I'm frustrated, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel... When it comes to this climb anyway. I'm about 55 miles into the Western States 100, finishing up the climb out of El Dorado Canyon and heading toward Michigan Bluff. I'm hot, I'm tired, and I'm pissed that I am so far behind pace. I dread the top of this climb because I know my family is there. They've been waiting all day and I am way behind pace. I presume Jeremy is going to be the first person I see, and I'm right.
"Alright, what are you going to need?"
"Gels. Ice. Water."
"Got it. You're behind, but we can make up a lot of time on Cal Street."
"I know I'm behind. But I want sub 24, and I'm ready to fucking bleed for it."
I have been dreaming of Western States for the last 6 years. My first exposure to the race being JB Benna’s film on the 2010 running of the race, Unbreakable. 6 years of qualifying and missing out on being drawn in the lottery for one of the coveted spots. I'm not fast enough to race my way in, so I had no choice but to be patient, qualifying and re-qualifying, paying my dues in blood, sweat, tears, and lactic acid. Finally, on 12/2, my name was finally called, 257 names into the lottery with 261 names being drawn. I watch the webcast over and over again to make sure I heard my name correctly. I look at the website displaying the result, to make sure they didn't call Greg Norris instead. Sure enough, my time has come. I'm not nervous, but I know the pressure that comes with being gifted with this opportunity. Unless you're elite, this is easily a once in a lifetime opportunity. I will not slack in training. I will not take this for granted. I will work hard. I will make sacrifices. I will do this. And by "this", I mean that I will finish Western States in less than 24 hours.
A goal like this has inherent demands. Sure, your quads need to be tough, as if they were carved from slabs of granite. You have to be able to survive the heat of the course, and you have to have a stomach that will put up with you ingesting 50 gels, potato chips, quesadillas, watermelon and pickle juice and still keep asking for more. That is the physical, and it is the easiest to prepare. What is left is the mental side of things. Learning how to emerge victorious in the brain game I would argue is the hardest thing in ultrarunning. It doesn't matter how hard you train, what your pedigree is, or how much money you can spend on gear. If you can't figure out how to get back up after being knocked on your ass and cramp so hard that you simultaneously puke and shit your pants, then chances are, you won't ever get the best of yourself. Sure, this is a bit of an exaggeration, but the truth is that your mind will always act just like the governor in a car. Your body can always take more, but only if you can override your mind. Running an ultra hurts. Bad. If you can manage to get comfortable with being uncomfortable, you can accomplish so much more than you realize. But it's harder to develop this facet of your game than anything else.
I trained hard. Damn hard. Tons of running of course, but core workout after core workout. Hours of hiking in a 40lb weight vest at 15% incline. Often in three layers of winter running gear with a space heater blowing in my face. Thousands of step ups. Multiple training camps in areas that simulated the course, and even on the course itself. On race day, only the first 30 miles were a mystery to me. And I mean mystery in a very subtle way. I did my homework, studying the course description, profile, and dozens of race reports, all with the purpose of upping my brain game. I would be the strongest I've ever been, both physically and mentally.
It's race morning and I am up 3am. Eating, drinking, and typical bathroom visits come and go. I had laid all my gear out the night before, so I found myself ready to go quite early. I had an almost eerie calm overtake me as I walked to the start line with my family. It was awesome to stand there in that moment with Christy, Scott, Linda, Jeremy and of course with Sis once she arrived. After some quick "I love you’s" and well wishes, I worked my way into the crowd, ready to get this thing under way. Once the gun sounded, we were off, starting the 2500 ft climb up the escarpment. With a mix of running and walking, I made my way up to the top, almost let down. I had expected the climb to be worse, but after all of the time trials and workouts up Mt. Hamilton, what could that climb throw at me that I hadn't crushed dozens of times over the past 6 months? Pump the brakes there pal, we're just getting started. As I crested the summit, I turned to take in a breathtaking view of Lake Tahoe before starting the downhill into the high country. I was just easing into a steady run when I pick my head up to look at a videographer when I tripped and face planted right in front of him. I rolled on my back and muttered "awesome". Yeah, there was no way he didn't catch that, and of course there were several runners behind me who couldn't have missed it either. Well, someone had to fall sometime I guess.
