows and roofs caving in.  In addition to the urban decay that plagues the city, extreme poverty, unemployment, and high crime have been a major issue for decades.  As the 2002 movie “8 Mile” staring Eminem implies, eight-mile road is the dividing line between Detroit and the northern suburbs.  South of eight-mile road lies the struggling city of Detroit, while just across the road lies the northern suburbs of Hazel Park, Warren, and Eastpointe, which are in far better economic shape than Detroit.  As you travel north of Detroit, the mile roads increase in numerical value.  For instance, as you drive north, you’ll hit nine-mile road, then ten-mile road, etc.  Cities like Warren and Eastpointe extend as far north as twelve-mile road and along fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen-mile road lie the wealthy and affluent cities of Birmingham, Bloomfield Hills, and Bloomfield Township.  Warren, Hazel Park, Eastpointe, and other cities in close proximity to the Detroit border are largely working-class neighborhoods and are better off than Detroit but are considerably less wealthy than Bloomfield Hills and Birmingham.  In fact, Bloomfield Hills is one of the most affluent cities in the State of Michigan and possibly the United States.  The fact that Bloomfield Hills is located less than a half-marathon’s distance from the Detroit city limits gives you a perspective of how close in proximity these different socio-economic classes are located within one another.  When I was a kid my Mom, sister, and I would occasionally volunteer at the Salvation Army, and one time we even visited a poor family in Detroit through a volunteer program during Christmas to donate some gifts.  During my high school years, I once volunteered at a homeless shelter and worked an overnight shift.  I sat and listened as people told me about their struggles, how they grew up, and how they ended up in their current situation.  I worked in a Greek restaurant for three years in high school.  Among the employees were adults as well as kids my age from more working-class neighborhoods.  They used to tell me stories about girls at their school getting pregnant, about their friends’ parents getting into physical altercations, and even kids getting arrested in their schools.  Growing up in Beverly Hills, Michigan, halfway between thirteen and fourteen-mile road, I hadn’t experienced anything like this, and I was intrigued by hearing about what these other kids had been through because it was drastically different than how I grew up.  Despite our different backgrounds, I formed friendships with these co-workers overtime and we even occasionally hung out together.  And all the people at the homeless shelter, the Salvation Army, and the poor family we visited at Christmas were so kind and appreciative of what we were doing.  They loved us, and I loved getting to know them and hearing their stories. 

Unfortunately, not everyone within the community shared this attitude.  There were some exceptions, but the general consensus was if you grew up north of thirteen-mile road in cities like Birmingham or Bloomfield Hills, you were basically viewed as a candy ass richie boy.  Growing up in Beverly Hills right near Birmingham, I fell into this category and I hated it.  The working-class community had a justifiable reason to adopt this mentality though.  Other kids at my school were not accepting of new kids who transferred to our school from poorer neighborhoods hoping for a better education.  Instead of talking to them, getting to know them, and looking below the surface, they would make snide comments about how these kids probably lived in trailers, about how they were dirty, poor, and even made inappropriate racial comments at times.  I remember being up at the Fireside Inn (The Fireside Inn is an awesome summer resort in Northern Michigan that deserves its own blog post, which will come at some point) and sitting around the bonfire by the lake one night with a group of kids around my age that I didn’t know.  “Where are you guys from?” I asked.  “Warren” they said.  “Nice, I’m from Beverly Hills” I said, not thinking anything of it.  One of the girls raised her eyebrows at me.  “Oh, you’re a rich kid” she sneered.  “Well, no.  Not really” I answered back.  She just nodded, looked me up and down and said “yeah, sure”.  There was also a time when a co-worker from the restaurant dropped me off at home after work one night.  When he stopped in front of my parents’ house, he said “oh wow, you’re one of these rich bastards, huh?” He was busting my chops, as he often did, so I just laughed it off.  I hated falling into this “richie boy” category.  I absolutely hated it.  Okay, I may have said “no, not really” to the girl at the bonfire when she called me a rich kid, but the truth was although not extremely wealthy, my family was pretty well off and my sister and I had the privilege of being raised in a stable, middle-upper class environment.  I hated being called a rich kid because I wasn’t the typical Oakland County kid who looked down on others.  I wasn’t like the other kids at school who ridiculed students who were not as fortunate as my sister and I.  I can say confidently that I never, not once in my life, viewed or treated anyone differently because of their social-economic class.  That’s not how my parents raised me.  I was brought up with the mentality that no matter how different people are than you, you should always be kind and treat them with respect.  You don’t know what they’re going through.  One time I was at a gathering a family friend’s house and I met this kid around my age with scars on his wrist.  I had never seen anything like that and, frankly, I was a little terrified.  Why had this kid done this to himself?  What led him to that point?  I had to get into this guy’s head and find out.  We talked and got to know each other, and he was actually a really cool guy.  We bonded over our shared interest in music and the Red Wings.  I didn’t have the guts to ask him about the scars on his wrist though.  These experiences as a kid really opened my eyes, and I realized how naive I had been growing up in Beverly Hills.  I felt as if the more I got to know people, especially people who were of different races and grew up differently than I did, the more I was learning about the world around me and the more open minded I was becoming. 

My point here is that growing up in an environment like Metro Detroit had bred into me a lifelong interest in other people’s backgrounds, stories, where they came from, what led them to where they are today, etc.  Running ultramarathons presents a great opportunity to get to know others because let’s face it, you’re on the trail for hours on end and what else is there to do besides talk and run, or just keep to yourself.  Ultramarathon running will probably never be a mainstream sport, and personally, I like that.  It has however, attracted a larger following in recent years and I hope it continues to do so.  During an ultramarathon we all share a goal of reaching the finish line and we all love to run, but under the surface, we’re all very different people with very different backgrounds.  That being said, I will continue to read as may books by ultramarathon runners as I can, and I hope that the sport keeps attracting a diverse group of people, so we can all keep telling our unique stories for everyone to hear and enjoy.   

