The 25th annual Zane Grey Experience: A view from the back of the pack.

The Race

  

Checking out the the finish just before we saw the email that the course would end at Fish Hatchery.

The Famous Zane Grey Rocks (all trail photos from the day before the race).

Tonto Creek. Guess we'll have to cross this next year...

 The hail, rain and snow had kicked in with the wind. I was freezing, starting to shiver and it was still early in the race. I fantasized about the fleece pull over I had in my drop bag at Washington Park, mile 17. Usually, when things get tough late in a race, my mantra is ¨this is what you came for.¨ For this race it was ¨fleece pull over, dry gloves.”  If I could just get there and get some warm clothes on, I’d be ok.

  The way this race turned out is yet another reminder that we always worry about the wrong things. Hydration and heat management were my big concerns coming into Zane Grey. And rocks.

  Shivering, I finally pulled into Washington Park. I opened my drop bag and ripped out my pull over. It was dripping wet and cold. Everything in the bag was an icy mess.  

I stood there and stared at the ground for a moment, enjoying a bit of quality time with my stupidity. 

Hey DUMBASS: waterproof your drop bags

My dream of warmth imploded and I was crushed. Patricia, a volunteer was helping me with my stuff as my fine motor skills were shot. I couldn’t open the zipper on my pack. I couldn’t pull off my wet shirt. I was afraid to go back out there as wet and cold as I was, and I suggested that I hang out and get warm first, but Patricia told me that was the worst thing I could do.

  Then the race director told me two things:

1.     You’ve got three minutes (shit, I was running without a watch but I thought I was 30 minutes ahead of the cut off…)

2.     I’ve got nice warm car that’s going up to the finish at Fish Hatchery now.

He looked me over and I wondered if he was deciding to pull me from the race. It would have been a difficult decision to argue with, as I needed help to do simple tasks like putting on a shirt and opening my pack. There was certainly a part of me that wished to be put out of my misery.

The pull of that warm car offer was strong. My brain was working overtime to give me reasons to drop. I wasn’t sure it was even safe for me to keep going. What if I twisted an ankle and couldn’t move fast enough to keep warm? There were no drop bags at the next aid station (Hell’s Gate), and even though I had just been informed the race was ending at Mile 33 the thought of arriving at Hell’s Gate in the state I had arrived at mile 17 was frightening.  

  The race director’s voice again: “You’ve got two minutes! If you drop at Hell’s Gate you will have to stay there until the end of the race!”

I was looking down at my wet stuff, wondering why I hadn’t stuffed it into the garbage bags I had so cleverly packed in each of my drop bags.

I wanted to get a little angry or maybe feel sorry for myself, but I remembered rule number one: no whining. I also remembered that I had 30 seconds to make a decision. I stared at the puddles on the ground, searching for some answers there, I guess.

 And then Patricia, the aid station volunteer, took off her jacket and gave me one of the shirts off her back.

 An old- school Leadville 100 long sleeve tech shirt that was bone dry. I asked her where I could return the shirt at the end of the race, and she told me not to worry about it, that she would be long gone and I should just pass the favor on one day.

  If you happen to read this, thank you Patricia. That saved my race.  I hope I can return to favor to another runner some day.

  I pulled the garbage bag over the dry shirt (with Patricia’s help) and put on my wet Patagonia Houdini. Garbage bag never felt so good.

“One Minute!”

 I grabbed a handful of Gu and peanut butter bars, still not sure I was making the right decision, and started out of the aid station.

  “Just keep moving, keep eating. If you have to walk, swing the arms.” These were my thoughts as I left the aid station with less than a minute before the cut off.

A few minutes later I saw a runner going back to the aid station. Was that the smart decision? Would I be thinking about him in a few hours when I was lost and frozen, praying to God or search and rescue a few hours from now?

  I had left the aid station, but I wasn´t 100% committed. If it gets worse, you can always turn around and go back, I told myself.

 I kept moving as much as the mud would allow. Zane Grey is famous for it’s rocks, but today the rocks were the runner’s friend: at least when one stepped on a rock the foot didn’t come back up with a Frisbee-sized platter of mud.