Shaking off the fall, I focused much more intently on the trail as I worked my way to the first aid station at mile 11, Lyon Ridge. I didn't need anything, so it was a quick "274 in, 274 out". The next 5 miles rolled by easily, without anything noteworthy occurring. I remember thinking that I needed to be sure to be cautious and not to get behind on anything early. Keep the calories coming in, keep drinking, and stay cool. As I came into Red Star Ridge at mile 16 and change, I decided to get started with ice in my bandanna. Some fruit and bottle refills and I was out.
With 16 miles down and feeling good, I started to think about how fast I could get this done. Everything from Jeremy's seemingly crazy predictions to the drop-dead time of 23:59:59. I shook that off just in time for my body to start giving me some problems to solve. I felt a bit of a pain in my left hip flexor for really no reason at all. This pain would come and go for the remainder of the day. Despite the mellow and controlled effort so far, I started cramping in my left hamstring and calves. For the next few miles, I would stop and stretch out a bit, trying to keep the cramping at Bay. At around mile 22, Dean Karnazes comes rolling up behind me and we exchanged a few words. Dean was needing to regroup, and I believe he was cramping a bit too. I suggested we work together to get to the next aid station at Duncan Canyon and it was cool that he agreed. I offered Dean some S-Caps, and he accepted. If I was smart, I would have taken some myself. In training, I had started using E-Gels which have a significantly higher amount of sodium and potassium than other gels. In training, I rarely needed any salt to supplement. In hindsight, my opinion is that I got behind on salt early. Live and learn, I guess. Getting to run with Dean was cool. We talked about a lot of random things and made our way into Duncan where we essentially parted ways for the rest of the day. I spent very little time in Duncan Canyon aid, and got out of there before Dean, assuming I'd see him down the road.
The next 6 miles to Robinson Flat were awful. The heat was on, and I felt like I didn't have much to give. It was slow going, and I was trying to be patient and save my efforts for the big downhill that was looming. I had deliberately avoided looking at my watch much until this point, and was highly disappointed when I looked down and found I was around 2 hours behind the projections I gave to the crew. This was such a huge mistake, because in that moment, I needed inspired, not thrown on the ground and kicked in the stomach. I worked to shake those thoughts out of my mind and focused on the grind up to Robinson. Robinson was my reset button. I knew everything that the course had to throw at me from that point on. If Western States was my title fight, I was down 4 rounds with 8 to go. I came here to fight and I was going to turn it around at Robinson.
I rolled in for a quick resupply and visit with my crew. I was already 7 hours into the race and didn't want to waste a lot of time. Jeremy was quick to work, packing my vest with gels while Christy filled my bandanna with ice. I grabbed a handful of chips and got down the road. I remember Jeremy saying at some point that any deficit could be erased on the downhill if I just ran smart. Just then, I was hit with a cramp that was legendary. Instant debilitation. My calf seized so hard, I thought it was going to split in half. Crippled and writhing on the ground I was caught between a rock and a hard place. As I reached for my calf, my quad began to seize. Quickly, I bent my leg and my hamstring threatened to reduce me to a blubbering mess on the trail. I tried to think about what to do, and I just threw 3 S-Caps in my mouth and started chewing. Still, the cramp would not give an inch. In my moment of desperation, a fellow runner stopped and picked my leg up, holding it steady until the cramp finally relinquished the stranglehold that it had on the success or failure of my race. I don't know the name of the runner who helped me out, but if you ever read this, please reach out. I owe you a beer, pizza, burger, high five, or whatever is your poison. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
With the cramp gone, I got to my feet and started easing into a walk, carefully testing the waters with this sinking feeling that my calf was injured after that episode. I took a couple of gels and much to my delight, I started running down the trail. Stringing together some consistent running, the cramp was left in my dust. Down the way somewhere near Miller's Defeat at mile 34.4, I nearly ran right past a turn as I was watching two runners ahead of me. The trail marker had fallen and those runners had missed the turn. I yelled out to them and motioned them back to the turn. I stopped and fixed the markings and kept moving. For the first time in several hours, I was feeling good and starting to cut into the deficit that I had created earlier.
I was cruising along pretty well as I made my way into Dusty Corners, mile 38. Here, I stopped for a bathroom break and got cooled off by the volunteers at the station before heading off toward Last Chance. I had to tell myself to chill out a bit, because I didn't want to feel smoked when I hit the canyons. There was still 8 more miles of downhill, and I needed to stay smart. Remember, Frank - survive the day, go hunting at night.
