A Day, A Night and A Morning

On Wednesday afternoon, I was sitting at a stoplight on my way home from work. In spacey daze, the far off mountains caught my eye out on the horizon.  I stared in disbelief.  It was the first time it’s really hit me. That was a long way to run.  My mind continued to drift back to day spent running along the historic and spectacular Western States Trail.  A day, a night and a morning.  It’s been a week and the number of times my mind has wandered back to that trail is probably consistent with the number of steps between Squaw Valley and Auburn. 

My Amazing WS Crew enjoying down time the evening before "the big day"

In the days leading up to the start of the race, I’d felt fairly calm. From time to time, I’d raise a small voice of concern to Kirk and Julie regarding my training. Did I do enough? Was I ready? I suppose I was searching for some sort of comfort that everything would be okay.  It wasn’t until the clock counted down the seconds before the start of the race that the magnitude of what I was about to do really hit.  I stared wide and teary eyed at Jenny. “I’m scared.”  “It’s going to be okay,” she responded while giving me a quick hug.  “You’re going to have a great race!”

I started the climb up escarpment (a climb of 2,550 feet in 4 miles) as planned, with friends.  In conversations leading up to this day, this initial start had seemed much different.  We’d be laughing joyously about the adventure we were to have, soaking in the views of Squaw Valley as it became smaller and smaller. Instead, we were cold and quiet heads down avoiding the 35mph winds on our faces as we ascended higher into the clouds. Most of the first 30 miles can be summed up in one word. Freezing.  We ran through rain, hail and snow.  We’d be told later that Western States 2012 is the 2^nd coldest in the events history. Not exactly what most of us had planned.

Enjoying warm soup at Duncan Canyon courtesy of Bob Crowley

Shortly before arriving at the Robinson Flat aid station, I realized something was wrong.  My hands were extremely swollen resembling something closer to doctor’s gloves blown into a balloon then my own hand.  I stepped on the scale at the aid station to find my weight up 5lbs.  My heart sank as I quickly ran in a state of shock to my crew. I have no idea what they said or what they were trying to give me. My only focus was on Kirk as I told him about my weight and showed him my hands. My thoughts circled in and out of fear and frustration.  I knew the colder weather made monitoring my hydration more difficult. Kirk gave me two salt caps and assured me I’d be okay. I continued on my way hoping things would turn around. 

I left Robinson Flat with Chris Conwell.  It was nice to have a friend to run with for a while. Chris is always good company and laughs are guaranteed. I’d rather focus on my stomach aches from laughing then my monstrous hands and any doubts I’d had about screwing up my hydration so early in the race.

Freezing but having fun!

Dusty Corners arrived in the blink of an eye. I walked through quickly, having no reason to stop. After leaving the aid station, I found myself on The Pucker Point Trail. It was gorgeous and I made sure to soak in the views as I had missed this stop on the training run.  It truly is amazing how many beautiful areas I’ve been lucky to see throughout this journey. As I stopped to admire the water fall on the opposite side of the canyon, I realized it was the first time I’d been alone all day. The sun was finally out and I took a deep breathe feeling the sun’s warm rays penetrate my skin. The solitude was oddly comforting. As I continued on, I smiled knowing what was ahead and looked forward the familiarity of The Canyons. I’d trained in them almost every weekend since May and could visualize almost every turn.  They’re not easy, but I’ve found I love them.

Down Last Chance, up Devil’s Thumb, down El Dorado and up to Michigan Bluff. The Canyons can be brutally honest and I was happy to know my training and hours spent within them was worth it.  My arrival into Michigan Bluff was a whirlwind. While I love the energy and excitement of the Aid Stations, I’ve found they can be overwhelming when you’ve been alone for so long. I was greeted by a good friend Sandra who walked with me through the little town. I wanted to keep moving.  Even with seeing friends along the way at Aid Stations, I was aching to see my people. Dustin, Jenny and Kirk. Six more miles.

Volcano Canyon passed quickly and I knew I was within a half mile of Bath Road where Jenny would be waiting for me.  My excitement to see her is indescribable.  Even days later, I tear up recalling my feelings of anticipation and happiness. It had been miles and hours since I saw my crew last and the solitude I had once embraced had turned to loneliness. 