Can't Get Enough

At 5:30 PM on Friday I walked up to my car, which was parked in the hills above my office on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, and hopped in.  Only I wasn’t going to be making the 25-minute drive back home today to my apartment in Palms, Los Angeles.  My car was packed with running gear, a few toiletries, a pillow, and a couple of blankets.  The week was over, and I was ready for the seven-hour drive up to Auburn, California and tomorrow’s thirty-two mile run on the Western States trail.  I had been up in Auburn just a month earlier when I ran The Canyons 100K which also took place on the Western States trail.  The experience of running this race twice (but finishing it once) combined with the books I had read and the videos I had seen showcasing the Western States 100 had me hooked and I couldn’t get enough.  To me, the attraction of the Western States trail is not only it’s natural beauty and challenging terrain, but also its history.  Ultramarathon running was first conceived on this very trail when the Western States Endurance Run went from being a horse race to a foot race in the summer of 1977.  Since then, the Western States Endurance Run, commonly known as the Western States 100, or simply Western States, has become one of the most prestigious and compelling ultramarathons in the world.  Runners from all over the globe make the trip to Auburn every June to toe the start line at the Squaw Valley Ski Resort in hopes of reaching the finish line in Auburn within the thirty-hour cutoff.  Several ultramarathon greats including Ann Trason, Scott Jurek, Dean Karnazes, Rob Krar, etc. built their careers off competing in Western States and they tell mind blowing stories about the race and the Western States trail in their interviews and memoirs.

         

After fighting some Friday night L.A. traffic for a couple of hours I finally made it over the grapevine.  The freeway was now less crowded, and I could sit back and enjoy the ride.  The drive to Auburn was long but it was easy; a straight shot up the 5 freeway all the way to Sacramento where I would merge onto the 80 freeway which would take me right to my destination.  The sunset that I was treated to while driving north through the farmlands was absolutely breathtaking.  It was mostly cloudy, and the sun fired orange, yellow, and red light across the entire sky lighting up the clouds above the highway as the mountains surrounding the grapevine rested on the horizon.  After several hours I finally rolled into Auburn.  The meeting spot for the run was actually in the elementary school parking lot in Foresthill, about twenty minutes northeast of town.  The run that I was participating in the next day was one of three training runs for Western States.  They were not timed races.  Just organized running events limited to one hundred or so participants with three aid stations along the way.  Tomorrow’s run would be thirty-two miles from Robinson Flat to Foresthill, Sunday would be nineteen miles from Foresthill to Diver’s flat, and Monday would be Green Gate to the finish line of Western States, twenty miles.  After parking my car at the elementary school, changing my clothes in a porta potty, and brushing my teeth, I spread out my blankets and pillow in the backseat.  I was going dirtbag style, sleeping in my car.  It was approaching 1:00 AM and there were about a half a dozen other cars in the parking lot where other runners lay sound asleep inside.  Although it was cramped, I slept pretty decently, only being woken up once during the night by the sound of light rain falling on my car.  I woke up the next morning at 6:00 AM to people gathering in the parking lot and setting up check-in booths and tents.  Luckily the rain had quit for good.  I checked in, made my final preparations, and after a quick briefing by the run organizers we were on a school bus bound for Robinson Flat.  One of my favorite things about running ultramarathons is the people I meet and hearing their stories and backgrounds.  I often meet people from all over the country and sometimes the world.  During the bus ride I talked with Nathan, a former musician, now Jimmy Johns delivery guy from North Carolina who looked to be in his twenties, as well as Jay, a man in his sixties from the Bay area. 

Stepping off the bus at Robinson Flat was like arriving at summer camp.  The mountain air was crisp and fresh, and the campground was dissected by a series of winding gravel roads with towering pine trees all around.  There was no actual start line or even a start time.  I got off the bus, relieved myself in the outhouse near the campground, and began running down the trail, following the other runners.  The section that we were running was widely considered to be the most difficult part of the Western States 100.  About thirteen miles into the run I would encounter the notorious “canyons” section of the trail.  When people are talking about the Western States 100 and they mention the “canyons”, they’re referring to the 18.7-mile section of the race from Last Chance to Foresthill during which runners descend into and climb out of three deep canyons back to back.  The first canyon to contend with is Deadwood Canyon, where the trail drops about 2,000 feet from Last Chance and climbs 1,800 feet up to Devil’s Thumb from the Swinging Bridge at the bottom of the gorge.  The second is El Dorado Canyon which includes a 2,500-foot drop followed by an 1,800-foot climb up to Michigan Bluff, and the third is Volcano Canyon, where the trail drops 1,000 feet to a creek crossing and climbs about 800 feet up to Foresthill.

 

