Running, Walking, Crawling: My First 100-Mile Run Attempt
In the Thick of Night
It’s 1:26 AM and my new companion David and I are bounding up High Knob for the third time that day. I can feel the mud drying onto my calves from the steep embankment that collapsed somewhere between our first and third time running over it. The temps are dropping fast as we enter a more exposed section of the wilderness where the winds beat against our rain jackets. Other than the cumulative sixty-some-odd miles of sweat and the remains of some electrolytic fluid on my chest from a hole some branch punctured in my water bottle, our top halves are dry. The thirty or so river crossings up until this point meant our bottom halves were soaked though. His, I should more say. I had been adamant about playing slick-rock hopscotch for as long as it took until I fell into the river and accepted my wet-footed fate. This little game I played where I sought to keep my feet dry as long as I could kept my mind occupied which is good because David’s enthusiasm for conversation waned hours ago and I’m not sure how much more of my singing he was willing to tolerate.
We summitted the mountain and celebrated a hard-fought checkpoint we desperately wanted to reach before 1:30. Hours of running through the dark left us with little more than looking for small wins, and cresting by the tower at 1:29 with the smells of coffee and chicken soup were just the kind of win we needed.
The Night Before
Our racers’ meeting went quickly and without much conversation. Typical statements like “don’t hitchhike if you get off course” and an update about the incoming morning rain was nothing different from what I’d expected. Everyone at the entrance seemed so nice, but the number of absolute hammers present in the building meant they already had their groups and partnerships formed for the following day. This is how it seemed to me, at least until a friendly racer named Leno approached me to chat about the race. We discussed the weather, training, goals, the painful disparity between the race’s proclaimed elevation gain and what the mountains themselves actually seemed to offer. It was all the usual stuff, but he was the first person I’d met that welcomed me into this community.
I’ve never ran a race before. This was something I had to admit to with nearly every person I’d met. I flagged down some fellow racers at a nearby restaurant for dinner and asked if I could join them. Their names were Javier, Jose, and Cesar, three very friendly and enthusiastic Peruvians who had flown in for the race. These guys were seasoned vets, and when I inevitably had to admit this was my first ever race they laughed and applauded my tenacity. It felt nice. It felt like I was already welcomed as a part of this community. They told me stories about climbing mountains and running gnarly races back in their homeland. They spoke at length about the lack of support and enthusiasm for adventure sports in their corner of the world and all they were doing to try and change that. Needless to say I’m going to Peru very soon to try my hand at some mountaineering and split boarding. I adore the adventure sport community so much.
Back at my van it was 8:30 and time to lay down for the night. While I didn’t sleep I did get rest. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of calm I had going into this event. It wasn’t like my wrestling matches or the night before my Foothills Trail attempt last year. For the first time in my life I felt peace in the fact I had nothing to give but my best effort and I knew I’d have to accept whatever that effort looked like.
Rain at the Starting Line
I woke up with rain coming sideways into the window I left cracked. At some point I must have fallen into quite deep sleep to not notice the spurts of water blasting sideways onto my face. I met my family outside the starting line, ran them through the game plan, and got ready to race.
With a musket blast, the spinning lights of our police escort, and the cheers from the crowd we all began peddling ourselves into the mountains. Andrew, an absolute hammer of an ultra-runner, as well as my new buddy, Chris, led us up the long climb to High Knob. I suppose in most circles folks would be out of breath heading up this mountain, but the mood was nothing short of convivial. We cut up about the impending long night in the pain cave, our past experiences, follies, and the absolute shame it was that psychologists were missing out on a perfect case-study where poor mental health meets prime physical performance such as this mixed bag of nice legs, warm smiles, and masochistic tendencies.
By this point in time we were 9 miles into the race, moving well, still laughing, and I had seemed to earn a reputation as the ambitious amateur. The only thing on my mind was finishing this beast, but the pace felt plenty comfortable and the company was enjoyable enough that I wanted to stay with the pack of misfits where I most definitely belonged. When I arrived at the High Knob Tower way ahead of pace my family looked surprised and thrilled. I charged ahead down the mountain alongside this fella named Tim. Tim went on to casually take 3rd and finish right at 24 hours, but he never once hinted to this level of badassery. Tim was a quiet crusher enjoying the ride and happily supporting every runner he came across. We talked about his work as a Computational Theorist, his thoughts about diversifying the computational workspace and its subsequent academic spaces, and about my efforts to share the healing power that outdoor spaces. Most recently these efforts came in the form of my job in Wilderness Therapy. Point is, Tim is a cool dude. Go get yourself a Tim.