  After a while the snow seemed to let up a bit, and the silver lining was that there would be no getting lost today with the clear trail of footprints… (also, the course was marked superbly, blue ribbons blocking many possible wrong ways).

  Hell’s gate appeared by surprise: my first thought was that it was an impromptu aid station. The rain had stopped. They had hot noodle soup. Life was good. Running was suddenly “fun” again. I was going to finish.

  I was there with about 4 other runners, checked in, started drinking my soup, feeling relieved I hadn’t dropped back at Washington Park.

Aid station volunteer on the walkie talkie: “Ok, they are telling us to start pulling everybody.”

 We didn’t wait around to see if that meant us.

The sun came out after Hell’s gate, and a mist was rising off the ground. It was sublime. I sort of forgot that I was racing, or maybe I didn´t care as I took in the incredible views of the rim. I started congratulating myself prematurely on my finish and then slipped and found myself on the ground.

   Ok, time to focus and get this done. I did, slowly. I was pretty sure I was last, which I found amusing, but I was going to finish. That would have to be enough. (One runner finished behind  me, as it turned out.)

 

  I’ve only seen 33 miles of the Highline Trail, but it’s the most incredible single track I’ve been on. The views of the Mogollon Rim to the north need to be experienced. I didn’t bring the phone, which was the right call: my fingers were too cold to operate it, and the time I would have lost taking pictures would have cost me a finish. So you’ll just have to go see it for yourself.

  The trail is no joke. Even after recovering I hit a bit of a low in the final miles and finished at Fish Hatchery at 10:09, which would have missed the cut off had the race continued. Folks say the toughest section of the trail is 33-44.

That’s a sobering thought.

 I’ve got unfinished business on this trail, and I definitely want to run between the rocks at Trailhead 260 and see all 51 miles that this spectacular trail has to offer.  I hope to be back next year. I would also love to run the Mogollon Monster 106, but I need to up my game for that beast or I won’t make the cut offs.

The real finish...will have to wait for next year.

Congratulations to my brother-in-law Jeremy Hardy, who finished in 8 hours. Jeremy, a native Californian, had this to the say: “that was the coldest I’ve ever been.”

Doing a really bad job pretending to be disappointed that the race was shortened to 33 miles because of the storm. Off-brand garbage bag courtesy of WalMart.

It felt THIS good to be done (and warm).

Some thoughts about Zane Grey

•The course profile is misleading. I thought it would be hands on knees climbing for the first climb. There are no big, steep climbs (between miles 1-33). There are endless ups and downs.

•This is not the course to go minimalist. And I’m not talking about shoes. Bring more than you think you will need. I haven’t run my previous 50 milers with a pack (Jemez, Sean O’ Brien, Oaxaca), but slower runners should pick up a pack at 17 and still keep a bottle.

•Yes, they have GU at the aid stations, but pack your own flavor in your drop bags. Nothing like a choice between strawberry-banana and tri-Berry

•The area is worth checking out, try and stay an extra day or two:

    ••Check out THAT brewery which is on your left shortly after you pass the Pine trailhead. Great brews, good food, friendly.

   ••The Runner’s Den in Phoenix is 10 minutes from the airport and is a great local running store.

  ••Diamondback tickets are relatively cheap by major league standards and you can buy them at the door.

Baseball game! It was warm here, too!

••Angel’s Trumpet Ale House in Phoenix has a nice outdoor patio, good food and a good selection (30+?) of beers from brewers all over the country.

   ••I won’t lie: unless you are shopping for guns, “downtown” Payson leaves a bit to be desired. Camping or checking out a house or cabin in Pine might be the way to go.

The Path to the Angeles Crest 100 Mile part I: Sean O' Brien 50 Miler: Race Report

Staying warm before the race.



But most of the day was like this...