The first few miles were traveled along a wide trail and stretches of fire road.  Some areas were cluttered with rocks and stones.  I run with Vibram 5 fingers which are a perfect match for my running style however, our feet contain more nerve endings than any other part of our bodies, so if I’m not careful I could step on a sharp rock and be delivered a life altering jolt of pain in my foot without warning.  My heightened attention detail to avoid the rocks along with my light stepping running style made me feel like I was running hurdles at times as I hopped from one side of the trail to the other.  Once we reached Miller’s Defeat the trail banked right and narrowed considerably.  The switchbacks continued, but we were now on a single-track trail rolling along the side of the Sierra Nevada mountains through thick green brush and pine trees.  It was all very exciting to me.  I marveled in the beautiful green surroundings and talked with the other runners as we shared running stories and talked about our favorite trail races.  I soon pulled into Dusty Corners where the first aid station of the course was set up.  I paused there for a few minutes to refill my water bottle, have a couple of pieces of peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and thanked the volunteers before continuing down the trail.  From Dusty Corners it was about five miles until the trail would drop into Deadwood Canyon.  Running along the rolling trail I chatted with more runners, including Julianne who was from San Diego and was running Western States in June and Sean, who was an Organizational Development consultant also from L.A.  We talked for a while about running and a variety of other things as he ran behind me.  I love meeting and talking to people along the trail, but I was starting to feel winded from all the talking I was doing and it got to the point where there was a couple of seconds of pause when I was responding to Sean.  Just before we got to Last Chance, he pushed ahead.  A couple of minutes later I came up behind a young guy, also from L.A.  He introduced himself as Gabe and he was fairly new to ultrarunning, having only taken up the sport a few months prior.  We told stories about how we got into running and once we passed through Last Chance I picked up the pace.  Gabe was taking a more reserved approach to the run, so he held back.  As I made the steep, twisting descent into Deadwood Canyon, I was relieved that I was finally alone, so I could try to regain some of the energy I had lost from all the talking I was doing.  I finally arrived at the bottom of the canyon, where I crossed over the Swinging Bridge and began the 1,800-foot climb up to Devil’s Thumb.  This climb is brutally steep, and I was forced to hike at a modest pace, which I was fine with because I could now regroup from the fast plunge into the canyon.  When we finally made it to Devil’s Thumb at the top of the climb, the small group of runners I was with jokingly referred to the milestone as “Devil’s Middle Finger” and we turned and flipped our middle fingers to the steep trail behind us with a few laughs.  After pausing for a few minutes at the Pump aid station, the trail began a 4-mile descent into El Dorado Canyon.  I was coming back to life as I flew down the narrow trail and tight switchbacks.  There were lots of roots and rocks along the trail to watch out for, so I was trying to move as fast as I could without stumbling.  I had a strong pace going until suddenly I heard a strange sound in the brush.  I couldn’t quite make it out the first time, so I listened again.  This time I knew exactly what it was.  It was a bear growl.  Not an angry “I’m going to claw your face off” type of growl, just a lumbering through the woods “matter of fact” growl.  The fact that I could only hear and couldn’t see the bear or detect its exact location was all the more disturbing to me.  Then I heard a small crash through the brush awfully close to the trail.  “Uh oh” I thought.  There were no other runners around which added to the scariness of the situation.  I did the only thing I could and picked up the pace.  I kept moving forward and after about a half a minute it was silent again.  Phew.  I had a nice rhythm going down the trail, but as I approached the bridge that crossed El Dorado Creek at the pit of the canyon, wham!  I wacked my pinky toe on a rock sticking up out of the trail in a flash of distraction.  “Shit!” I yelled out loud after nearly stumbling.  The pain was intense, but I knew that things could have been much worse.  I could have went flying and taken a dive face first into the rocks and dirt, which would have made finishing this run much more difficult.  After crossing the bridge, I was again forced to hike at a modest pace up the 3-mile climb to Michigan Bluff.  I eventually caught up with a runner named Anna from San Francisco.  We talked for a few minutes before she abruptly said “I think we should be running.  Let’s go!”.  Before I could respond, she began a moderate jog up the trail.  I followed behind her for about a mile as we passed by other runners struggling up the climb.  When I arrived at the Michigan Bluff aid station I saw a lady clad in a colorful squid costume holding a water pitcher.  It was the one and only Ann Trason.  She had helped me a lot at The Canyons 100K and I was glad to see her again.  I greeted her with a hug and wolfed down some watermelon and salty snacks.  The volunteers offered me soup, but I politely declined.  I had 6.2 miles left until the finish line and there was only one more canyon to contend with.  A mile or so down the trail after departing Michigan Bluff, another runner caught up with me.  “Man, did you have some of that soup at Michigan Bluff?” he asked.  “Nope, I’ve never tried soup during an ultra” I answered as he glided by.  “It really put some life back into me!  I feel great”.  Maybe I should have had some soup after all.  A cup of hot soup doesn’t sound too appealing after running twenty-eight miles but maybe next time I’ll give it a try.  It sure seemed to work wonders for a lot of other runners.  I was now running on a dirt road with a valley of forest covered mountains to my left, and a mountain side of full of forest and natural earth to my right.  I heard the rumble of a truck engine behind me in the distance which was getting louder and closer by the second.  When it approached, I ran to the side of the dirt road to let the truck pass.  It was an old model rusted up F-350 pick up truck with a loud diesel engine.  In the truck bed up against the rear window was a rack with three big chainsaws resting on the shelves.  I was on a dirt road in the mountain wilderness in the middle of nowhere, so it seemed to blend perfectly with the setting.  After all, I wasn’t expecting to see a brand-new BMW driving along this rugged terrain.  I soon began the twisting descent into Volcano Canyon.  The cold water on my feet felt rejuvenating as I crossed the creek at the bottom.  As I climbed up the final ascent towards Foresthill, I began to deteriorate during the final quarter mile stretch before the course left the trail for the paved road into Foresthill.  The trail was steep and littered with natural debris, making every footstep uncomfortable.  When I finally reached the road I walked along, trying to regroup.  I was exhausted and winded as I walked up a gradual inline along Bath road.  Another runner from Southern Indiana caught up with me.  We chatted and walked together for about a mile which helped mitigate some of the fatigue in my body.  When we reached the intersection with Foresthill Road, I said “only a half a mile left, let’s pick it up!”  We ran along the road and soon the tents at the elementary school came into view.  The make shift finish line was a stop sign attached to one of the tent poles.  I ran in, clapping my hands in excitement.  Thirty-two miles in six hours and fifty-three minutes.  Not bad.  I often take a reserved approach when running downhill on trails for fear of stumbling on a rock or root, but during the weeks that followed the 100K, I began practicing the technique of running downhill on trails more swiftly while still maintaining control and found myself at the track a few times doing speedwork since then.  It’s a work in progress, but I know that if I want to run Western States one day, I will need to be able to run faster.  Runners need to average an eighteen minute per mile pace over the entire distance just to beat the thirty-hour cutoff.  Going for thirty hours without sleep in of itself seems brutal, but when you layer a one hundred-mile run on top of it, it sounds like pure torture.  During the downhill sections of today’s race, I had improved on my speed since the 100K, but I still had work to do.  That’s the great thing about ultrarunning; you’re always learning and improving.  And I still had a lot to learn before I was going to attempt Western States.           

  

My Scene

As much as I love running, I have never been a fan of “running movies”, per se.  I never jumped on the Forrest Gump train like so many people have over the years, especially runners.  I saw Forrest Gump a couple of times, but I was never able to get into it.  I saw Prefontaine and loved the story.  Pre was an exceptional runner but after watching the film, I quickly dismissed it as a one-time watch.  I have never seen, and frankly, I have no interest in seeing movies like Chariots of Fire, Without Limits, Personal Best, On the Edge, etc.  If one of my friends were to come over with one of these movies I’d be willing to give it a watch, but I would not go out of my way to rent or purchase it.  The reason for my lack of interest in such movies is because more often than not, movies that revolve around running are dramatic and intense.  I generally enjoy these types of movies, such as the Rocky series, however, drama movies about running don’t entertain me.  From the day I decided to start running in December of 2008 in Michigan, I have always possessed a light-hearted attitude towards the sport.  Yes, I wanted to be able to run long distances and yes, I wanted to be fast, but I have never been one of those intense runners who dreams about winning races, counts their teeth every morning, and trains so hard that they’re not enjoying the sport.  Of course, running is my primary method of staying fit and healthy, but I view running as a relaxing, therapeutic, lose yourself in the moment type of activity, especially when running in the wilderness and on mountain trails.  Even if I’m flying down a trail or hauling ass during a road race, I ensure that I have fun and enjoy the experience.  When I feel like I’m getting too serious during a run I’ll smile to remind myself to loosen up.