Running through this section is awesome. It was really cool to see the old and rusting machinery that remains from years past. Running through this section during the training camp and during the race, I couldn’t help but think about how much my Grandpa and my Dad would enjoy seeing the equipment. They had both done some work in this area in the past and as unlikely as it seemed, I couldn’t help but think that I was stepping on the same ground that they had stepped on years before. Thinking of my Grandpa – alive and as a younger man with his signature “walk like you’ve gotta get shit done” walk, working harder, longer, and faster than everyone else helped give me some perspective (and inspiration) on my current situation in the race. Grandpa never let anything get in his way of getting the job done, and I wasn’t about to let anything get in my way of finishing this race.
As I made my way down to Swinging Bridge, I was feeling really hot. At this point, it was already around 230pm and I was getting cooked. Sure, I was icing at the aid stations and drinking and dousing myself with water, but it felt like being in an oven. I would employ some mental tricks like convincing myself that I would cool off by running faster, or making bargains with myself. The main one being if I could run every step down to the bridge, I would lay in the water for 5 minutes to cool off. 5 glorious minutes of nothing but cold water and time off of my feet. I wasn’t fooling anyone really. I was going to lay in that water no matter what. I needed it. My heart rate was elevated and I needed to get my shit together before heading up Devil’s Thumb. The minutes and miles clicked by and I was elated when I found myself standing at the edge of the water. I stripped my pack off and got in. One look at my watch to check the time and I completely submerged in the water. I remember floating on my back thinking, “Oh shit! What if I fall asleep?” So, I kept my eyes open and watched the bridge for anyone passing by. Just then I saw Dean Karnazes cross over the bridge with another runner in tow. They were both making their way down to the water to cool off and I got it in my head that I wanted to do my best to stay ahead of Dean. So, I got up and got moving, certainly not using all of the 5 minutes I had planned.
I made my way back up the path and crossed over Swinging Bridge and began the grind up Devil’s Thumb. I knew it would be awful and just resolved to give it an honest effort up to the top. I didn’t run a step, but I hiked with purpose and gained motivation each time that I saw someone sitting instead of making their way up to the top. I wasn’t heartless – I asked each person if they were ok and needed anything, but tried to keep the interaction brief as I just wanted to get up and over. I kept thinking back to the Canyons 100k and having to go up and over the thumb twice. Each time I would think about stopping for a rest, I would tell myself that I was stronger now than when I ran Canyons 2 years ago, and there was no reason I couldn’t make it up this climb once without stopping. It wasn’t pretty, but I did it. And damn… it took forever. My pace in the section from Last Chance to Devil’s Thumb was 21:21/mile. It was certainly my slowest section, but hey… I got it done.
I’m pretty sure I didn’t spend a great deal of the time at the aid station, but I know I enjoyed the hell out of a popsicle. I also took one for the road and put it in my water bottle, thinking it would be nice to have a little flavor from time to time. Yeah, no flavor there. I ran solid down to the bottom of El Dorado, working off of Karl Hoagland and trying to make a little time up after giving so much back on the way up Devil’s Thumb. Karl was telling me to go past, but truthfully, I was having a hard time keeping up. As I was struggling, I tried to draw inspiration from the training camp when Ian Sharman FLEW by me on the downhill like I was standing still. At the camp, I was running super hard trying to keep up as he floated down the hill effortlessly. Ian had given me some advice about the climb ahead and my mantra for the moment became “Be Like Ian”. As Karl and I started the climb up to Michigan Bluff, I shared that Ian had told me to hike the entire climb as it would be really important to have legs to transition with at the top. Ian warned me that he had seen many people push too hard on the relatively gradual climb up to Michigan Bluff only to find themselves smoked at the top. We trusted his sage advice and hiked nearly every step, with the exception being the last quarter mile or so. Karl wanted to hang back with Diana Fitzpatrick and I was ready to run. I eased into a jog, wished them luck and got moving. I knew that time wasn’t on my side, and with the hardest parts of the course now behind me and only the most familiar sections remaining, I needed to get my mind right for the battle ahead. I wish I could say that that part was easy. I wanted to be much further ahead than this. I wanted to feel better and stronger. There was disappointment. Then there was sadness. Then there was defeat. Then… there was anger. I waited too long for this race to go down without a fight. What is it Jeremy said? Something about how shitty it would feel in the heat and how I would have to find something deep inside to pull from if I wanted to answer the bell. Alright. Fuck it. I’m upright, I’m moving, I can deal with the pain, and the sun is going down soon. Let’s get to work. Michigan Bluff is right there.
