Wasatch 100 Mile Endurance Run (2013)

September has been quite a month.  I found out that I passed the Utah bar exam in July and will be licensed to practice law by the end of October.  I urge friends to stay out of legal trouble until then!  

A week before finding out about bar results, I was completing my first 100 mile race at the 34th annual Wasatch 100 Mile Endurance Run.  I attempted the race in 2011, but decided to back out at the midway point, Lambs Canyon, due to an inflamed ITB.  In actuality, and when I'm honest with myself, inexperience prevented me from finishing in 2011.  Looking back, I think I had the stomach and perhaps even the legs to finish, but I was psychologically defeated by the dusk and the prospect of running another 50 miles in the dark.

This year presented different challenges.  Although I felt more mature physically and psychologically, I did not keep up the same level of training intensity that I had in 2011.  Besides clocking a sub 12 hour finish at the Pocatello 50 in June of this year, I did not put in any substantial long runs on the weekends, managing to checker in only a few 13 to 17 mile jaunts up in Millcreek Canyon and Big Cottonwood.  I certainly did not reach my desired back-to-back 20 mile runs by mid-July.  

I suppose bar exam studies got in the way somewhat.  Although I had been told not to study too hard for the bar, I did not want to take any chances and probably averaged about fifty hours a week of studying.  Put a part-time clerkship on top and you've got yourself a big fat legal sundae with no Sundays.  Rather than beat up on myself, I decided to train with fun in mind and fit in the backcountry when my schedule allowed.  This turned out to be a decent training regimen for my second attempt at the Wasatch 100.

Grandeur Peak Trail (descending to Church Fork)

Grandeur Peak Trail

Pfeifferhorn from Maybird Gulch

Three weeks prior to the race, I started to feel a slight but all-too-familiar twinge in my right heel at the insertion of the achilles into the calcaneus.  Because trail runs had become so much fun at this point, I decided to feign hope that it wasn't the old bursitis rearing its ugly head again.  But after a trek up to Lake Blanche in some new Pearl Izumi N2s, such hopes were dashed.  I dreaded a Did Not Start ("DNS") at Wasatch, and began making desperate posts on the race's facebook page asking for recovery tips, even though I knew what to do.  I had experienced the same problems after increasing weekly mileage too drastically before the 2011 race.  So there I was, back to the  eccentric calf raises on an incline with slow release.  After I started on this recovery plan and committed to taking a full ten days off of running prior to the race, I felt like I was gambling, but I had no choice.  

I had been dreaming of revenge since the DNF in 2011, and had gone over the diurnal cycle in my mind many times: 5am start; up and down all day in the heat; then into Lambs Canyon and . . . the dark.  

I had a difficult time pushing past this point of the visualization . . . largely because I had never run more than 50 miles in my life and had no reference point for the experience of running all day and then committing to running all night and into morning.  At some point, I gave up trying to visualize and came up with this simple mantra: "No matter f$#@!*% what!"  That seemed to capture the sense of determination that I wanted to bring into the 2013 race, so I repeated it daily while doing my eccentric exercises for the achilles (absent the dollar, pound, and asterisk symbols).

Come race day, I felt well-rested and a bit indifferent.  The threat of an achilles blow-up had me in a state of ambivalence about the whole venture.  The day could end up in an early bail-out descent from Chinscraper or turn into a victory at Soldier Hollow.  I woke up, drank too much coffee, and copped a great buzz.  I ended up in the line to the bathroom ten minutes to the 5am start, and found myself in the stall while the crowd gathered at the starting gate hollered and whistled out the commencement of the race.  I toed the starting line 5 minutes late.  This gave me a good laugh and ended up playing to my benefit.  It forced me to be conservative early.

Wasatch starts out on a single track up the Bonneville Shoreline Trial from East Mountain Wilderness Park in Kaysville, Utah.  The early climb up to Chinscraper bowl causes this single track to congest with racers who have learned to go easy.  I had no qualms about taking the first miles slowly because the climb up Chinscraper would stretch out the achilles well enough.