 

Most people who become runners in their adult life possess inspiration that can be traced way back to when they were a young child seeing something that involves running on TV, such as the Olympics or a running movie.  Children’s minds absorb like sponges and sometimes just one movie or one scene can inspire people to become runners.  I am one of the people whose first jolt of inspiration derived from a movie.  It wasn’t a running movie, although running did play a significant role in the storyline.  The movie that got me into running is none other than “Meatballs”, a late 1970’s comedy film.  My parents liked the movie a lot and showed it to me for the first time when I was eight years old.  Released in 1979, Meatballs stars a very young Bill Murray as Tripper Harrison, the head counselor of Camp North Star, a summer camp for kids.  The camp is packed full of bratty kids and a coed group of college students working as counselors in training or CITs.  The CITs engage in romance with one another and are often seen losing their tempers on account of the actions of the ill-behaved children, which serves as one of comedic elements of the movie.  Among the campers is a socially awkward misfit named Rudy Gerner.  Upon witnessing Rudy being bullied due to his lack of athleticism and sensing his loneliness, Tripper takes him under his wing.  Tripper is seen throughout the film running on the trails around camp early in the morning.  Inspired, Rudy begins waking up early and running with him every morning, which leads to the two of them bonding with each other and becoming good friends.  A sub plot of the movie is Camp North Star’s rivalry with Camp Mohawk, which is located across the lake and is chock full of snobby, wealthy, more athletically gifted kids.  At the end of the film, the two camps participate in a two-day series of sporting events known as the Olympiad.  Camp North Star gets their butts kicked on the first day, but thanks to an inspiring (and laugh out loud hilarious) motivational speech by Tripper that night in the lodge, the campers are infused with hope and beat Camp Mohawk in every event on day two, including a hot dog eating contest.  The final event is a one on one four-mile trail race, in which the winner is the crowned champion of the whole Olympiad.  No one from Camp North Star is willing to participate so Tripper volunteers Rudy to compete.  He reluctantly agrees to run after Tripper gives him a pep talk.  All the running he did throughout the film with Tripper pays off, and Rudy beats the runner from Camp Mohawk by merely seconds, thus resulting in Camp North Star winning the Olympiad and Rudy becoming a hero among the campers and counselors.

Watching Rudy dash through the finish tape for the first time made my jaw drop.  The part of the movie in which the four-mile race takes place is only about seven minutes long, but my mind was fully engaged the whole time.  In my eight-year-old mind, running four miles was an impossible feat.  I saw the movie several times throughout my childhood and the part at the end where Rudy wins the race became my sole focus.  Watching this kid go from zero to hero by winning a four-mile trail race would have a tremendous impact on my life, though I didn’t know it at the time.  Sensing my fixation on the movie, my dad told me that distance running is a competitive sport and many people run the Marathon.  “They run twenty-six miles.  Some of these guys run eight or nine miles even before they go to work in the morning” my dad explained.  My mind was blown.  After my Meatballs revelation and listening to my dad talk about the Marathon, I went running two or maybe three times around my neighborhood before my young mind became distracted and focused on something else.  Even though I didn’t get serious about running until my early twenties, I ran occasionally during my youth and often placed in the top ten in my physical education class when we ran the mile.

 

Years later, I stood at the start line of the 2009 Turkey Trot 10K on Thanksgiving Day in Downtown Detroit.  It was about five minutes before start time and I stood among the crowd trying to keep warm in the chilly morning early winter air.  Out of nowhere, I heard a voice behind me say “Liam! Hey man”.  I turned to see the familiar face of a guy from my high school who was part of my graduating class.  Over five years had passed since graduation, but I remembered this guy very well.  He was fiercely competitive and consistently ranked among the top five best lacrosse players in the state throughout our high school years.  He also played football and was exceptionally gifted at virtually every sport we played in our physical education classes.  If that wasn’t enough, he was also a straight A student.  I had never seen anyone with so much talent.  The one thing that always irked me about him though, was his arrogance.  He used to mock me for my light-hearted attitude towards sports and found it necessary to constantly remind me that he was a much better athlete than I was.  Despite this, things were generally good between the two of us off the field and in the classroom and hallways.  We didn’t part ways on bad terms, but we hadn’t spoken since graduation.  We exchanged small talk and began running once the gun went off.  Just after the five-mile mark, I came up behind him.  My alter ego wanted to blow right by him without a word as if to say “Now I’m kicking your ass.  How does it feel?”, but I’m not a spiteful person so instead, I slowed down along side him.  “Good job dude!” I said with a smile before continuing.  I finished the race about three minutes ahead of him.  At the finish line we congratulated each other with a knuckle pound.  Beating him didn’t matter to me, but what did matter to me was the look in his eyes when we saw each other at the finish line.  It was my Rudy Gerner moment.  This guy may not have thought much of me in high school but that day, for the first time, he looked impressed by me.  I felt like I had finally earned his respect, much like Rudy did among the campers and counselors in Meatballs.

        

To this day, Meatballs is still one of my favorite movies.  It’s funny and inspirational and contains all the elements that I could want in a running movie; lots of laughs, a few heartfelt moments, a little romance, and a character who is unanimously viewed as the outcast and ends up becoming a hero by winning a running event.  Who knows what kind of running flicks Hollywood will conceive in the future.  There will hopefully be some good ones, but Meatballs will always be my running movie.  Rudy Gerner is the man!     

The Canyons 100K 2018 Part 3: You're Better Than You Think You Are (The Aftermath)

My whole body radiated pain when I awoke the next morning at 6:30 AM.  Lying in bed, my legs hurt all the way up and down, my neck hurt, my shoulders hurt, my back hurt, and my feet, which miraculously remained free of blisters, ached immensely.  Although I was physically pulverized, I felt like a new man.  I sat up in bed reminiscing on the adventure from yesterday.  What an incredible journey it had been!  63.6 miles, 100-ish kilometers along the Western States trail.  It felt surreal following the footsteps of Dean Karnazes, Scott Jurek, Rob Krar, Ann Trason, and so many other ultra-marathon rock stars.  I will forever be grateful for the encouragement that Ann gave me throughout the race, particularly at the Cal2 aid station on the way to the finish line.  All the training had paid off, I kept myself mentally stable (for the most part) and was more capable than I imagined.  It’s like I always say.  You’re better than you think you are.  A whole year’s worth of frustration finally ceased to exist.  I was now a 100K finisher.

After responding to some text messages, I managed to drag myself out of bed.  When I stood up for the first time that morning, my legs felt as if they were made of marshmallows.  After a good ten seconds, I made my way, step by painful step to the bathroom.  I took my time packing up and checked out of the hotel around 8:00 AM.  By this time, extreme hunger had set in.  Throughout the race I had only consumed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, fruit, and nuts, with the occasional cheese quesadilla, and I hadn’t eaten anything following the race the night prior.  I drove to Black Bear Diner and stuffed myself before hitting the road.  I couldn’t remember the last time a hot breakfast tasted so delicious.  It was like heaven on a skillet.  I was also still mildly dehydrated and threw down three big glasses of water in that one sitting.  I was the happiest man alive as I made the long drive back to Los Angeles.  I called family members and listened to music, having a blast in the middle of nowhere.  It was a long rally to get home.  I found myself dozing off about halfway through the ride and pulled over to sleep in my car for an hour and a half before continuing, finally making it home around 6:30 PM. 