Why blog? I'm not sure. I guess it's nice to have something to look back on, and of course my grandmother is a regular reader so that provides some incentive.
  I've fallen off the blogging horse since my last report from my DNF (did not finish) in Oaxaca. I have run a few races since then, but nothing spectacular: I ran a solid 20k at the Picacho race, a local favorite because it is point to point through the local mountains and very technical. I then ran the Mexico City half marathon and then, a month later, nearly froze to death during the Rover Marathon. The race was run in worst rains Mexico has experienced in a generation. I was cold, I got lost, I started running back to an aid station at one point to quit, frustrated to discover the course wasn't marked after being lost for an hour, but then I ran into Chespiro, who knows all these courses and he showed me the way. So I turned around and slogged in for a 6:30 finish, over an hour longer than my time the previous year, and at least 90 minutes over my goal time. Still, I was glad to get the finish.
  There was a lesson there. Don't drink the "DNF's are ok" kool aid. DNF's are horrible and I also suspect they are habit forming. Some folks see no point in "hiking it in." I disagree. Barring the risk of grave bodily harm, it's always best to just get it done.
  
  I still think about that damn DNF in Oaxaca.

  And then I signed up for the Angeles Crest 100 which will take place on August 2 and 3 in 2014. That run will be the culmination of three solid years of running on trails. But to prepare for that race I needed some 50 mile races to get ready. Last year in February I had a fantastic time starting off the new year racing my first trail 50k at the Ray Miller 50, so I thought I would return this year and do the 50 mile race. It's also a great chance to visit with my sister, Meggin and her family.
  Fortunately, my brother-in-law Jeremy Hardy would be joining me to run his first 50 mile race. We made the foolish mistake last year of running the Surf City Half Marathon the day after the 50k. Lesson learned: run the trail run and then relax on Sunday.
  The training leading up to Sean O' Brien was mixed. I lost a week because of a pulled muscle in my back, and then after Christmas I lost two weeks to illness. I was worried; I was very close to texting Jeremy and saying: "hey dude, sorry but I've got to drop down to the 50k." I rationalized all kinds of reasons why it would be better to drop down and race the 50k.

I feared failure.

  But then I remembered that on August 2 I will run 50 miles and still have 50 miles more to go. At that point it's basically mental. Hell, most training programs for 100 and 50 miles are nearly identical. Most of us don't have bodies that can tolerate 150-200 miles per week of training. And even if I do have that kind of body, I don't have the time.
  So my plan was to show up to the Sean O' Brien 50 and race smart and see how my body responded. I had gotten in a few long back to back weekends (5 hours on Saturday, 5 hours on Sunday) in the months before the race, and that would have to be enough.

 Or so I had hoped. Jeremy and I woke early and my day almost ended with my first step at 3:00am in the morning. Instead of walking to the bathroom I stepped down the stairs in the pitch black. Caught myself on the railing. Time to wake up.

 I ate a big (for pre-race) breakfast: two pieces of toast, an egg. We drove the 40 minute drive to the race and were shocked by the cold: 28F. We checked our drop bags and then we sat in the car with the heat on until 10 minutes before the race.

Sunrise

  After a couple flat miles, the race climbs to the 6.5 mile aid station. I took it at a very easy hike, reminding myself to eat and drink at least one bottle (20oz) before the aid station. I was feeling great, and after this station I ran a few miles with Steve Harvey, a guy who has being doing this for 30 years and puts on a number of races in the SoCal area. I even got to pick his brain a bit about the AC 100 (he ran it in 1986, the inaugural year).

Buenas Vistas (all day long)

 "You know were most people lose it on the AC? On the first climb up Acorn trail." 

At the 18 mile aid station I stopped for some potatoes and refills, and Steve was gone down the long descent to Zuma beach, but I had learned a few good tips and also some interesting anecdotes about the early years of ultrarunning.

  I arrived down at Zuma beach at 5:05, just about an hour ahead of the cut off, so I was no longer worried about that. However, the crux of the course was ahead: two long climbs that were exposed to the sun. Note for next year: this is at minimum a two bottle section unless you are a front runner.

Refueling at Zuma beach aid station

  I climbed well here and was sort of dreading the bonk, as usually it comes somewhere around the 50k mark, but I had been fueling well and drinking well all day, and climbing strong.