"Alright, what are you going to need?"
"Gels. Ice. Water."
"Got it. You're behind, but we can make up a lot of time on Cal Street."
"I know I'm behind. But I want sub 24, and I'm ready to fucking bleed for it."
“Whoa! Did you just take some caffeine or something? That got me all hyped up!”
”Nope. Saving it. I’m ready to fight.”
“Alright. I’m picking you up in 6 miles. I can meet you at Bath Road. You’ve gotta get there in an hour and a half.”
“Let’s do it.”
I was in and out of the aid station in 5 minutes. I was committed to making it to Forest Hill within the hour and a half that Jeremy gave me. In the end, I made it there in 1:11, passing 17 people along the way. That was motivation enough, but knowing that I would be picking up Jeremy was even stronger. I knew I was nearing Bath Road and knew that picking up Jeremy meant running even harder, so I took a gel. Unfortunately, it didn’t quite sit right and I almost puked. Of course, this was right as Jeremy came into sight. I told him I need to walk for a few minutes to settle, but I was ready to do work.
Coming into Forest Hill is awesome. I really wish I could have enjoyed the cheers and the hype around that station, but I didn’t have time for it. I spent 90 seconds getting water in my bottles and eating a few pieces of fruit. I also took a few more moments to change my socks and shoes. I knew that after having wet socks and shoes all day, fresh kicks and socks would make me feel like a million bucks. Plus, would be good in the transition to the dry and dusty conditions of Cal Street. Having a little extra cushion wouldn’t hurt for the next 16 miles of downhill too. As we took off, I was surprised to see my Mom and Dad at the end of Forest Hill before turning onto Cal. It would have been great to stop and visit, but I was on the clock. Truthfully, I still feel a bit guilty for not stopping and spending more time with them. It was great to see them.
It was awesome to run with Jeremy. Movie quotes, words of encouragement, and just good friendship was exactly the boost I needed to start turning this thing around. Overall, things went really well until Fords Bar at mile 73. Well, with the exception of my face plant somewhere around Dardanelles. I joked that I hadn’t fallen since mile 4 and I was overdue. At Fords Bar, the cramping that had stayed at bay came back with a vengeance. I asked for some pickle juice but there was none. Fortunately, Jeremy gave me a HotShot which absolutely saved my ass. I know the rule is not to try any thing new on race day, but I’m glad that I did. And let me tell you… I will absolutely have a few of those HotShots on hand when I race in the future. Call it placebo if you will, but it was magic for me.
As we made our way down the trail nearing Rucky Chucky, I thought about how I had passed so many people in that section and tried to quantify how much time I made up since Foresthill. In hindsight, it was 17 people and maybe 10 seconds of cumulative average time. As we crossed the river and started making our way up to Green Gate, I tried to remind myself that the remaining 20 miles were fairly flat and easy. It would be my third time running that section, and I knew exactly what to expect. Jeremy did his part in reminding me of all the “pointless” 20 mile runs that I had done in training leading up to this day. I moved pretty well through Auburn Lakes Trail to Quarry Road, but then started experiencing a feeling that I hadn’t encountered before. If I stopped moving and slowed, I would get incredibly dizzy, and feel like I was going to pass out. I suddenly found myself in a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” situation. I was tired. Damn tired. Pushing and fighting all day had taken a toll, so running for any extended period of time felt impossible – almost like I was going to pass out. Couldn’t do that, and couldn’t stop to rest, because I felt like I was going to pass out just the same. So, I did what I could, when I could.