Finishing felt great, but I was still wrapping my head around the fact that I had qualified for Western States.  Among the text messages I received, some people joked asking me if I was going to attempt 100 miles, unaware of my dream to run Western States.  They may have been kidding, but I was serious.  Earning my qualifier at the Canyons 100K, I would definitely be entering the lottery for the 2019 Western States.  It’s rare that entrants get drawn their first time applying, but we would see what happens.  How would I react if I got drawn?  I’d probably be overjoyed and a little terrified, but I would cross that bridge when I got to it.  I knew one thing for sure; I was just getting warmed up!     

The Canyons 100K 2018 Part 2: Question Everything or Shut Up and Run

The crowd of 378 runners charged forward through the start line and down Foresthill road.  After making a right on Bath road, we picked up the single track trail and began making the descent into the first canyon of the course.  The trail was steep and cluttered with rocks and stones as we followed the switchbacks.  We had to do a lot of stepping around and hopping over.  Before long, I came upon a short line of runners waiting to cross the river at the pit of Volcano Canyon.  It was still very early in the race, so the pack hadn’t spread out along the course yet.   As I pulled up to the back of the line, the guy in front of me turned around.  “Is this a river crossing coming up?” he inquired.  I recalled from last year that the river was about 10 feet wide and the water depth was up to my knees.  “Yep” I answered.  “It’s not too bad, it’s about knee deep”.  The look in his eyes went from curious to dubious and a smile of skepticism spread across his face.  “Wait, are you fucking with me?” he asked.  I laughed as if to say, “I wish I were, but nope.”  His name was Chris and he had also traveled from the Los Angeles area to participate in this race.  He was training for the Wasatch Front 100 coming up in September.  Wasatch is one of the toughest 100-mile ultramarathons in the United States, but looking at Chris, it certainly appeared that he was equipped to gut out those long miles.  We crossed the river safely and made our way up the ascent towards Michigan Bluff.  The uphill was steep at first but as we climbed out of the canyon, the terrain leveled out and tall pine trees lined both sides of the trail.  The trail eventually widened into a twisting fire road which followed a gradual downhill route to the first aid station at mile 6.2.  “Hey nice shoes, man” I heard from behind me.  Coming up on my left was a stout man who looked like a seasoned veteran.  He was referring to my Vibram 5 fingers.  These “glove shoes” as they’re sometimes known as, match perfectly with my running style of taking light steps to minimize contact with the surface, which helps to mitigate soreness. “Thanks! Uh…Ernesto” I responded as I inspected his race bib for his name.  Ernesto was a native of Mexico City but had been living in Reno for several years.  He was an accomplished runner and was training for the Ouray 100 coming up in July.  He talked about how he’d come home from long training runs on weekend mornings and his mom would cook a big hot breakfast.  This sounded appetizing, but also reminded me that I should eat something soon.  Wanting to keep my guts stable, I didn’t eat anything before the race.  We ran along and soon arrived at the first aid station.  There were 12 aid stations along the course, all consisting of white tents, card tables stocked with salty snacks, fruit, candy, and pitchers of water and Gu electrolyte sports drink.  I paused at Michigan Bluff for a few minutes to fill my handheld water bottle full of sports drink, parting ways with Chris and Ernesto as they gobbled down some food and used the restroom.  I’m not sure if you could even call Michigan Bluff a town.  Really, it was just an outpost with nothing more than a half a dozen houses and the small road we ran along before hitting the trail again.  Cars were parked around the aid station and some of the locals had come out to cheer on runners.

  

Leaving the aid station, I began the 3-mile run down into El Dorado canyon.  I followed the switchbacks through the trees along the side of the mountain, deeper into the canyon, admiring the views as I ran.  Through the trees, I saw green, tree filled mountains all around me.  When I arrived at the aid station at the bottom of the canyon, I decided it was time to eat something.  I grabbed a piece of peanut butter and jelly sandwich and wolfed it down with a half of banana, topped off my water bottle, and began the longest climb of the course, a 4-mile, 2,600-foot climb to the pump aid station at mile 13.5.  I hiked at first but eased into a slow jog as I climbed.  With my slightly faster pace, I began passing other runners feeling pretty good, but hoping that it wouldn’t come back to haunt me later in the race.  As we neared the top of the climb, tall pine trees again began lining the course.  Coming into the pump aid station, I grabbed another piece of peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a couple of orange slices before continuing.  Running down the trail towards Devil’s Thumb, I was in awe of my surroundings.  It was simply gorgeous.  I felt as if I were running straight through a picture of pristine mountain wilderness that you’d see on a post card or magazine cover.  Pine trees towered over the path, their fallen needles and bristles covering the trail, sawed up tree logs lay scattered off to the side on of the trail on both sides, pine cones cluttered the trail, and the sun was shining through the trees.  After passing through Devil’s Thumb, I began the steep descent into Deadwood Canyon.  The twisting trail was littered with rocks and stones and had tight corners.  There were now oncoming runners who had already turned around making their way out of Deadwood.  We gave kudos to each other as we passed by, feeding off each other’s energy.  After descending 1,700 feet in a mile and a half, I finally made it to the swinging bridge, where I would turn around.  Standing at the bottom was a woman in a multicolored unicorn costume.  She was not just anyone though.  Her name was Ann Trason and she was a world-renowned ultramarathon runner, having broken 20 world records during her career.  She has won several ultramarathons around the world and set the women’s course record for the Leadville 100 in 1994, which has yet to be beaten.  I was star struck and shook her hand, introducing myself as she handed me a rubber bracelet that I would need to wear to prove I had reached the turnaround.  “Great job! I’m looking forward to seeing you at the upcoming aid stations” she said.  I thanked her, turned around, and began the climb back up to Devil’s Thumb.  The ascent was so steep, I was forced to hike at a modest pace.  On the way up, I met Heidi who was from Saskatchewan, Canada and Margae, who was from the Bay area.  They were old friends and running together.  As a distraction from the brutality of the climb, I enlightened myself by asking Heidi what a typical day was like in Saskatchewan in January.  She went on to tell me about how temperatures regularly dropped to twenty degrees below zero in the winter, and some roads were barely drivable.  Returning to the pump aid station, a volunteer helped me take off my backpack and offered to refill my camelback while I grabbed snacks.  To my delight, the volunteers were really rising to the occasion.  They were enthusiastic, encouraging, and very helpful.  Volunteers play a tremendous role in races, often spending an entire day catering to the needs of runners.  They can also be helpful in providing psychological encouragement and infusing runners with energy.  After I wolfed down some salted nuts for sodium intake, the volunteer handed me back my camelback and I took off.  The next section of the trail would drop back down into El Dorado Canyon.  I had a nice pace going, and a guy ran with me down the path.  This guy, Charles, was a from Washington and we traded opinions about the race and course as he ran behind me down the trail.  He was a Western States 100 finisher in 2012, completing the race in just over 28 hours.  We parted ways at the gorge of the canyon as I crossed the bridge over El Dorado Creek and began the long climb back up to Michigan Bluff.  As I made my way up the trail, I was beginning to feel the effects of fatigue in my body.  I had been running for nearly six hours now and exhaustion was beginning to set in along with some slight anxiety.  The lyrics of a Green Day song kept flashing in my mind: “Question everything, or shup up and be a victim of authority.”  The parts I was dwelling on were “question everything” and “or shut up”.  Billie Joe Armstrong is a phenomenal song writer, but I decided to alter these lyrics slightly, into a line that was more fitting for my current situation; Question everything or shut up and run.  The first option was to question everything.  How far have I gone?  How many miles do I have left to go?  How many miles to the next aid station?  What was my current pace?  How many runners were behind me?  How many were in front of me? Was I drinking and eating enough?  Can I even finish this run? Or would I crumble again and be forced to quit? Then there was the second option.  Shut up and run.  Don’t worry about how many miles you’ve covered, how far many are left, or what your current pace is.  Will I finish? Or will I collapse in a heap on the trail or be forced to quit for timing issues?  Forget about it.  Don’t clutter your mind with negative thoughts.  Just keep taking deep breaths, light steps, and keep moving forward.  Focus on what you can control right now, and just let things play out.  I have always chosen the latter option during long runs, and this race was no exception.  However, due to the length and difficultly of this race, my mental toughness would be tested like never before.  My philosophy was to stay focused, but don’t think too much.  Thinking too much could psych me out and weaken my spirit.  And if that happened, my goose would be cooked.  Question everything or shut up and run.  It had a nice ring to it, and I kept repeating it in my head. 