 If I had to make a complaint about the course it would be this: too many miles of fire road for my taste (though the views of the Pacific were spectacular), so it was a relief to get back on the Backbone trail, rolling single track that was fun to run. It was late in the day, but I was still feeling strong. I was struggling with downhills. My knee caps were killing me on the downs and I found myself walking at some points just to avoid the pain.

Always a good reminder on long climbs...

  However, I began pushing harder as the sun dropped lower in the sky. When I reached the final aid station at mile 44, I thought perhaps I could make it in 12 hours so I started to push as hard as a I could. It soon became clear that 12 hours wasn't going to happen, but I was catching people at this point in the race and that kept me motivated. In the final miles of the race it was dark and I had a few moments of doubt about the trail, but my memory from the morning served me well (the race was out and back with a loop at the end) and I crossed the finish line moving well, a great contrast to my first 50 mile race in Jemez where I couldn't even muster a jog at the finish and sprawled out on the grass unable to move for some time.

A short bit of video on the final descent.

  Here's a real video of the race:

 Jeremy was there and he had run a great race, going under ten hours.

 I finished in 12:17.

 I buried that DNF from back in July somewhere on the climb out of Zuma Beach.

 I also learned something about fitness here, as my weeks off didn't seem to have much of an effect. I fueled well and started slow and it paid off in the end. Also, while I don't think this course is comparable to Jemez, it was far from easy and I had a 3 hour and 16 minute PR. Can't feel too bad about that.

  Could I have started off stronger earlier in the race and still had the strong finish?

  I guess that's what keeps the game interesting.

Recovery Beverages for Sunday

the details:

ran with one bottle until mile 13 where I picked up my second. This worked well, though probably could have gotten away with one bottle until Zuma beach. Two from Zuma beach is a must for anyone but the front of the pack.

I ran with my Jurek Essential which worked well. I could have carried all my GU's in my bottle holders but much easier access with the belt. I should have brought a ziploc to stash potatoes.

Cascadia 7's and Balega socks. Sad this is my last pair of 7's. I'll try and save them for Zane Grey in April.

  Be wary of depending on aid station gels. I arrived at one and they only had strawberry, which I detest. However, the aid stations here are like buffets at a five star hotel. They have everything. But if you gotta have vanilla Gu, best to bring it with you...

Next  up:

 The big race coming up is the Zane Grey 50. Looking forward to meeting my sister Allison and Jeremy out in Arizona.

March 7: 14k in Tepoztlan
March 29: Carrera de Resistencia 66k. This will be a good long training run for Zane Grey.
April 6: 21k (road) in Veracruz as a member of Team Feel the Magic. Hoping for a half marathon PR here, it's at sea level.

And of course, on August 2, the AC 100....

DNF: Adventures in Oaxaca (Barro de Jaguar q50 80k)

                                                                     Photo: Douglas Brandon

  "In short, I was afraid..."
  Twelve hours into the race and I'd reached a confusing fork in the road. To the right was a ribbon; to the left was a ribbon. I waited for the group I had been walking with. I was unable to run the downhills at this point due to the pain in my right knee. It seemed unlikely I would make the time cutoff at PC 7, the next and final aid station before the final climb and descent to the finish. A truck had come by a few moments earlier and offered us a ride back to the ranch, and though tempted, I had refused. I at least wanted to walk it to the PC 7 and make a decision there. 
  I should have gone left, that was the trail down to PC7. But it was getting dark, the course was not marked for night time running, and the previous aid station had been abandoned: we arrived to an empty garafon of water and a bunch of discarded orange peels on the ground. I would have paid 20 bucks for a coca cola. 10 bucks for a handful of peanuts or potato chips. The group was going right. They would walk down the road and the truck would meet us and bring us back to the ranch. The rain was coming down. I should have gone left, but I was exhausted, afraid and confused. I lost the faith and started walking down the road to the right.

Apparently I missed the memo about posing for a photo during the pre-race equipment check.....

