High Lonesome 100
My third straight 34+ hour 100, and it hurt. Actually my fourth, if you count Hardrock 2017, but that wasn't nearly as big a disappointment, since Hardrock is supposed to take me that long--I finished right on my average Ultrasignup score of 70% (winner's time/my time) and a solid 36 place/126 finishers. In the last three races (Grindstone, Massanutten, High Lonesome) I finished 59%, 62%, 64% (Ultrasignup) and place 145/207 (70%), 79/96 (82%), 68/86 (79%).
Anyway, cart before horse. What about the race itself?
I flew to Denver Wednesday, and drove to Salida Thursday. I showed up at the high school for race check-in and was disappointed to learn that everyone had checked in, meaning I wouldn't be getting in off the waitlist. I spent the next several hours buying and downloading maps and making alternate plans with my would-be pacers. After settling on a plan (the three southernmost 14ers of Nolans Friday and 30 miles of the crest of another range Saturday), getting my daily streak run in, and buying food for the alternate plan, I finally fell asleep in the back of the rental SUV only a couple miles from the race start. (Turo, the AirBnb for cars, was cheaper than an airport rental--especially for a big car like an SUV so I could get where I wanted to go.) Plan B would start further down the same road as the start, so it was easy to set my alarm for 5:30 to see people off at the start and maybe get to run the race myself.
I arrived at the startline and heard race organizers shouting "Number 90 and number 98!" repeatedly. Number 98 had already checked in, but number 90 truly had not, and was nowhere to be found. They officially offered me the spot. I hesitated for a moment, since I was excited about Plan B, but the RD said "I'll tell you one thing: it's a lottery next year." Nolans and the ridge traverse are there any time. So I grabbed my bag, got a bib, pooped, forgot my trekking poles, ran back to the car to get them, and started the race only a couple minutes after everyone else. I was happy to start DFL, since I assumed that would be I would only be passing people all day long, a positive for my mental state.
The race started with about two miles of pavement, which was a good way to spread people out before hitting trails.
I was happy to be running the race. I enjoyed the first, and biggest, climb up from 9,000' to the shoulder of Antero around 13,000' on gorgeous trail on a beautiful morning. I wasn't crushing it speedwise, but I did manage my usual ability to power-hike faster than most, so I did pass a few. Immediately after hitting the shoulder around mile 15, however, the course drops on 4x4 jeep road. There was a fair amount of ATV traffic, and the road was wall to wall anklebreaker-sized rocks, but I tried not to get too negative about it--the views were largely still great.
Down, down, down. Through an old mining town historic/touristy site, and then back up and over a 12,000 foot pass, out and back. 10K' to 12K' to 10K' to 12K' to 10K'. The typical Colorado monsoon clouds had formed by noon and were vaguely but not specifically threatening. No close lightning, just distant thunder and a rain that was just weak enough to want your mandatory seam-taped rain jacket off, but just strong enough to want it on, too. I was happy to see a friend from grad school near the summit of the pass; he'd go on to finish 10th in his first 100. He was stoked on the "spec-tac-you-LAR" scenery. (Dude, congratulations! My fragile ego would love to know if there's anything you're bad at, just to give us mortals some hope.)
The pass done twice, there was some road, a pleasant conversation with a Southerner, and then a little bit of endorphin boost from my good friend the CDT.
I recognized the section of trail, despite it being 12 years. I chatted with a few more Southerners about Georgia races, and darkness fell around the next pass, or 45 miles, between Tincup and Hancock. I'd been hoping for a 14-hour first 50, but it was going to be more like 16. Given my waitlist situation I only packed one dropbag, for mile 49, so I only had the light that I was required to carry the entire time. If I was a stickler for weight that would have been my phone, but luckily it was my usual strong bike light. Being handheld, it made for a few awkward snowfield traverses with the light in my mouth and trekking poles in both hands for stability. The pass, some boggy meadows, a few snowfields, and then the long level old mining road all the way to Hancock at mile 49, where I met my friends and pacers. We got all my nighttime gear: second light, second layer, gloves, hat, etc., changed shoes, and took off. The dry shoes and socks felt truly delightful, but the boggy climb from Hancock to the Lost Wonder Hut obviously put a quick end to that. This whole stretch was on the CDT, and I know it's gorgeous, but it was already dark. It also didn't help that this stretch was a hard part of my CDT hike--I'd been lulled into a false sense of security about snow levels by the Cochetopa Hills to the south, and sent my snowshoes home from Monarch Pass, only to learn the next day, five minutes after starting to hike again, that the snow was just as bad as ever.