Rounding a corner, I came up behind a runner wearing sandals.  I was astonished that he had been rallying along these trails with nothing but a pair of flimsy sandals, but then I was amused.  He was Travis from the bay area and had been down a long road with running footwear.  He explained that he used Vibrams for a while but found them unsatisfactory, so he tried running with sandals.  That was five years ago, and he had been doing it ever since.  After an hour-long climb, we finally crested the hill.  I ran along a dirt path past a telephone pole that had a 2x4 piece of wood nailed to it with “Michigan Bluff” painted in white letters.  Up next was another steep descent into Volcano Canyon followed inevitably by another tough climb up the rugged trail back to Foresthill.  “Question everything or shut up and run” I kept telling myself.  Crossing the river in Volcano Canyon felt good this time around and I caught up with Chris during the climb up.  He looked to be in good shape and we had a strong push together to the halfway point of the race in Foresthill.  I had set timing goals before the race and arriving at the halfway point at 1:35 PM, I was right on target.  My timing goal was to leave Foresthill by 1:45 PM, so I had a few minutes to kill.  I was hoping to make it down to the second turnaround point at Rucky Chucky by 6:00 PM and leave by 6:15 PM, which would give 5 hours and 15 minutes to get to the finish line to beat the 18-hour cutoff for the Western States 100 qualifier.  I took a seat on the curb of the elementary school parking lot.  It was the first time in 8 hours that I had sat down.  I stretched for a few minutes then headed to the aid station to refill my water bottle and camelback and wolf down some more bananas, PB&J, and nuts.  I resumed forward progress at 1:47 PM, hoping to stick to my target pace.  The course from Foresthill traveled about a quarter of a mile down Main street, then banked left onto California Street.  I ran down the windy street before hitting the single track trail once again.  The next three miles to the Cal1 aid station at mile 35.5 would be all downhill, dropping about 1,300 feet into the valley.  Exhaustion was again setting in, but I wasn’t hurting too badly.  I was in better shape than last year and hoped to keep the momentum going.  I had a strong section heading down to the bottom of the switchbacks and pushed forward to the Cal1 aid station.  All was going well until I hit the elevator shaft halfway between the Cal1 and Cal2 aid stations.  The elevator shaft is a section where the trail took a steep 900 foot drop further down on some less than ideal terrain.  As I ran down this descent, my legs began to burn from the downhill pressure.  I decided it was best to just take it easy and amble down this descent with reserve.  I was probably capable of going faster, but the thought of blowing my quads out was becoming all too real.  I didn’t want to take that kind of a gamble right now.

 

At the bottom of the elevator shaft the trail rolled for about a half a mile until I pulled into the Cal2 aid station.  Here, I saw Ann again in her unicorn costume along with the same volunteer who had helped me earlier at the Pump aid station on my way out of Deadwood Canyon.  “Hey! We thought we’d see you coming through pretty soon” they said.  I greeted them with high fives and grabbed some snacks.  After refilling my water bottle and camelback, they sent me on my way and said they’d see me in a little while on the return trip to the finish line.  I looked down the trail as struggling runners on their way back from the turnaround were making their way into the aid station.  It was 7 miles to the turnaround at Rucky Chucky, so these guys were already 14 miles ahead of me, and they still had 8.5 to go.  Some looked fresh, others looked totaled.  “Thank you, guys!” I said to Ann and the rest of the volunteers.  “I’ll see you in a little while”.  I took a deep breath, trying to remain optimistic, hoping that I actually would be passing through here later, and that I would make it by the cutoff time.  From the Cal2 aid station, the trail drops down a series of switchbacks for about a mile and a half.  When I reached the bottom of the drop, about 20 minutes after leaving the aid station, I came face to face with my biggest low point of the race.  In the earlier stages I had experienced minor episodes of self-doubt, as most runners did, but this time things really got ugly.  When I left Cal2 and ran down the switchbacks, I watched as more struggling runners hiked their way up.  I offered words of encouragement, but some of these folks were so spent, they couldn’t even respond to me.  All they could do was pass by with a grunt.  I myself, was completely exhausted.  Maybe I could make it to Rucky Chucky, but how was I possibly going to make it back up these harsh inclines in time to make the cutoff at the aid stations?  And to make matters worse, right in front of me was yet another steep uphill climb.  I put my head down and hiked up the ascent, growing angrier with each step.  Halfway up, a voice behind me said something that made me chuckle; “This is fuckin’ steep”.  My first thought was “No shit, really?” but then I laughed and turned around.  “Yes, it is” I said.  Dropping back down the hill after the crest, I saw more miserable oncoming runners, which only enhanced my doubts.  This situation was becoming more hopeless with each passing step.  I was running out of energy and these oncoming runners looked tired and haggard and they still had to climb up to the Cal2 aid station, up the elevator shaft, and up the final climb back to Foresthill.  And they were 10 miles ahead of me.  It seemed impossible.  As the trailed rolled along, I began yelling at myself mentally, as the negative thoughts took over.  Why hadn’t I just done the 50K instead?  It was going to be demoralizing to have to tell everyone that once again, I had to drop.  The way things were going, I was certain I’d get pulled at the aid station on the return trip for not making the cutoff time.  I never learn.  What would be my excuse this time? Maybe it was time to just face reality and accept that I wasn’t ready for 100 kilometers on this kind of terrain.  Sure, I was a good runner, but this course had 15,000 feet of elevation gain.  I was in no shape to contend with another 20 miles of this run.  All I could do was keep moving forward grimly.