 The beginning

  I signed up for the race a couple days after finishing the Jemez 50. I figured it would be a good change of pace to run an "easy" 50 miler, get a 50 mile PR and see the mountains of Oaxaca. The course profile had been released for the first 40k and while it looked stout, I assumed the second half would be flatter, as the time limit for the race was 14 hours. At Jemez (and other tough 50 milers like Zane Grey and San Juan Solstice), 14 hours is around a mid-pack finish. At Jemez, I finished in 15 hours and 33 minutes and the final runners came in at around 16:30.
  A few days before the race they finally released the course profile for the rest of the route. The second half was as brutal as the first. Over 5,000 meters in total. 16,500 feet of climbing. Almost double the climbing of Jemez; more than any 50 miler that I'm aware of... I knew there was no way I could finish a race with that profile in 14 hours, but I was certain there was some mistake or that the cutoff time would be changed.

Course profile. The middle (9kish) route was eliminated just before the race

  
  If I'd attended the race meeting I would have learned that the race had been shortened to about 72 kilometers as they started to realize the route was too difficult for most to finish under 14 hours. But I had met up with some fellow runners I knew from previous races and we decided to drive from Oaxaca City to the ranch and skip the meeting so we could set up camp in the light. 

 The next morning we woke and walked the 30 meters to the start line and started running. I felt great and concentrated on keeping it easy. I was moving well on the climbs. At about 2 hours and 25 minutes I arrived a the first major aid station. I asked how far we were into the race and I was told 9-10 kilometers. I knew this couldn't be correct. 2.5 hours to go 10k? Clearly the guy didn't know what he was talking about...

  The next part of the course was the most memorable for me: it was a climb on all fours up a rocky no-trail ascent to Nueve Puntas, the high point of the race. It was simultaneously so ridiculous and so incredible that I could only laugh and try to avoid getting stabbed by the mala madre cactus plants with their nail-like points. I caught up to Elsa, the eventual second place female finisher, which got me thinking I was moving too fast too early in the race, but I still felt great so I kept on. Finally we peaked out on an incredible rocky ridge where a couple steps to the right would have resulted in a long plummet to our deaths. Breathtaking views of the Sierra in all directions. This was shaping up to be the most incredible place I had ever run.

Nueve Puntas

  And then the descent. Straight down on a bed of pine needles. I tried cutting my own switchbacks, but fell twice and then basically skied down from tree to tree. Most of the descent was off trail and so I carefully ran from flag to flag until finally arriving at the 25 kilometer aid stations. Five+ hours. I had to laugh at that. I also wondered how in the hell I was going to make the cutoffs at this pace, and no one seemed to have an answer to whether or not they would be adjusted. 

  The sun was out and high in the sky now so I dipped both my shirt and hat in the stream crossing and moved out under the sun on the one flat section of the course. This eventually took us into a town and there was a giant inflatable arch which made it look like the finish of the race. They were announcing our names as we came into the aid station and the streets were lined with people. One local guy --apparently the town drunk-- who had a scar which suggested an ill-attempted do-it-yourself tracheotomy from years ago had one phrase in English he kept saying over and over: "no pain, no gain." He insisted on shaking hands and high-fiving an awkward number of times before I got the hell out of there.
  
  The final 10k back to the ranch was exposed and uneventful except for one section of the course where someone had pulled down most of the flagging. Fortunately I was running with three other runners at this point and we were able to puzzle out the route. I had hydrated well and taken care of myself, but my first low came after the surreal run through the pueblo (about 30k). However, a couple kilometers before the ranch I came across the first aid station that had coca-cola. It was heavenly and I immediately felt better and started moving at a better clip.

In the Heart of Mezcal Country

  
  I arrived at the ranch (the 40 kilometer mark) at about 8 hours and 5 minutes. As a point of comparison, I typically run this distance in the mountains in about 5:30-5:45. I was beyond the cut off (as were most of the people in the race, as it turned out), but was allowed to keep going. It wasn't clear I would be able to finish and I didn't quite make out what the race director told me, but he seemed to suggest we would be able to run at least 50k. It was here shortly after the turn that I caught up with Laura Guizar and we ran together for a while. We missed a well-marked turn at one point which cost us about 25 minutes. A truck found us and told us we were off course. Apparently the ribbons we had been following were from an older race. After this I started struggling with cramps. I took a couple handfuls of salt in the aid station and Laura gave me a salt pill and this helped for a while, but I was slowing dramatically and Laura moved on ahead. 

