Grindstone 2012—the last time a hundred mile race that I
attempted went well. I suffered to a finish at Cruel Jewel in 2013 aided only
by the generous cut-off there, and at Western States last year I hobbled along
for 70 miles to what—while still a decent time—was not what I had either hoped
or was trained up for. So, while
Bighorn this year was not without hiccups—it is a hundred miles after all—it is
what I’d call a very well executed run and, individually, my best executed in a
long time. After feeling stagnant and
a bit without direction for the past year with my running I feel like I’m back
finally.
Something felt right about this weekend—start to finish; an
intangible feeling of just being at ease and comfortable. A leisurely drive up to Sheridan, Wyoming
on Thursday led into a lazy evening with friends—over thirty of us were sharing
two houses for the weekend—and I woke up Friday morning later than I would have
on any other Friday after a solid nine hours of sleep.
The only real issue for the entire weekend reared its head
early into running on Thursday.
The hundred at Bighorn starts at 11 a.m., opening with a long climb up a
canyon into the oppressive mid-June heat.
This year was hot, the
opposite of all weather beta I’d been warned of for Bighorn (mainly to be
prepared for true cold at night)—someone told me Saturday that the temperature
broke 100 in the canyons and, confusingly for the Rockies, there was humidity
along with the heat. Trotting up the first climb that rose nearly 3400 feet at
what, in the dense heat, was a frustratingly runnable climb that I was not
running, I actually had trouble breathing, feeling similar to asthma though I
have never suffered from asthma. I assumed, foolishly, that the heat would
mellow as we made the ridgeline well above 7000 feet. It did not. The heat followed us through the day
onto the north side of the broad Bighorn mountain range.
I ran for a couple hours through this section with my bro
Ryan Lassen, and we joked about seeing someone sitting on the edge of the
trail, cooked and nauseas, at only mile 15. In true karmic timing, for almost
two hours starting at mile 18, I puked. I puked up basically anything and
everything; even swigs of water came up within minutes. Thankfully, even though I was concerned,
my only ‘DNF’ thoughts came in the form of “well if I pee blood I’m calling
it.” The seething fears of inability never crept in. Thankfully after crawling
barely six flat miles in that whole
time I managed to force down a Zantac, and in about thirty more minutes I felt
famished. I cruised down the
steep, technical descent to the Footbridge aid station at mile 30 running on
fumes but confused as to why all the people I saw on the descent were walking
down it. At footbridge, well over my split projections, my good friend Rush,
there hanging out until his runner made it back from the turnaround, quickly
put me back together with a pile of potatoes and watermelon—I was likely much
easier to handle than our friend Tim who, running his first hundred miler here,
immediately upon entering the aid station passed out and puked on himself like
a scene from Pulp Fiction.
Three RMR—Tim, John Knotts, and Neeraj—left that aid as I
was wrapping up my dinner of sorts and still had a few minutes of prep before I
would follow. This was actually a nice progression for me as I enjoy chasing
people—it is great motivation—and I was coming around from my heat-induced
nausea, ready to do some real running into the long eighteen mile climb up to
the turnaround at Jaws. I worked up
that climb methodically, not pushing but maintaining a solid cadence and
effort, stuffing my face as I went. I managed to catch back up to several RMR
at the aid station prior Jaws whom I had not expected to see until much later
in the race—this provided a nice boost for the frustratingly slow last few
flatter miles into the turnaround at mile 48.
At the turnaround, Keely and Elena got to work cementing
themselves into possibly the best crew I’ve had. Elena made several trips to
the food table, fulfilling my various whimsical requests while Keely got to
work cleaning my feet and replacing my shoes and socks, refusing to actually
let me do it myself so I could focus on eating and getting out the door.
Planning for actually appropriate Bighorn weather, I donned a long-sleeve shirt
and glove, packed my fantastic Nike Terra Kiger jacket into my pack, and headed
out into the night with Keely in-tow.
I lost the gloves in the first mile and slid my sleeves up not long
after, wishing I was running sans-pack so I could go shirtless as the
temperature felt warmer in the long, dark downhill than it did in the previous
dusk-lit climb.