I broke free from the clog just below Chinscraper and made a moderate go of that climb.  On top of the bowl stood a crazy middle-aged guy rattling a cow bell and yelling down some military drill commands: "Climb you sissy!"  "Come on now!  Only 90 more easy miles to go!"

Gaining the ridge towards Francis Peak, I tried some running and felt a dull throb in the right heel.  I cursed, and backed off.  Near the Francis Peak towers, I found my 2L water bladder empty.  

Fortunately, one of the race directors, John G., always parks along that ridge at Grobben's Corner and offers cold water to racers making their way to the Francis Peak aid station.  John G. gladly filled up my bladder and remarked that I was the first one he had seen to drink two liters that morning.  That was fine by me.  It was going to be the 2nd hottest Wasatch on record.  Better to get fluids straight early on, I thought.  

After gaining the ridge, I saw one of the more beautiful parts of the course.  A study in contrasts to be sure, looking out from Francis Peak over the Great Salt Lake and on to the Oquirrhs.

Around mile 14--past Grobben's Corner

After beginning the descent from Thurston and Francis Peak, my achilles began to loosen up and I never felt its presence again for the rest of the race.  I passed a number of runners on the dirt road going into Francis Peak aid station.  

I filled up water at the first aid station (mile 18.40) and shoved candy and PB&J's into my mouth, some Fritos into my pockets, and took off towards Bountiful "B," the next aid station.

The next section of the course meanders through the heat on a dusty makeshift single track that eventually climbs up steeply to gain the Bountiful B ridge.  I began feeling the heat of midday here, but by mile 20, my mind had really tuned everything out.  The drive to finish became a low, rumbling echo in my consciousness, drowning out all other thoughts and feelings.  The urge was incessant, and felt otherworldly.  I was pulled along by it . . . or maybe I was drawn by this lovely pink tutu:

Around Mile 20--nearing Bountiful "B"

I regret not learning this gentleman's name.  Along with the tutu, he wore pink-colored Hoka shoes with pink puff balls that must have been glued to the toes--evidently patterned after the ballet slipper.  He carried on striking conversation with various runners along the trail, all the while maintaining a steady uphill tempo.  I later came to learn that he was participating in the Grand Slam, a summer race series consisting of the four oldest 100 mile trail runs in the U.S.--the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run, the Vermont 100 Mile Endurance Run, the Leadville Trail 100 Mile Run, and the Wasatch Front 100 Mile Endurance Run.  While I managed to pass him on one of the descents into Swallow Rocks aid station (mile 34), he would pass me about 14 hours later at Pole Line Pass (mile 82) in a flurry of pink and good cheer.

The section from Bountiful "B" aid station to Big Mountain (miles 24 to 39) is one of my favorite sections of the course.  At about mile 30, we gained a ridge with a clear view of neighboring Grandview Peak, City Creek Canyon, and the distant canyons of the Wasatch where would be laboring through the night.

 Around mile 33--near City Creek Pass

Despite the beautiful view and the lack of any acute pain in the achilles or other parts of the body, the journey at this point began to feel like an obligation . . . like work.  I had fallen into a pattern of alternating electrolytic fluids and pure water at 15 minute intervals, and forcing down whatever source of calories I could find every hour.  The sense of disconnection I started to feel at mile 20 only grew as the race progressed.  I think the combination of heat, too much water, and too little salt left me in a state of low-grade disorientation, which would remain for the duration of the race, spiking at interesting moments when it got dark.  However, in the late afternoon I began to see others bleary-eyed with heat exhaustion, vomiting, stumbling into aid stations.  I had to reconsider my attitude, and be grateful that my problem was primarily just not feeling "psyched."

I met my first pacer, Dan Schulof, at Big Mountain.  Just seeing the dude reinvigorated me.  I weighed in at the aid station 3 pounds heavier than when I had started the race.  Having no idea what this meant, I took it as a good sign and blissfully exited the aid station with Dan S. in tow.  Dan and I passed the hours from Big Mountain to Alexander Ridge chatting about life and dogs.  Dan is head coach at Varsity Pets, a company dedicated to keeping dogs active and healthy.  Check out the company website and order one of their Varsity Balls: http://www.varsitypetsonline.com/.  Your dog will be entertained for hours.