  Most of this race had been on incredible single-track, but this section was an interminable dirt road that I found myself walking. People were catching up to me that I had passed 8 hours earlier.  
  And then the truck came by spreading a lot of doom and gloom about the final climb and raising doubts about us making the cut-off at PC 7. 

  And then I was standing in the rain with the sun going down and I made the decision to go right, essentially ending my race. By the time the truck came back up the hill to pick up the racers there must have been ten of us. One couple wanted to continue as they needed the 2 points to qualify for UTMB, but the race officials called in to the ranch and the word was final: no one else was being allowed to pass.

  We got in the truck and headed back. 

  For a while I blamed my DNF on other things: the poor organization of the race, the unrealistic cut off times, the abandoned aid station, the course profile being released a few days before the race.....  But I could have finished. I just didn't. Like most DNF's, it was mental. I got weak and I was looking for excuses not to finish and I found them. This failure of will demonstrates the importance of one's commitment to finish. It one isn't 100% committed to finishing a race it gets easy to find excuses not to keep moving on. 

  Back at the ranch I was sitting at the finish line and the final two finishers came in a few minutes after 15 hours. One of them was Laura, who had an incredible run and just kept moving. Congratulations to her and everyone else who got it done out there. It was a beast of a race and anyone who finished is certifiably hardcore. 

Feeling good early....            Photo: q50 race photographer

The positive take-aways:

  I didn't have much issue with my stomach and took my Gu's a little at a time and made a point to eat in the aid stations. Potatoes and salt worked great.

  I hydrated well, at least for the first 11 hours or so. Two bottles definitely works better for me than wearing a pack.

  I had a fantastic first 9 hours of the race.

 Zero foot issues. Same socks I wore for Jemez (Balega).

The negatives:

 Be wary of running with others. At times it was really helpful, especially when route finding and then later when talking to Laura who had a very positive attitude and who was 100% determined to finish, but when I started walking with the group that was looking to drop, I absorbed some of that negative energy and fell into groupthink.

 A lack of will. My failure to finish is 100% attributable to a simple lack of will and failure to believe I could finish. Perhaps I wouldn't have made the cut off at PC7, but I should have kept moving, even if it was only at a walking pace.

 Walking downhill with a bum knee is painful, but far worse is taking a ride in a truck back up to the ranch. I will never forget that lesson.

  The race had organizational issues, but the route and the terrain were world class. It seems unlikely the race will happen again, but if it does, I'll be there and I will finish.



  

A Two-Headed Creature: Jemez 50 Mile Race Report

"What a strange thing that which men call pleasure seems to be, and how astonishing the relation it has with what is thought to be its opposite, namely pain! A man cannot have both at the same time. Yet if he pursues and catches the one, he is almost always bound to catch the other also, like two creatures with one head." 

--Socrates in Plato's Phaedo

                                                            5:00am start                                  Photo: David Silva

 Exposed to the sun, sprawled out on the ground on the impossibly steep, no-trail climb up the backside of Pajarito Moutain, I recalled the words of the volunteer at the last aid station: “Just keep moving.”

  I had never flopped on the ground during a race before, but there I was unable to even keep my own promise of 100 steps before taking a break. I would get to about 23 and then basically fall down. My stomach was tied in knots and had been for hours.

  Without a watch, I wasn’t sure how close I was to the 5:00pm cutoff at the ski lodge.  Ten or so hours into my first 50 mile race that I had been so resolutely determined to finish, but the doubts were creeping in: why was I doing this? All that training, all those climbs up the Cerro de San Miguel and here I was at the tail end of the race, concerned I might not be able to cover four miles in three hours.

  

We began in the dark.