Keely and I—though looking back I am disappointed in the
actual splits for the initial lengthy downhill—made nice work of our time together
all the way to Dry Fork (Mile 83).
Most of the time I left headphones off and just enjoyed the conversation
with one of my best friends, cruising along and picking off people and ticking
off miles as we went. I ate well at the Footbridge aid station in preparation
for the initial steep, then gradual uphill trend of the next 16 miles. This aid station seemed littered with
dejected athletes seeking out whatever magic might keep them moving forward.
Bad Juju. We ate and bolted up the steep climb
toward the next aid station—2000 feet in 3.5 miles; which, while standard on a
usual daily run, is truly a cold bitch at mile 66. This is where the headphones came back. My ipod was on point
for the majority of its choices through Bighorn and gave me a solid mix of Dead
Kennedys, Blink-182, and Kap Slap to power up the climb without any thought to
how hard I was likely working. I knew the entire race leading up to this point
that, no matter how I felt at this point, this climb would be hard. So, since I
felt good, I decided to overwork and get it done with as quickly as
possible.
Out of the aid station following that climb, We trotted
along again, elated at how smoothly that had gone and reveling in the early
morning dawn rising up from the long canyon as we traced our way toward Dry
Fork. Only two hiccups arose
through the entire section with Keely—one after another. At the next to last true aid station
before Dry Fork, I accepted some soup that ended up being entirely too
saturated and came right back up not even five minutes after leaving the aid
station. Then, we somehow blew
right past the (fantastic) spring that counted as the next aid station. No big
matter, just a little added incentive to move faster (or, as is the case in a
100 miler, less slow).
Dry Fork was the last true stop of the race for me. Changing into some fresh Nike
Lunaracers I was truly smelling the barn. [Editors note: ‘barn’ initially read
‘bar’ as a typo. Take your pick.] I left everything behind here aside from a
single Simple Hydration bottle filled with rocket fuel (slightly diluted
Mountain Dew—my fuel for the remainder of the race). Elena and I charged out at
a steady clip, keenly aware of the meager 3:03 remaining for 18 miles to slip
under 24 hours. I have to say:
road flats feel fan-fucking-tastic during the tail end of a 100, particularly
on forgiving dirt roads. The final descent of this went slower than I had
hoped, feeling much, much, much steeper on the return descent than as the
opening climb a day prior. I had no quad issues, but I just felt very
uncomfortable at my fatigue level attempting to lean into the descent…at all.
Elena and I hit the road with 35 minutes left to run the
five final road miles and finish under 24 hours and I decided I wanted it—a
laughable thought in hindsight; we surged down the road as hard as I could
muster (which, looking back, was only about 7:30/mile). Fairly quickly, Elena decided she didn’t
feel like running that pace (I’m not counting this as having dropped her) and I
was running alone. I passed Silke and her entourage en-route to a killer first
female finish with about 3.5 miles to go, and met Keely coming to meet me from
the finish with about 2.5 miles to go. Meeting her forced me to accept that
sub-24 hours was unreasonable and I settled into a lazy walk toward the finish
line, only jogging from time to time as the last person I had passed on the
road came close to catching back up to me. We trotted across the finish line with 24:11 on the clock—only
18 minutes from my 100-mile PR and performed on a much harder course.
Looking back, I am so pleased with finally being able to
execute a race well, regardless of where the times fell in comparison to my initial
time goals. I am publishing this report so late as I wanted time to muse on the
race and let my true feelings regarding my run simmer over the subsequent
weeks. This race gave my some excitement to finally get back to work and find
my racing legs again. There are a
couple races in the fall that have piqued my interest.
Gear:
Simple Hydration Bottles
Ultimate Direction Jurek Pack
RMR Pearl Izumi Singlet (hey Patagucci, make some green singlets please)
Patagonia Strider Pro Shorts (tried and true, never going back)
Random socks
2 different pairs of La Sportiva Bushidos (due to mud) and Nike Lunaracers
Gas Station American Flag Cap