Whatever, Mark and I trudged along, mostly making constant progress. Maybe there's a positive to my getting so grumpy with no sleep--if I sit down on trail, the next runner will inevitably ask if I'm alright (they are normal humans) and the threat of this interaction pisses me off (just leave me alone like the dog that crawls under the deck to die in peace, I am grumpy and I just want to sit for three minutes in silence!) so I just keep trudging. We lightened the mood by recounting our favorite Rick and Morty episodes, which is ridiculous since it's all of them. I always wondered how plumbuses got made.
But it was cold and the lack of sleep started getting to me.
"I'm in Idaho!"
"No I'm not, I'm on the CDT."
"If I'm hiking the CDT, why don't I just set up my tent? It's 2AM!"
"I'm on the CDT, but it's a race."
"Why did I design this race to be so hard?"
"I didn't design this race."
"Oh."
On loop, over and over and over again in my f---ed up head.
But finally the sun rose, the course would mellow, and things would get better. Except for the pooping, which was just getting started.
Mark and Jenny switched off at Monarch Pass, mile 68. Jenny's section started with a long downhill, and the heat was rising. My stomach was not happy with me, but I managed not to barf, so I guess in the spectrum of my racing experiences that's a win. I did have to poop 3 or 4x, which was less fun. I switched from Tailwind to ginger ale and my stomach calmed down. I tried eating popcorn, saltines, a tortilla, and a hamburger bun, but they seemed to be getting processed a little too quickly, so for the last 20+ miles I went liquid only. The aid stations had standard fare, definite plus: plentiful avocados; definite minus: vegan soup broth was not great. "Oriental" flavor Top Ramen, people!
Jenny and I were constantly doing the math, and 3 mph would get me a finish. I managed to do a handful of 4mph miles early, but as the temperature rose I laid off and was happy with a consistent 18-20 minute mile pace. This section of the course was mostly along the Colorado trail, lower, further east, and less spectacular than the CDT, but if it had more 3K' climbs, I'm not sure I would have made it under the cutoff.
Finally we hit the last aid station and the last trail climb before 2+ miles of pavement. It was the same pavement as in the morning, but now it was uphill, and it hurt. For good measure, the last 100 yards are across a gopher-hole ridden grassy field that made for mild ankle twisting with most steps. There would be no sprint to the finish, just a brisk hobble-shuffle, finishing in 34:41.
In all, I'm very happy I ran it. Thanks to Jenny and Mark for pacing me. The first 70 miles of the course have terrific scenery. The organizers are thorough, the vibe is good, and I support their plan to have equal-sized men's and women's fields next year. Other than my consistent refrain about vegan ramen, a constructive suggestion would be to try and organize camping at the start/finish, to contribute to an even more social experience. I assume there's a good reason it's not allowed, but perhaps there's a workable option. I didn't love the required gear list, but it's minimal, so it doesn't make much difference. My only question now is whether I can get the race award whiskey home on the airplane.
Anyway, cart before horse. What about the race itself?
I flew to Denver Wednesday, and drove to Salida Thursday. I showed up at the high school for race check-in and was disappointed to learn that everyone had checked in, meaning I wouldn't be getting in off the waitlist. I spent the next several hours buying and downloading maps and making alternate plans with my would-be pacers. After settling on a plan (the three southernmost 14ers of Nolans Friday and 30 miles of the crest of another range Saturday), getting my daily streak run in, and buying food for the alternate plan, I finally fell asleep in the back of the rental SUV only a couple miles from the race start. (Turo, the AirBnb for cars, was cheaper than an airport rental--especially for a big car like an SUV so I could get where I wanted to go.) Plan B would start further down the same road as the start, so it was easy to set my alarm for 5:30 to see people off at the start and maybe get to run the race myself.
I arrived at the startline and heard race organizers shouting "Number 90 and number 98!" repeatedly. Number 98 had already checked in, but number 90 truly had not, and was nowhere to be found. They officially offered me the spot. I hesitated for a moment, since I was excited about Plan B, but the RD said "I'll tell you one thing: it's a lottery next year." Nolans and the ridge traverse are there any time. So I grabbed my bag, got a bib, pooped, forgot my trekking poles, ran back to the car to get them, and started the race only a couple minutes after everyone else. I was happy to start DFL, since I assumed that would be I would only be passing people all day long, a positive for my mental state.
The race started with about two miles of pavement, which was a good way to spread people out before hitting trails.