Those first miles of the race were magnificient: rolling, rocky trails through an apocalyptic landscape brutally shaped by the 2011 Conchas fire. Trying to keep my enthusiasm in check, everything felt beautiful and easy. The 3,500 foot hike up from Camp May to the top of Pajarito was fun and I was passing people.

  Arriving at the ski lodge for the first time (mile 17), I reapplied suntan lotion, grabbed a few more GU and headed out to the Pipeline Road Aid Station eating a Cliff Bar. The first signs of unease set in here, my stomach tightened and a few runners that I had passed earlier went by at a solid clip. I wouldn’t see them again.

Feeling good early in the race....            Photo: Jim Stein

  I stopped again on the backside of Pajarito in the bit of shade offered by a tree. I was trying to eat some GU. The group up ahead of me was moving away slowly. A guy I had passed 8 miles earlier in the Caldera came hiking by: he asked if I was ok, if I had enough water. He had run the course the previous year and he assured me that he was thinking he would “peak out” in about 15 minutes. This got me up and moving.

  A few more steps.

  A bit later, during another break, a course official was slowly moving his way down the mountain. He looked worried when he saw me. He was going down to meet the course sweepers. He asked me if I was ok and I lied and replied yes. He told me it wasn’t too far to the bench near the top of the mountain and then it was downhill to the ski lodge. This encouraged me and the grade began to relent and I was able to walk.

 Looking down at the Caldera from Pajarito                                 Photo: Benedict Dugger

•••

 The first time through the ski lodge I hiked most of the way to the Pipeline road aid station trying to digest and get my stomach back in order. The Pipeline was the turnoff for the 50k runners.  The cutoff for the 50 milers was noon, and I had made it here at 10:30. The slide down to the caldera was one of the more unusual features of this race. It was literally a rock slide straight down. The rocks were moving downhill at about the same speed that I was. I fell and thought I punctured a hand-held bottle, but fortunately that was the only mishap. Once I made it down the rock chute, I was looking at about 14 miles of flattish running. On paper, this section should be easy, but mentally it was the toughest part of the race. We were out here in the heat of the day, and while the views were spectacular, the distances seemed interminable. Like most runners, I prefer to be in the woods on winding single track that enhances the sensation of speed. The open expanse of the Caldera was a constant reminder of how slow I was moving. When I got to the Obsidian Valley aid station, I announced that that was officially the longest 6.2 miles I had ever run. I was tired of the Caldera and I wanted nothing more than to be hiking up the backside of Pajarito. Seven miles or so to go to the climb.

•••

  After picking myself up off the ground for the last time, I saw the Bench and knew I was nearing the top of the mountain. I was moving steadily, and soon began the downhill through the ski slopes to the lodge, passing the ski signs I had seen earlier on this descent: the double black diamond runs “Little Mother” and “Nuther Mother.” The blue run asking “Why Not?” My silent answer for this sign was less certain than it had been hours earlier. But this was a fun downhill, mostly single track section and I was feeling better with each step.

  And then I saw the “Aid Station sign” and soon the cowbell started ringing. Unlike the first time I had come through the ski lodge, the place was nearly deserted: a couple of runners recovering and some very helpful volunteers. I experienced a huge burst of energy. I felt like Lazarus. I ate what I could and loaded up my bottles with ice and water and ice and coke. I had made the cutoff,  arriving at 4:10, but I spent a lot of time here soaking my head, getting my headlamp and trying to mentally get it together for the final push and I didn’t leave until 4:28. About 14 miles remained but most of the climbing was behind me.

  Again, I hiked it from the ski lodge to Pipeline Road. This station was manned by runners from the Los Alamos track team. They pulled out some cherries that were chilled and I ate a few of those. It was an incredible relief to know that I did not have to slide down the chute to the Caldera again. There was a short hike up awaiting me, but after that it was almost all downhill until the final two miles. After the climb, the Pipeline Road eventually turned off onto single track through forest that was destroyed by the fire, but signs of new life were everywhere.