Bees, Creeks, and Nightfall
At the bottom of the mountain was a long section of singletrack wherein we danced from one side of the river to the other over and over and, wait for it, over again continuously. I always get frustrated when trail builders do this because it encourages more feet in rivers and that typically means more lines where macro invertebrates’ habitat is being tarnished. 200-or-so runners going twice or more over these spaces in a day won’t kill the river, but I can’t imagine it as particularly good. What’s definitely not good is going ankle-deep in a ground hornet nest as was the case of our leading racer. Our group wasn’t the cause for these hornets’ irritation, but trampling about the forest didn’t help the situation and more than a few of us got attacked - myself, thankfully, excluded from this bunch.
I had lost the fight to keep my shoes dry on the first creek crossing of this section. Growing up in a rainforest, I am acutely aware of what slick rocks look like, though I gave it my best attempt to cross without sinking into the creeks. It didn’t work. In fact, it didn’t work very quickly, and I found myself calf-deep in the river having slid into a pool. Fair enough.
Stretching / massaging my back. I have a previous spine injury
I returned from the creek run significantly ahead of schedule. My body felt incredible and there was yet to be a single step I wasn’t confident with. As I topped out the mountain for the second time my amazing crew comprised of my mother, father, and roommate were waiting for me with dry socks, anti-inflammatories for my knee, and a full supply of various electrolyte fluids, salt pills, and energized goops for me to suck down while I took off into the night with my new running partner, David.
David and I descended off the mountain and ran deep into the darkness of night. By this point we had run together for nearly 20 miles and had worked our way through all the usual conversations revolving around family, training, hopes, dreams, and failures. This was the kind of things I expected to hear from anyone I shared that line of dirt with. Having deeply nuanced conversations can be quite difficult 60+miles into a run back up a mountain, but it’s easy enough to swap stories. I normally enjoy those sorts of things anyways; hearing folks talk about how they see and experience the world. I’m enthralled by the sum of life experiences that stepped onto that starting line nearly twenty-hours previous. Folks who found sobriety in outdoor spaces shared the track with those who’ve never so much as had a beer. Family men deep in full careers stood alongside young bucks like me just trying to get their lives started. Impressive, hyper-athletic women were kind enough to step to the side so retirement-age gals could safely pass. There was no discretion between gender or religion. No one cared how much money you made or what you may have done in your past. For one day, for one-hundred long miles of trekking through mud and rock and bees we were all the same. We were unified in our purpose and admiration for one another.
Slipping, Falling, Stumbling Into a DNF
By mile 74 or so it had become apparent that David was performing at a higher level than I was capable of sustaining. I had led our charge for nearly thirty miles and swapped with him for these most recent ten. Every few hundred yards he was stopping and waiting for me. With daylight a mere two-hours away I encouraged him to leave me behind so that he may finish with his best-possible time. He seemed hesitant but I don’t believe he would’ve left me behind had I not insisted he do so.
My legs were getting weak and my bad knee was tightening up something awful. Technical singletrack is usually the domain I perform best in. If you need someone to barrel through a backcountry, forested obstacle course I’m your guy, but apparently not so much after 22 hours of continuous effort. Not being able to bend my knee made my failing balance worse and worse. This didn’t raise any initial concern. Of course I knew I would come to a point in the race where the fight for the finish would start, but I didn’t expect it to look quite like this. I distinctly remember trying to navigate one rock-laden bank where I had to climb down on all fours for about thirty feet. In a stronger state I would simply jaunt down using a backpedal-type motion to keep me balanced, but in my current state of shakiness I maintained three points of contact with the rock wall at all times. Thankfully I had been doing so, because when my left knee tightened-up causing me to wince in pain I slipped and nearly began tumbling down the boulders. I had my right hand meat-hooked onto a rock to save myself from what I imagine would’ve been an injury-causing fall. I was about three miles from the aid station, and between the multiple creek crossings and other sections of hand-over-foot rock stumbling meant I fell some 14-odd times before making it there.
Approaching mile 50
In this instant as I throw back my third cup of coffee from the comfort of my desk I’m wondering if it was this moment I decided to make the smart call and protect myself from letting my ego get me hurt or if I failed to stand up and fight in that pivotal moment of the race. I was laying under a tree by the river after one of my falls thinking that same exact thought in a much more uncomfortable moment. I hit my head on the roots. Not badly, of course, but hard enough for me to want to lie down for a few minutes. A few minutes turned into twenty as I watched the starlight twinkle through the limbs above my head, and it was in that moment I decided I didn’t have the fight to go on. To finish I’d need to complete another lap around this rock garden and the risk of injury felt very real, not to mention the sheer amount of grunting and cursing it took to stand back up from that tree. I limped down the stairs of the aid station into my father’s arms who told me they’d heard there was a runner lying down on the trail not moving. They assumed it was me, and for how it was described it appears they were right. The last hour was comprised of a lot of breaks and mumbled communication between me and the other racers, and I find it comforting that someone told the medical staff about me just in case I never got back up and made my way into the aid station.
I called my race off at 77 miles and 22.5 hours. This was a new best for me by a very significant margin, and I feel nothing but pride in the effort and hunger for the next opportunity to prove myself.