I was happy to be running the race. I enjoyed the first, and biggest, climb up from 9,000' to the shoulder of Antero around 13,000' on gorgeous trail on a beautiful morning. I wasn't crushing it speedwise, but I did manage my usual ability to power-hike faster than most, so I did pass a few. Immediately after hitting the shoulder around mile 15, however, the course drops on 4x4 jeep road. There was a fair amount of ATV traffic, and the road was wall to wall anklebreaker-sized rocks, but I tried not to get too negative about it--the views were largely still great.
 |
| Phenomenal views plus Jeeps and Anklebreakers |
 |
| More races should have official whiskey sponsors |
 |
| Good Memories |
I recognized the section of trail, despite it being 12 years. I chatted with a few more Southerners about Georgia races, and darkness fell around the next pass, or 45 miles, between Tincup and Hancock. I'd been hoping for a 14-hour first 50, but it was going to be more like 16. Given my waitlist situation I only packed one dropbag, for mile 49, so I only had the light that I was required to carry the entire time. If I was a stickler for weight that would have been my phone, but luckily it was my usual strong bike light. Being handheld, it made for a few awkward snowfield traverses with the light in my mouth and trekking poles in both hands for stability. The pass, some boggy meadows, a few snowfields, and then the long level old mining road all the way to Hancock at mile 49, where I met my friends and pacers. We got all my nighttime gear: second light, second layer, gloves, hat, etc., changed shoes, and took off. The dry shoes and socks felt truly delightful, but the boggy climb from Hancock to the Lost Wonder Hut obviously put a quick end to that. This whole stretch was on the CDT, and I know it's gorgeous, but it was already dark. It also didn't help that this stretch was a hard part of my CDT hike--I'd been lulled into a false sense of security about snow levels by the Cochetopa Hills to the south, and sent my snowshoes home from Monarch Pass, only to learn the next day, five minutes after starting to hike again, that the snow was just as bad as ever.
Whatever, Mark and I trudged along, mostly making constant progress. Maybe there's a positive to my getting so grumpy with no sleep--if I sit down on trail, the next runner will inevitably ask if I'm alright (they are normal humans) and the threat of this interaction pisses me off (just leave me alone like the dog that crawls under the deck to die in peace, I am grumpy and I just want to sit for three minutes in silence!) so I just keep trudging. We lightened the mood by recounting our favorite Rick and Morty episodes, which is ridiculous since it's all of them. I always wondered how plumbuses got made.
But it was cold and the lack of sleep started getting to me.
"I'm in Idaho!"
"No I'm not, I'm on the CDT."
"If I'm hiking the CDT, why don't I just set up my tent? It's 2AM!"
"I'm on the CDT, but it's a race."
"Why did I design this race to be so hard?"
"I didn't design this race."
"Oh."
On loop, over and over and over again in my f---ed up head.
But finally the sun rose, the course would mellow, and things would get better. Except for the pooping, which was just getting started.
Mark and Jenny switched off at Monarch Pass, mile 68. Jenny's section started with a long downhill, and the heat was rising. My stomach was not happy with me, but I managed not to barf, so I guess in the spectrum of my racing experiences that's a win. I did have to poop 3 or 4x, which was less fun. I switched from Tailwind to ginger ale and my stomach calmed down. I tried eating popcorn, saltines, a tortilla, and a hamburger bun, but they seemed to be getting processed a little too quickly, so for the last 20+ miles I went liquid only. The aid stations had standard fare, definite plus: plentiful avocados; definite minus: vegan soup broth was not great. "Oriental" flavor Top Ramen, people!
Jenny and I were constantly doing the math, and 3 mph would get me a finish. I managed to do a handful of 4mph miles early, but as the temperature rose I laid off and was happy with a consistent 18-20 minute mile pace. This section of the course was mostly along the Colorado trail, lower, further east, and less spectacular than the CDT, but if it had more 3K' climbs, I'm not sure I would have made it under the cutoff.
Finally we hit the last aid station and the last trail climb before 2+ miles of pavement. It was the same pavement as in the morning, but now it was uphill, and it hurt. For good measure, the last 100 yards are across a gopher-hole ridden grassy field that made for mild ankle twisting with most steps. There would be no sprint to the finish, just a brisk hobble-shuffle, finishing in 34:41.
In all, I'm very happy I ran it. Thanks to Jenny and Mark for pacing me. The first 70 miles of the course have terrific scenery. The organizers are thorough, the vibe is good, and I support their plan to have equal-sized men's and women's fields next year. Other than my consistent refrain about vegan ramen, a constructive suggestion would be to try and organize camping at the start/finish, to contribute to an even more social experience. I assume there's a good reason it's not allowed, but perhaps there's a workable option. I didn't love the required gear list, but it's minimal, so it doesn't make much difference. My only question now is whether I can get the race award whiskey home on the airplane.
 |
| Done |
I'm afraid I'm the threatening runner who asks how you are :/ I pooped a lot this weekend too. I'm glad you got your money's worth and some great pictures and whiskey out of it! Congratulations
ReplyDelete