I had hit a pretty slow pace on this hot and muggy section of the trail, which connects Big Mountain Pass to Parley's Canyon.  Many runners suffer through this part.  The afternoon sun beats down at a cruel angle on steep and rocky descents.  Foot blisters and dehydration conspire towards DNF.  After Dan and I reached Alexander Ridge aid station (mile 47), we saw carnage.  Runners sank into their chairs like sad meat.  Eyes closed.   Limbs shivered, feverish.  

Runners were complaining about how this was the "hottest" and "worst" Wasatch on record.  I told Dan we needed to get out of there.  The "morgue," so I had been told, wasn't supposed to appear until Brighton.  

Dan, however, knew better.  He had just finished Leadville a couple weeks ago, and thankfully had the wherewithal to make sure that I was good and hydrated before we set off towards Lambs Canyon.  He poured ice cold water over my head.  The sensation woke me up from a deep hot sleep.  I had no idea that my body temperature had been high until then.  Invigorated, and still shivering a bit, I set off at a brisk walking pace towards Lambs.  

Compared to my condition two years ago when I decided to quit at Lambs, I was feeling extremely good.  Acknowledging this difference gave me confidence that I could finish.  Seeing my wife, Allegra, along with the rest of my crew at Lambs, only reenforced my belief that I could do it.  

Coming into Lambs so fast I blur (with Schulof)

Me, my wife Allegra, and Jason Moreland

Ice Bath

The pains of eating at mile 53

multitasking

on foot again

the send-off

My patient pacers--Schulof and Moreland

Here at Lambs, mile 53, my wonderful crew went to work.  Tara Moreland and my wife Allegra poured a much-needed bath of ice water for my feet, which had heated up substantially after Alexander Ridge.  They fed me potatoes and salt.  Allegra brought a cooler replete with orange cream soda.  For some reason, that drink hit the bullseye.  The body's needs become more unique the longer one subjects it to this nonsense.  In any event, I felt truly at home at Lambs, and was sorry to leave.

Hydrated and fed, I hiked out of Lambs with Jason pacing.  Jason is the man . . . period.  Dude was diligent, patient, and encouraging as I made my way slowly through the night.  He reminded me to hydrate, pop salt tabs, and snort lake moss all in good measure.  As dark descended and we were making our way over Bear Bottom Pass (mile 56), I started to experience some mild delirium.  I said some weird stuff about Vaseline . . . something to the effect of, "I need to apply more of that stuff to my ass to avoid chafing . . . you know, like the good ol' days."  

The night really gave the race a new and alien glow for me.  I started fearing an unnamed assault that could come from either within or without my body.  Jason, perhaps unbeknownst to him--but probably not--, helped me negotiate these demons.  Jason has finished Leadville and the incredibly difficult Devil's Backbone 50 miler in Montana.  He's also a personal trainer at Cross Fit.  Dude's tough.  I couldn't have finished the race without him.  

Jason leading me out of Lambs

Road to Big Water in Milcreek

Night march into Big Water aid station

Starting at Big Water, the aid stations began to appear more as temporary housing for the destitute than fill-and-go pit stops.  People had fallen asleep in their chairs.  Some had retired to cots in heated tents.  Moaning and crying ensued.  Looking back, perhaps it would be more accurate to compare these aid stations to concentration camps.  Here, however, exposure, dehydration, and malnutrition are self-induced.  My sense of disconnection had peaked by this point.  My body was on autopilot.  I measured the night in 2L increments of water and 300 calories of non-caffeinated Gus.  Jason and I laughed.  My laugh became a bit more demonic.  Laughing felt like another task.  Necessary, if I was to keep spirits up enough to finish.  

In spite of the graduated pain and delirium, we partied our asses off, passing Dog Lake, Desolation Lake, and then up onto the austere and panoramic Wasatch Crest.  Jason told great stories of his youth as we hiked, shuffled, and I started gaining more water weight.  