With less than 10 miles to go and working hard to maintain my average pace, I kept wondering when my mind would get out of my way. Sure, my legs were wrecked and I was dealing with this weird dizziness situation, but I knew that my body had more to give. I mean, there had to be more, right? I wasn’t in excruciating pain and the cramping had long subsided. I set to work, trying to sharpen my mind and work out a plan. Ok. What’s left? Aid station at Pointed Rocks. How many miles? About 4. Easy and flat running after that until No Hands Bridge. What did Tim Tweitmeyer say in that video? No Hands is the gateway to the finish. Probably can’t run the whole section up to Robie Point. Wait a minute. Don’t get too far ahead. Get to Pointed Rocks, get your ass through the aid station, and run as hard as you can for as long as you can. Time for the last stand. Fuck it. I felt the fire being lit and I just needed to stoke it a bit more.
Approaching Pointed Rocks, I knew it was time. I needed some water and a gel or two. We were in and out of the aid station really fast, barely saying a word to Christy and Scott who had walked into the aid station, hauling all of our gear, only for us to need absolutely none of it. It wasn’t the first time that we had done this. Sis had walked all the way down to Green Gate with our gear, and we also didn’t use a thing. Sorry guys! OK – All systems go. With one full bottle and a gel in hand, I just needed to get it down and will my legs to bring my home. Easy, right? Wrong. So wrong. Generally, I take in half a gel at a time, add water, swish it around and swallow. Repeat for the second half. Goes down easy, doesn’t mess with my stomach, etc. So why in the world, would I choose to take the entire gel at once with no water? Beats the hell out of me, but that’s just what I did. And I was punished. I choked on the gel, gagged and then went into an epic puking bonanza. I collapsed in a heap, legs cramping, retching, stomach knotted, and well… you get the picture. I was completely immobilized. Jeremy was up a head, yelling at me to get up and get moving. Once there was nothing left for my stomach to give back to the world, I slowly got myself to my feet and started slogging along. I felt defeated, but really from that point on, I did nothing but simply put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes I ran, sometimes I jogged, sometimes I walked. So much for my plan of a triumphant charge down to No Hands and then up to Robie Point.
No Hands Bridge came and went. I ran across it, not really feeling the joy and elation that I was expecting. I didn’t need anything, so I ran straight through, likely saying nothing more than “274 in, 274 out”. I thought back to Unbreakable to the scene where Anton Krupicka is chasing Geoff Roes and runs through No Hands, doesn’t say a word, drops his bottles and leaves Jenn Shelton running behind him trying to keep up. I wanted so badly to mimic that scene, and did so for a bit, but ultimately (and ashamedly) resolved to walking. Jeremy did his best to push me, but I simply wasn’t having it. He reminded me of the sacrifices I made for this race. The years of waiting, the qualifiers, the training camps, sacrifices at home, sacrifices at work… all to no avail. He didn’t want me to look back on this day and the experience and have regrets. Still, it didn’t matter. I was done.
Jeremy and I hiked together up to Robie Point and talked about a variety of things. Some things serious, and others not. We passed through the aid station and started running. We ran through the neighborhood, down to the white bridge, every step bringing us closer to the track that I had seen a number of times in the past but refused to set foot upon. Glory was mere minutes away, and for the first time during the run, I had a smile on my face. I entered the track and did my best to fake a strong stride as I ran my victory lap. Rounding the final corner, I saw the finish line ahead, and listened to John Medinger announce my name as a finisher of Western States. I crossed that line in 23:19, in 85th place.
It’s now 6 months after the race. It’s been a long road to get here. I wish I could say that recovery went well and that after my typical 10 days of rest post 100, that I was back running, happy again. As per usual, I took my 10 days off. I slept a lot, ate even more, and generally was a lazy ass. I watched some movies, played a bunch of video games, started playing darts, and sat down many times with the intention of writing this blog. After 10 days, I tried to run for the first time. I barely made it down the street and over to the water tower and back. I took 3 days off, and tried again. Still, something was wrong. I took another week off. Still struggled. This has gone on, off and on until October when I finally managed to run 5 days a week for the entire month. Not huge miles, but finally back to some form of normalcy. I’m still not happy with where I’m at, but I’m taking it one step at a time, aid station to aid station. I’m operating under the assumption that I just went too deep in the well. I asked a lot from my body, specifically over the last year. Opening the new hotel, the training, the race itself… I guess I just need more time.