After a giant hug, we moved quickly up Bath Road the last mile to Foresthill.  The little town of Foresthill presumably doubles on this day every year. There are people everywhere and the energy is electric.  I arrived to the Burgess Pit Crew to countless faces of loved ones and cheers and I sat down for the first time in 62 miles.  I had rocks to get out of my shoe that had been bugging me for hours, but I’d been too lazy to stop and take them out.  How’s that for an oxymoron?

Attempting to get my shoes off to get the rocks out - Larry came to my rescue!

While my handheld was filled and more snacks were crammed into Kirk’s pockets, I attempted to change my contacts (a decision that would later come to haunt me).  Giving up out of frustration, I gave Landon a quick hug and kiss, promising I’d see him in the morning. I said my goodbyes to family and friends as they cheered our departure.  I turned my headlamp on as Kirk and I made our way down to California Street. The final moments of day quickly melting into the horizon.  I was so thankful to have company for the final 38 miles. As we started down the single track we were greeted by an orchestra of frogs, crickets and birds.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep...and miles to go before I sleep

Running at night can be an eerie experience.  I’d admitted to Kirk several weeks before that I may be afraid of the dark and promised I would try not to drive him crazy.  Other than a run in with a mouse (and countless spiders) the night was pretty uneventful. The Cal-Loop passed pretty quickly as we chatted away on the trail trading stories of past lives. While the technical downhill slowed me, we were able to do well and even pass other runners on the climbs, including two friends Jack Meyer and Charley Jones.  Jack was in a low place as we approached and I felt bad that we kept moving with only a brief hug and encouragement for the final miles. I’d find out later that knowing I was doing well brought Jack out of his funk. What a great guy!

Just before 1 a.m we arrived at Rucky Chucky, led by two Aid Station Captain extradoinaires Chuck and Trish Godtfredson.  I’d been looking forward to the Aid Station more than any other. The party did not disappoint and there were friends with hugs and encouragement everywhere. A very small part of me thought it would be fun to stay and have a beer with friends, but I knew we couldn’t.  The river lie ahead as did Dustin and Jenny on the other side.

In years past, runners crossed the river by boat due to high water levels. This year, as in traditional fashion, we’d be crossing on foot with the help of selfless volunteers wading in waste deep frigid water and a cable strung from near side to far.  The water was littered with glow sticks, which illuminated an eerie green glow as our feet passed one over the other to the land on the other side.

Making our way across the river

We started our ascent up to Green Gate with Dustin and Jenny. The cold water had tightened my muscles and I was having a difficult time climbing without pain.  I sat for the 2^nd time in 82 miles to change into dry shoes and socks. While this decision was heaven for my feet, I regret making it. My already cold tight muscles, especially my left hip flexor, screamed in protest as I stood.  Every step forward was accompanied by an invisible man, plunging his dagger into my leg.  I breathed deeply and quietly moving slower than I would have liked.  On more than one occasion (as we’d been through some pretty lousy training runs together) Kirk had said that I rarely, if ever complain. I’ve always felt that vocalizing your discomfort is a way of giving in to it. You become even more aware of it, which gives it fire and power.  I reminded myself that I knew there would be pain. Pain was inevitable, but it would pass (or I’d become numb to it).  I stopped abruptly in the trail and asked that Kirk take the lead. I needed to focus on something else and could no longer tell the difference in the trail as to what I should be running versus walking.  Apparently, this was perfect timing for Kirk who’d become motion sick from watching my feet drunkenly flounder around the trail. Ironically, staring and following Kirk’s feet was exactly what I’d needed. Our conversations ceased as hours and miles slowly passed and I followed in Kirk’s shadowy footsteps. 

Just before reaching the ALT Aid Station, Kirk came to a quick halt. Experience would tell me that when he does this, it’s because he sees something. An animal. “What do you see?” I asked as every hair on my neck tingled. “Turn off your headlamp.”  Kirk was less than an arms length away, but the darkness swallowed him from view.  I stood in awe at the countless bright stars above.  “Look across the canyon,” he said, presumably pointing. “You can see the other runners.”  Bobbing along on the far side of the canyon were the distant headlamps of other runners. Some solo and others in pairs, all moving along as tiny specs of light. “Is that where we’ve been, or where we have to go?” “That’s where we’ve been.” He could have lied and I wouldn’t have known the difference.  I was grateful for the time we took to stop and think about how far we’d come.  How far I’d come. A single, seemingly insignificant moment, that’s been etched into memory.