Wasatch Crest trail, mile 69--nearing Scott's Peak aid station

Upon reaching Scott's Peak aid station, fatigue had truly started to set in.  The level of tired was so different than any I had experienced that it had the reverse effect of keeping me interested and oddly alert.  In short, I felt extremely weird but my determination to finish rarely flagged.  Jason did an excellent job of reinforcing my resolve.

I gingerly shuffled downhill to Guardsman Pass and we walked the road to Big Cottonwood Canyon.  Nausea began to creep into my headspace.  I thought of coffee; this made me even more ill.  Then a family of coyotes began to howl.  This sound brought me back.  They were singing a good ol' victory song.  Both Jason and I took it as a good omen.  The little guys must have been less than 100 yards away.  We howled back and made brisk work of the last mile to Brighton and "the morgue."

Approaching "morgue" town--Brighton, mile 75

Coming into Brighton--Jason said, "obligatory fistbump."  It took me a good minute to remember how to do one.

At Brighton, the mood was somber.  Food smells filled the crowded space of runners and crew members.  All appeared half-sleep, half-death.  I can now attest that these two phantoms are first cousins at Wasatch.

I weighed in five pounds heavy.  Again, not knowing what this meant, I climbed off the scale and blissfully went to sit down by my crew.  

5 lbs overweight at Brighton

My wonderful team again went to work, tending to my sideways stomach and trashed feet.  Dylan and Desiree Cole had joined at this station.  They are both in the medical field and offered key assistance and advice at what was a very tenuous juncture of the race for me. 

I never thought to report my increased weight to them.  Thinking I had done a good job of staying hydrated, and still reeling from the long night and altitude, I thought I was in a really safe place to proceed with the last 25 miles.  Little did I know of hyponatremia.  Either I had never read about it, or I had simply overlooked it.  Ever since Alexander Ridge (mile 47), I had been peeing every ten minutes.  Given the clarity of the urine, I thought I was on a good track to finish.

Not until mile 85 did I mention to my new pacer Dylan, who practices medicine in Idaho, that I had increased in weight.  He described the condition of hyponatremia as an imbalance between water and electrolye levels causing fluid retention in the superfices of the body.  This was causing the "waterlogged" sensation I had been feeling the majority of the race.  I don't think my condition was very serious.  Now having studied hyponatremia in more depth, it is not that uncommon in these kinds of events.  I would definitely prefer some mild hyponatremia to peeing blood or coca cola.

A host of unfamiliar sensations contributed to the seasickness I experienced at Brighton.  My face flushed bright red after I sat down, and I painfully forced down a greasy breakfast past a pissed-off gut.  Seated at Brighton Lodge, I experienced the only true moment of "maybe I can't do this" in the race.  My wife had been anticipating this, and she carefully, lovingly leaned down over me and said, "Ok, Dan, what do you need out of your drop bags to get out of here and finish?  Because you ARE going to finish this race."  Those words meant so much to me.  They grounded me and provided focus.  Sentimentality ensued.  I was too sick to cry, but I felt a deep love running through me, faster than I could ever hope to mimic in body.  My spirit revived in thirst.  My feet sought to break the mortis and pattern my exhumed soul, which had taken flight over Brighton.

My best friend and new pacer, Dylan, pulled me out of the Lodge and into the warm night.  I do not recall feeling a difference in temperature upon exiting.  I only began shivering a bit later near Lake Catherine, but it wasn't from the cold.  

Outside the lodge, we said our goodbyes and the crew wished me strength for the last section.

turn the headlight off, dude

Flushed, tired outside the lodge

Getting the hell out of Brighton

Dylan and I (blue and yellow)

Dylan and I gained Catherine's Pass at about 5:45am, and began the gnarly descent towards Ant Knowles.  My feet had really had it, but I again reached that subliminal zone of autopilot that had carried me through the heat the day before.  I lack the words to properly describe passing the 24 hour mark of a race in the mountains.  I felt a kind of giddiness in expectation of the sunrise, tempered by a very real sensation of pain and fatigue throughout my body.  Dylan told stories, and I mostly listened, tuning in and out, making the quads and hamstrings put one foot above and in front of the other.  