As I came around a turn, I saw a young man sitting on a rock on the side of the trail.  He was wrapped in a blanket and accompanied by a couple of runners and a lady who was speaking frantically on the phone with medical staff.  As I pulled up, they explained that he was having vision problems and had consumed too much caffeine.  I took a look at the guy.  He looked to be young, around 19 or 20.  Just then, another pair of runners caught up.  It turned out they were both doctors in the local area and would be escorting him back to the Cal2 aid station where he would get some rest and presumably drop.  He appeared dazed and confused and his eyes wandered.  “You’re going to be okay man, hang in there” I said, giving him a thumbs up.  All he could do was look at me and smile.  I continued down the trail with a new perspective on my situation.  I was in a state of despair, but at least I was moving forward.  A few minutes later, I saw Heidi and Margae making their way back.  They greeted me with enthusiasm and informed me that I had another 2 miles to go until the turnaround.  I picked up the pace and saw Chris and Charles making their way back as well.  The narrow trail eventually gave way to a widened fire road.  I caught up to a girl I had seen earlier in the race, who also looked to be having a tough go at it.  An oncoming runner, who I assumed was either a friend or family member, greeted her with a hug.  She was upset and almost crying, but her friend urged her not to give up.  As I pulled up along side her, I said “you can do it”.  She managed to smile, despite her grim situation.  “Thanks.  I just haven’t had much time to train this year.  I had a baby a year ago”.  “We got this, we’re going to make it” I replied.  We motored along and soon, the tents of the Rucky Chucky checkpoint came into view.  Running into this aid station was uplifting and I was greeted with enthusiasm by the crowd as they rang bells and cheered.  My watch read 5:50 PM; I had arrived ten minutes ahead of my projected pace.  Rucky Chucky rested next to the banks of the American River and was one of the bigger checkpoints along the course.  Several people were lingering around and sitting in camping chairs, drinking beer, and cheering runners on.  I hobbled up to the food tent.  “What can we get for you?” a volunteer asked.  I grabbed a couple of pieces of cheese quesadilla, a piece of bacon, and a small handful of nuts and sat down in an empty chair next to the tent.  It was nothing more than a standard camping chair, but it felt like the most comfortable couch on the planet.  I sat for a few minutes eating, rehydrating, and regrouping.  Rucky Chucky is at mile 47.8 in the course and was the aid station where I was forced to drop last year due to not arriving in time for the cutoff.  I fumbled through my pack and pulled out a 5-hour energy shot that I had brought along in case I needed it.  I opened it up and threw it down.  As I sat there nibbling at my food and drinking, the 5-hour energy took hold, and I was slowly coming back to life.  I looked to my right and saw Travis sitting on a rock nearby.  “Travis how are you holding up, man” I asked.  “Good man! I’ve been sitting here for about 25 minutes regrouping”.  Ernesto also approached, sipping chicken broth from a paper cup.  He too was looking pretty fresh.  I was now feeling much better thanks to the food and the lift from the 5-hour energy.  I stood up, topped off my water bottle, thanked the volunteers and wobbled towards the exit.  Wanting to keep pace with my timing goals, I made sure to leave the aid station no later than 6:15 PM.  I ran along the fire road, assessing the situation.  The cutoff time to be back at Cal2 was 9:15 PM and the cutoff time to be back at Cal1 was 10:45 PM.  If I missed either of those, I was done.  It was 6:17 PM, so I had a little less than 3 hours to go 7 miles.  I took out my phone and did the math.  I would need to do 25-minute miles to make the cutoff to Cal2, then from there, 18-minute miles to make the cutoff at Cal1.  If I made the Cal1 cutoff, they’d let me keep going.  My mind was rationalizing the irrational.  My sights were no longer set on qualifying for Western States within the 18-hour cut off.  I simply wanted to have the strength to make it to the finish line without being pulled.  My second wind was picking up and I had broken through the mental wall that haunted me on the way to the river.  Those feelings of hopelessness and self-doubt were replaced by feelings of determination and hope. 

The trail ran parallel to the American River and as I gained altitude, the view got even better.  Several runners that were behind me continued coming in the opposite direction heading for the turnaround.  “Great job, you got this!” I said to them.  Some were optimistic, others replied with “I’m so done” and “I don’t think it’s going to happen”.  I urged them to keep trying and not to give up.  I ran at a nice pace along the rolling hills, eventually arriving at the base of the mile and a half climb that would lead back up to Cal2.  By this time the sun had set, and I was now moving along with the power of my headlamp and flashlight.  I hiked my way up the switchbacks, step by step, knowing that I was getting closer and closer.  The climb was tough, but I was now in an up zone and plodded along pleasantly.  Question everything or shut up and run!  Eventually I could see the lights of the Cal2 aid station through the trees, and after a couple more switch backs, the tents finally came into view at the crest of the climb.  “Hey, welcome back!” the volunteers called out.  “Hey everyone!” I responded.  It was a small crowd with four people manning the aid station, and three other runners sitting down and regrouping.  I stood in place near the tent, hands on my knees, trying to stretch my legs to avoid cramping.  A woman walked up and put her hand on my shoulder “What can we get you?” I looked up to see Ann standing next to me.  “Hi Ann! Can I just get some more electrolyte drink?” The volunteer I had seen earlier at the pump and on my way to the turnaround filled my water bottle.  She introduced herself as Tiffany.  “You’d better get moving soon” Ann advised me as she handed me back my water bottle.  “You have to be back by 11:30 to qualify for Western States”.  “Yep” I said.  “I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to make it for the qualifier.  My goal was just to finish”.  Ann took a look at me. “Well, you look pretty fresh, and it looks like you still have some energy.  I definitely think you can do it” she said.  It was like time froze for a few seconds.  Here I was, standing on a trail in the middle of nowhere in the dark, 55 miles into this run, and here was one of the most elite ultramarathon runners on the planet telling me that she thought I looked strong and I had what it takes to qualify for Western States, my dream race.  It was the most euphoric and profound moment of the race.  “Thanks!  I’m going to go for it” I answered.  I thanked her for her encouragement and headed back towards the course. “I’ll see you at the finish!” she said as I ran off into the night.  My eyes filled with tears of joy as I began the 8.5-mile rally to the finish. 