Pacing a runner is an art form. There is a fine balance in the distance kept between pacer and runner. Staying just far enough ahead gives them something to chase, however increasing that distance only a few small steps leaves your runner feeling ditched and alone.   Six months ago, I had been advised to not select my pacers and crew too soon.  I was told that what I thought I wanted in a pacer in January would be significantly different in May. It’s not very often that I go against the advice given by someone I have so much respect for. At 4 a.m, when I told Kirk the approaching Aid Station looked like they had a giant glowing bounce house and he didn’t laugh (out loud) at my delirious comment, I was reminded once again that I had made the right decision.  Considering I could only see out of one eye (why did I want to change contacts!?), I figured I wasn’t too crazy thinking I’d seen a bounce house.  Not, too crazy.

We strolled into the Highway 49 Aid Station (Mile 93.5) just after 6:30A.M. A little later than originally expected, but were greeted by smiles and cheers from undoubtedly exhausted volunteers…and of course Dustin and Jenny and my Dad.  What a sight for sore tired eyes.  I was weighed in for the last time (still up 3lbs) and perused the delicious smelling breakfast table as Kirk briefed Dustin. I overheard him say that I could walk the entire rest of the way and still make my goal – well, my B goal at any rate. Knowing I could walk the entire rest of the way was a relief.  I was physically, emotionally and mentally exhausted. 

Crossing Highway 49 - The Final Stretch as the pacing duties are handed over to My Love.

Dustin took the lead and graciously pointed out roots and rocks to his half blind wife.  We ran through the open field in Cool as the early morning sun beautifully illuminated the golden grass. I’ve run through this area countless times before, but know it’ll never been the same upon my return.  How could it? Over the last 95 miles, I’d become a different person too. I was told by friends that the person who starts in Squaw is not the same person who finishes.  I get it now.


As we crossed No Hands Bridge, I was struck as I always am, at the beauty of our area and how lucky we are to have such amazing trails to run on. 

One of my favorite pictures - Jenny and I crossing No Hands on one of my first trips over the bridge.

The final miles and ascent to Robie Point were done in mostly silence. My mind wandered in and out of past and present thoughts, again reflecting on the journey. A day, a night and a morning…and all the months prior.

The final climb up to Robie Point, mile 99, felt as if I was coming home.  The aid station is captained by Fleet Feet and I was overwhelmed by the friends who welcomed our arrival, including for the final time that day, Jenny and Kirk.  In hindsight, I find it fitting that they were here to cover the last mile with Dustin and me.  Not only had they been amazing pacers and crew, but they’ve become amazing friends throughout this journey.  A journey that started not a day ago, or even 6 months ago, but in December of 2010 when they invited Dustin and I out for our first trail run. I’m eternally grateful for that invitation and their friendship. And for every mile in between. 

The four of us entered the track at Placer High School and every discomfort I had disappeared.  Landon ran towards us to share in the final two tenths of a mile as we made the final turn towards the finish.  With a smile from ear to ear and eyes swelling with tears, I took my final steps in completing 100.2 miles.  That final stretch went by in a flash. Those are the moments you want to last forever.  Another moment etched into memory.

Final Thoughts:

Yes, I still have some, surprisingly enough! I had been asked countless times during my training “How do you run 100 miles?” “How do you train for something like that?”  More often than not, I was left fumbling for an answer. I finally have one.  There are a only a few things you need:

-          A Husband who loves you beyond measure and is ready to support your new “full time job.” Thank you Dustin for everything you did to make this adventure possible for me. Your support means the world to me Love.

-          A Mentor or Coach, who is who believes in your potential and guides you along the way. Kirk and Julie were these for me. Kirk especially, for guiding me on every training run and mentoring me along the way. Some lessons are learned the hard way - like bonking on purpose! 

-          A crew of friends who selflessly give up 30 hours of sleep to help you achieve something remarkable. Jenny & Kirk, my heartfelt gratitude. I think the world of you both! My Love, thank you for sharing those last few miles with me...and putting up with me over the last 6 months. Dad, thank you for joining on the adventure and not having a nervous breakdown seeing me out there. And to my Mother who helped more than we can ever thank her for.