So, what does the future hold? I’ve had a lot of time to process this all and I have come up with 2 points:
1.) I didn’t enjoy my experience at Western States. It pains me to say it. I stressed way too much about finishing because of how damn hard it is to get into the race. I treated it like there would never be another chance for me to run it again, and while I promised myself that I wouldn’t squander the opportunity, I did. I trained my ass off and didn’t slack in that arena. I went into the race stronger than ever, and able to run significantly faster than I ended up doing on race day. I didn’t fight hard enough in the first 30 miles, and I didn’t fight hard enough in the last 15 miles. Not squandering meant that I should have had to crawl over that finish line. Should I ever get in again, I will remember that.
2.) I’ve proven all that I need to prove in running. I raced my dream race and finished in less than 24 hours. However, I ran scared. I always run scared. I play it safe and seek to just get to the finish line. That ends now. When I race again in the future, I’m either going to crush it, or I’m going to blow up spectacularly. I have nothing left to prove, and now I want to see just how fast I can be. I’ve prided myself on minimizing DNF’s, but I’ve realized that it’s not hard to do that if you just play it safe all the time. What’s hard is putting yourself out there and overcoming the fear of failure.
I’m going to continue training, and inching closer to where I was before the race. I’ve got some ideas for next season, but there isn’t anything totally finalized. I am going to test myself. As much as my body will let me.
It was awesome to run with Jeremy. Movie quotes, words of encouragement, and just good friendship was exactly the boost I needed to start turning this thing around. Overall, things went really well until Fords Bar at mile 73. Well, with the exception of my face plant somewhere around Dardanelles. I joked that I hadn’t fallen since mile 4 and I was overdue. At Fords Bar, the cramping that had stayed at bay came back with a vengeance. I asked for some pickle juice but there was none. Fortunately, Jeremy gave me a HotShot which absolutely saved my ass. I know the rule is not to try any thing new on race day, but I’m glad that I did. And let me tell you… I will absolutely have a few of those HotShots on hand when I race in the future. Call it placebo if you will, but it was magic for me.
As we made our way down the trail nearing Rucky Chucky, I thought about how I had passed so many people in that section and tried to quantify how much time I made up since Foresthill. In hindsight, it was 17 people and maybe 10 seconds of cumulative average time. As we crossed the river and started making our way up to Green Gate, I tried to remind myself that the remaining 20 miles were fairly flat and easy. It would be my third time running that section, and I knew exactly what to expect. Jeremy did his part in reminding me of all the “pointless” 20 mile runs that I had done in training leading up to this day. I moved pretty well through Auburn Lakes Trail to Quarry Road, but then started experiencing a feeling that I hadn’t encountered before. If I stopped moving and slowed, I would get incredibly dizzy, and feel like I was going to pass out. I suddenly found myself in a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” situation. I was tired. Damn tired. Pushing and fighting all day had taken a toll, so running for any extended period of time felt impossible – almost like I was going to pass out. Couldn’t do that, and couldn’t stop to rest, because I felt like I was going to pass out just the same. So, I did what I could, when I could.
With less than 10 miles to go and working hard to maintain my average pace, I kept wondering when my mind would get out of my way. Sure, my legs were wrecked and I was dealing with this weird dizziness situation, but I knew that my body had more to give. I mean, there had to be more, right? I wasn’t in excruciating pain and the cramping had long subsided. I set to work, trying to sharpen my mind and work out a plan. Ok. What’s left? Aid station at Pointed Rocks. How many miles? About 4. Easy and flat running after that until No Hands Bridge. What did Tim Tweitmeyer say in that video? No Hands is the gateway to the finish. Probably can’t run the whole section up to Robie Point. Wait a minute. Don’t get too far ahead. Get to Pointed Rocks, get your ass through the aid station, and run as hard as you can for as long as you can. Time for the last stand. Fuck it. I felt the fire being lit and I just needed to stoke it a bit more.