I collapsed into Ant Knowles as a mysterious pre-dawn glow enveloped the Wasatch.  Dylan fed me hashbrowns and Coca Cola, and I massaged my abused feet.  The feeling was nearly orgasmic.  One really has not experienced pleasure until giving oneself a foot massage after 80 miles in the woods. 

My legs had turned into my granfather's as I struggled out my chair at Ant Knowles and made my way up "the grunt," an arduous hill leading to sunrise on September 7, 2013.

2nd Sunrise at Wasatch 100 (2013)

I mentioned to Dylan that we were now in the "teens"--less than 20 miles remaining.  Only four more obstacles stood in the way of a finish.  We tackled each in not-so-rapid-succession: 1) the climb from Pole Line Pass to Point Contention; 2) The Dive; 3) the Plunge; and 4) the heat of midday.

After sauntering out of Pole Line Pass aid station (mile 82), sharp pains began shooting up from my ankle to right knee.  Dylan responded like a true medic, quickly wrapping the leg to protect the tendon.  Limping terribly, but pain-free, I persisted on through the climb and the final, terrible descents that followed.

The Dive and Plunge are worthy of mention.  These are two names for an essentially singular barrage of gnarled single track, with rocks ranging in size from grapefruit to human skulls that are simply waiting to devour your tender feet.  With my knee in the shape it was in, I had to pretend like I was on an old pair of skis, skidding my way down these slopes sideways so as to avoid an angle that would send fire up my right leg.  I kept thinking how funny it was that I had anticipated an achilles blow-out, and got a patellar "fail" instead. 

Dylan waited for me patiently at the bottom of this mess and laughed at my progress.  I couldn't help but laugh too.  I was actually pretty stoked at this point as everything began to fall apart.  I had made good enough time over the first 75 miles to take a one-mile-per hour stroll through the woods to finish before the 5pm cutoff.  I knew I would finish with time to spare.  

The heat of late morning and afternoon finally caught up with us.  My stomach began speaking a weird language, and my head reeled a bit.  I was still urinating every ten to fifteen minutes, but my GI tract had retaliated.  I was off to the bushes almost as regularly as I urinated.  The wheels had really started to come off.

Dylan stuffed me with food and fluids at Pot Bottom, an aptly named aid station at the bottom of the worst section of the race.  For many, Pot Bottom at mile 92.05, is the psychological bottom of the race.  Several drop out at this point, even though only 8 miles remain.  

I had made my mind up at Brighton that quitting was not an option.  I swallowed the food and the looming vomit down with rigor and pressed on towards the finish.  We hit some of the worst exposure of the race after leaving Pot Bottom.  The midday sun lashed our backs as we climbed a dirt road, descended, and finally gained a viewpoint of the finish line.  Only 5 miles until the end!  

I wanted to run so badly, but my knee simply would not let me.  I had to turn my right foot outwards with each step to avoid electric volts.  I managed in this fashion for the next four miles until we reached the paved road that would take us to the finish line.

Runners started passing us.  The crazy asses were actually running!  I stared on blankly in disbelief.  Then I thought that it would be a bit of a let down to just walk across the finish line.  I had to at least make it appear as if I had been running the entire 100 miles, right?

I gritted my teeth and started a light jog.  The change of gate actually felt great on the feet.  The knee sang in rebellion, but the countervailing relief on the feet made the last mile negotiable.  I felt pretty ecstatic under all that nausea, swollen limbs, bruising, and blisters.  I smiled all the way to the finish, where my crew shouted out cheers. 

The last 100 yards

Managing a grin

Crossing the finish line was bitter sweet.  I was happy to have

accomplished the feat, but I knew that I was going to have to deal with some pretty gnarly symptoms for the next twenty-four hours.  In brief, the race was not over after I crossed the finish line.  My stomach felt as if it was eating itself.  My body turned feverish.  Two long days of flu-like symptoms lay ahead.  My wife nursed me back to health like a champ.  

Nearly two weeks later, I tell you with complete candor that I would do it all again, and will . . . with a faster time.

John G. again--at the Finish

A much-welcomed embrace at the finish