 And then it was like the beginning of the race again. I was alone, the sun was low in the sky, and the winding, single track, rocky trail and accompanying views were incredible. All my doubts about why I came to run this race vanished. I was running. Picking up speed. At one point I heard voices behind me that pushed me to run even harder. I arrived at the lonely Guaje Ridge aid station as they were packing things up. I continued to run. I met up with a runner I hadn’t seen since the Caldera. We encouraged each other and I kept moving. I thought Randy would be waiting for me at Last Chance Saloon, the last aid station two miles before the finish. He had run the ½ marathon earlier in the day: his first trail run, and I was eager to see how it went. I passed one more runner that I hadn’t seen since the climb up the backside of Pajarito, and then a few more turns and there was Randy Grillo in the middle of the forest. We caught up on the day as we ran into Last Chance Saloon. He had finished his race, driven back to Santa Fe, showered, napped, and then returned.  Last Chance had beer, tequila and food, but my stomach was struggling with water and coca cola, and I was worried about being passed late in the race so we kept moving. It was getting dark, but I didn’t quite need my headlamp. It was a relief not to have to watch for trail markers and Randy kept me moving quickly. I thought I saw someone behind me, but perhaps it was only a shadow.

  And then the final right turn and rocky climb up to the finish.

  It was dark.

  Someone was ringing a cowbell.

  Pati was there cheering.

  I couldn't even jog it in.

  I was done.

Now I could lay down and not feel bad about it. Randy handed me a Happy Camper IPA, but I couldn’t even begin to think about drinking it or eating anything.

  As I lay on the ground I thought about Pajarito. I reflected about my dream of running 100 miles. Could I really have gotten up and covered another 50?

  I thought I could.

  But I was really happy I didn’t have to.

Postscript:

  Every report I’ve read about the Jemez Mountain Trail Runs remarks on the beauty, brutality and spectacular organization of this race. And my Pajarito-high expectations were exceeded on all accounts. Every aspect of this race is fantastic: The landscape, the organizers, the runners, the trails.  Thanks to everyone who worked to make this race happen. And a special thanks to Randy and Pati for their hospitality and encouragement. 50 miler next year, Randy?

Happy Camper with a Happy Camper            Photo: Randy Grillo

End of a short, fantastic trip to New Mexico.  Thank you Randy and Pati!        Photo: Pati Grillo

Boring Running details I want to remember for next time:

  I went with no watch for the first time in a race and it worked. I think if I had known I had plenty of time to make the second cutoff I would have taken a long nap on Pajarito. Having the pressure of the cutoff and not knowing the time helped.

  Two hand-helds (Ultimate Direction). I ran my first two “ultras” (a 50k, a 62k) with a Nathan pack, but I tend to drink less water when I am wearing a pack and carry stuff I don’t need. I was able to carry six Gu without the pack and my arms never got tired of the bottles.

  I broke the “don’t do anything new on race day” with a new pair of Balega socks, and it worked.  Still, better to test socks out before race day…

  Zero feet problems. Cascadia 7’s are a fine shoe, even the well-worn pair I raced in. Someone else can uphold the minimalist trend: I’m sticking to my “boats.” I’ve got one more new pair of 7’s before I need to switch to the 8’s. I hope the 8’s are as good.

  Neglected to dunk head/soak cap at aid stations.

  I’ve got to figure out the stomach issue. Maybe PBJ’s instead of GU? This was the killer and I really didn’t eat enough. I won’t be able to finish a 100 miler if I can’t figure this out. I went the last 24 miles of the race on coca cola, three or four GUS, a couple cherries, a handful of M&M’s and 6 salted peanuts. Not recommended.

 

I took one salt table and then just stopped because I never train with those things. No cramping. I don’t think I need salt tablets. My tight stomach is not from cramping, but something internal.

  One thing that worked for me running down Guaje Ridge was keeping an open GU packet in my left hand taking a drop at a time instead of trying to suck down a full packet. My stomach felt better here, but it could have been a million other things. Need to keep experimenting.

 As an after thought I threw an extra shirt in my drop bag which at the time I thought was superfluous. Wrong: changing from my snot/sweat/GU/dirt stained shirt into a clean short sleeve was magical.