Approaching Pointed Rocks, I knew it was time. I needed some water and a gel or two. We were in and out of the aid station really fast, barely saying a word to Christy and Scott who had walked into the aid station, hauling all of our gear, only for us to need absolutely none of it. It wasn’t the first time that we had done this. Sis had walked all the way down to Green Gate with our gear, and we also didn’t use a thing. Sorry guys! OK – All systems go. With one full bottle and a gel in hand, I just needed to get it down and will my legs to bring my home. Easy, right? Wrong. So wrong. Generally, I take in half a gel at a time, add water, swish it around and swallow. Repeat for the second half. Goes down easy, doesn’t mess with my stomach, etc. So why in the world, would I choose to take the entire gel at once with no water? Beats the hell out of me, but that’s just what I did. And I was punished. I choked on the gel, gagged and then went into an epic puking bonanza. I collapsed in a heap, legs cramping, retching, stomach knotted, and well… you get the picture. I was completely immobilized. Jeremy was up a head, yelling at me to get up and get moving. Once there was nothing left for my stomach to give back to the world, I slowly got myself to my feet and started slogging along. I felt defeated, but really from that point on, I did nothing but simply put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes I ran, sometimes I jogged, sometimes I walked. So much for my plan of a triumphant charge down to No Hands and then up to Robie Point.
No Hands Bridge came and went. I ran across it, not really feeling the joy and elation that I was expecting. I didn’t need anything, so I ran straight through, likely saying nothing more than “274 in, 274 out”. I thought back to Unbreakable to the scene where Anton Krupicka is chasing Geoff Roes and runs through No Hands, doesn’t say a word, drops his bottles and leaves Jenn Shelton running behind him trying to keep up. I wanted so badly to mimic that scene, and did so for a bit, but ultimately (and ashamedly) resolved to walking. Jeremy did his best to push me, but I simply wasn’t having it. He reminded me of the sacrifices I made for this race. The years of waiting, the qualifiers, the training camps, sacrifices at home, sacrifices at work… all to no avail. He didn’t want me to look back on this day and the experience and have regrets. Still, it didn’t matter. I was done.
Jeremy and I hiked together up to Robie Point and talked about a variety of things. Some things serious, and others not. We passed through the aid station and started running. We ran through the neighborhood, down to the white bridge, every step bringing us closer to the track that I had seen a number of times in the past but refused to set foot upon. Glory was mere minutes away, and for the first time during the run, I had a smile on my face. I entered the track and did my best to fake a strong stride as I ran my victory lap. Rounding the final corner, I saw the finish line ahead, and listened to John Medinger announce my name as a finisher of Western States. I crossed that line in 23:19, in 85th place.
It’s now 6 months after the race. It’s been a long road to get here. I wish I could say that recovery went well and that after my typical 10 days of rest post 100, that I was back running, happy again. As per usual, I took my 10 days off. I slept a lot, ate even more, and generally was a lazy ass. I watched some movies, played a bunch of video games, started playing darts, and sat down many times with the intention of writing this blog. After 10 days, I tried to run for the first time. I barely made it down the street and over to the water tower and back. I took 3 days off, and tried again. Still, something was wrong. I took another week off. Still struggled. This has gone on, off and on until October when I finally managed to run 5 days a week for the entire month. Not huge miles, but finally back to some form of normalcy. I’m still not happy with where I’m at, but I’m taking it one step at a time, aid station to aid station. I’m operating under the assumption that I just went too deep in the well. I asked a lot from my body, specifically over the last year. Opening the new hotel, the training, the race itself… I guess I just need more time.
So, what does the future hold? I’ve had a lot of time to process this all and I have come up with 2 points:
1.) I didn’t enjoy my experience at Western States. It pains me to say it. I stressed way too much about finishing because of how damn hard it is to get into the race. I treated it like there would never be another chance for me to run it again, and while I promised myself that I wouldn’t squander the opportunity, I did. I trained my ass off and didn’t slack in that arena. I went into the race stronger than ever, and able to run significantly faster than I ended up doing on race day. I didn’t fight hard enough in the first 30 miles, and I didn’t fight hard enough in the last 15 miles. Not squandering meant that I should have had to crawl over that finish line. Should I ever get in again, I will remember that.
2.) I’ve proven all that I need to prove in running. I raced my dream race and finished in less than 24 hours. However, I ran scared. I always run scared. I play it safe and seek to just get to the finish line. That ends now. When I race again in the future, I’m either going to crush it, or I’m going to blow up spectacularly. I have nothing left to prove, and now I want to see just how fast I can be. I’ve prided myself on minimizing DNF’s, but I’ve realized that it’s not hard to do that if you just play it safe all the time. What’s hard is putting yourself out there and overcoming the fear of failure.
I’m going to continue training, and inching closer to where I was before the race. I’ve got some ideas for next season, but there isn’t anything totally finalized. I am going to test myself. As much as my body will let me.