Half way through the climb up the elevator shaft, I heard a voice behind me call out.  “Liam!”  “Hey, who’s that?” I answered without looking back.  “It’s Travis”.  He caught up and pulled alongside me.  “Dude, did you see that mountain lion back there?”  “No” I answered as I laughed.  “You seriously saw one?”  “Yeah, it wasn’t a big one, but he was in the trees watching us”.  There were frequent mountain lion and bear sightings out here on the Western States trail, especially during this time of year.  Western States 100 participants run along this course in June and must also contend with possible encounters with rattlesnakes.  I had read in Scott Jurek’s memoir that at one point, he was so in the zone during Western States, that he stepped on a rattlesnake and didn’t even know it.  Travis kept pushing up the climb and before long, I was on my own again.  There were no other runners in sight and the next aid station was probably about a mile and a half ahead.  Running along with just the power of my flashlight and headlamp, I felt alone and vulnerable in the dark.  I moved forward at a modest pace, as a few stronger runners passed by.  I hated being passed, but it didn’t make sense to compete with others when all I was trying to do was get to the finish line.  I began to see the lights of the Cal1 aid station through the trees in the distance, and after a series of turns and rolling hills, I came running in.  “How are you feeling?” the small crowd of volunteers asked.  “Pretty good!  Just trying to make it back in one piece.”  I paused for a moment. “Hell, not even one piece.  I’ll carry the other pieces of me to the finish if I have to”.  The small crowd got a kick out of my feeble attempt at humor as I sat down for one final rest before the final stretch.  The finish line was just 3.5 miles away.  Unfortunately, that 3.5 miles was almost entirely uphill, climbing 1,300 feet back up to Foresthill.   My watch read 10:01 PM, which was 44 minutes ahead of the aid station cutoff time, so I was in good shape.  If I could gut out those last few miles, I was home free.  The question was could I make the 18-hour Western States cutoff?  I stood up, thanked the volunteers for being out there, and exited the final aid station.  Next stop, the finish line in Foresthill. 

Not long after leaving the aid station the climb began.  The first mile was survivable but after that, it was pure agony.  I knew that if I just kept moving I would make it, but the steep terrain compounding with the exhaustion and soreness was pounding me into submission.  My steps were labored, and I was barely able to put one foot in front of the other.  Periodically I’d look up and shine my light on the trail, only to see more incline ahead of me.  I’d see the lights of runners who were ahead of me and when I noticed how much higher they were, it crushed me.  The hill just kept going on and on and on.  The temptation to stop and rest was overwhelming, but I knew that if I did so, I risked not making the 18-hour cutoff.  I just kept moving.  Coming around a corner, I saw two lights about a hundred feet ahead.  As I approached, I saw a runner lying in the middle of the trail with his safety runner standing over him.  Runners leaving Rucky Chucky after 6:00 PM were allowed to have a safety runner accompany them to the finish line.  In the light of my headlamp, I could see him shivering spastically as he lay on the trail.  “He’s seizing up pretty badly” his pacer explained.  “I’m going to push up to the finish and send back some help”.  “Do you want me to stay with him?” I offered.  He assured me that I could continue, and help would be on the way shortly.  The finish was roughly a mile and a half ahead.  I looked down at the guy and told him to hang tight, help was on the way, and he would be okay.  He just looked at me like a deer in headlights and couldn’t even articulate a response.  The pacer took off running up the trail in search of help.  Sure enough, about 10 minutes later, a rescue crew was making their way down the trail to come to his aid.  I was relieved that he was going to get some help.  Things can get hairy out here in the dark.  I kept pushing along in agony.  It hurt like hell, but nothing was going to stop me.  I was going to finish this damn race.  Just when I thought my body couldn’t handle one more step of this climb, I noticed a gate up ahead.  This is where the course left the trail for paved streets, which meant it was just over a half a mile to the finish.  I began running towards the gate and burst through onto the road, chasing the 18-hour Western States cutoff.  It was going to be close.  I banked left on California street and ran towards Foresthill road.  When I reached the intersection, a man with a clipboard instructed me to go right and informed me that I had just over a quarter of a mile left and eleven minutes to make the cutoff.  Even in this weakened, fatigue state, I could manage that!  As I ran the last hundred feet to the finish, it felt as though there was nothing else on earth except for me and that finish line.  It felt like I was running on a cloud.  A whole year’s worth of frustration was suddenly melting away.  I had displayed physical and mental strength, experienced highs and lows, broken through the walls, and proven that I was better than I ever thought I could be.  I was going to do it…finally! The announcer called my name out and people screamed my name from all directions as I ran the final steps.  My eyes teared up as I burst through the finish, arms in the air, smiling ear to ear.  People were all around me giving me high fives and kudos, when Ann broke through the crowd and gave me a big hug.  I had broken the 18-hour Western States qualifier by 8 minutes.  Standing there, legs on fire, every muscle in my bottle sore, completely exhausted and fatigued, I was the happiest man on the planet.   

I stuck around for a little bit and watched more runners cross the finish line.  Travis had finished about twenty minutes before me and looked great.  Ernesto came in few minutes after me, which confused me because I thought he was way ahead of me.  Turned out he had taken a wrong turn towards the end and went in the wrong direction for fifteen minutes before he realized his blunder and made a U turn.  Tiffany was also at the finish and greeted me with a hug, congratulating me on qualifying for Western States.  After collecting my finisher swag, I walked over to a small bar next to the school to have a celebratory beer.  There were only about a dozen people inside, a few of them runners.  We high fived and congratulated each other and when I ordered a Bud Light from the bartender, he slid it over to me and said “it’s on the house.  Congratulations”.  The quarter mile walk back to my car took forever but I didn’t care.  I was so hopped up on endorphins I barely felt the pain in my legs.  I decided not to eat that night after the race.  It was well past midnight, I wasn’t that hungry, and I knew that eating at that hour would throw my digestive system into disarray.  Not that it wasn’t thrown off already by nearly 18 hours of continuous running, but why make it worse.  After a hot shower in my hotel room, I dropped into bed like a sack of potatoes and promptly passed out.