I stood at the starting line of the Wasatch 100 mile
endurance run, and questions of doubt kept pinging my brain. Can I do this? Will I
make it to the finish line? I knew Wasatch would take me longer to finish than
any other race I had done before. I estimated 30 hours. I didn't have much choice in
the matter. With over 26,000 feet of cumulative climbing in
the mountains, this was going to be (by far) the most difficult race I had ever
done.
It turns out that getting to sleep the night before the most
difficult race I’ve ever done was, well, not the easiest thing. After tossing
and turning for hours, I finally looked at the clock. I shook my head. I still hadn’t
dozed off and my alarm was set to go off in 45 minutes. What the hell, I
thought, why not just get up and start getting dressed now? It must have been
at that moment - when I finally stopped trying to fall asleep - that I finally
did. For all of thirty minutes. This would be the only sleep I would get for 51
hours.
Wasatch Front is in a league of its own. Heat, cold,
elevation, vertical gain, technical trails, it has it all. In the first 10
miles runners must climb more than 4,000 vertical feet, from 4,900’ elevation
to 9,150’. It is here where the infamous "Chinscraper" summit presents itself and
forces runners to get down on all fours to scale its peak. But this is just the
first 10 miles. To go the distance, runners must climb and descend more than 26,000
cumulative feet over this 100 mile course, much of which is in the high country
of Utah between 8,000 and 10,500 feet.
I don’t know if it was due to the lack of sleep, the
difficulty of the course, or the fact that this was my fourth hundred miler of
the summer (maybe all of the above?), but my energy levels were unusually low
during the first half of Wasatch. I kept wondering if I would be able to make it through 51 hours with no sleep. I began to think about taking a brief nap at
some point, something I have never done during a 100 mile race. Instead, I just
continued running, hiking, eating and drinking. I consumed my standard cuisine
of Vespa with turkey and cheese sandwich pieces heavy on the mayonnaise, with a
handful of Jolly Ranchers thrown in for some quick energy on the climbs.
I’ve written that getting through the ups and downs is one
of the greatest challenges of ultra running. There are times when I feel
invincible. The miles, the hours and the mountains, they make me feel strong.
Then there are times when I feel beaten down. These same miles, hours and
mountains cut right through my strength. What I’m learning is there are
times during 100 mile races when I have to have a conversation with myself.
Not the rambling schizophrenic type, I’m talking a real dialogue between my mind and body. These conversations can make or break me out there.
During the first half of Wasatch I watched lots of runners
pass me. It was frustrating because I was losing ground. If you don’t know me
by now, you should know I don’t like losing ground. I hate losing ground. But I had the conversation. I asked my body.
Can I stay with them, by running a little
faster, by expending a little more
energy? I waited for the answer. I didn’t have to wait long. We can go when we
are ready, my body told me. And right now we are not ready. Be patient, it told
me. There are many more miles to run, and more mountains to climb. I could hear
my ego in the background, trying to find its voice. But I knew it was the last
voice I should listen to. I continued at my own pace.
Complicating things was my decision to run Wasatch (and all
four Grand Slam events) with no crew and no pacers. For those unfamiliar with
100 mile events, a crew provides 100 mile runners with special food, drink, and
motivational support on the long course. Pacers run alongside runners in the later
stages of the race, usually at night for safety reasons, but also to keep
runners focused and motivated to get to the finish line. Most 100 mile runners
run with a crew and pacers.
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| Drop Bags...Essential with No Crew |
When I looked up at mile 75 in the middle of the night, all
I could see was the distinct outline of a mountain ridge, and the slow-moving,
distant lights of runners making their way to the summit. The scene was
illuminated by a brilliant moon, a waxing gibbons, high in the night’s sky. It
was my final climb and it would take me to 10,500 feet, above the ski resort of
Brighton, Utah.
There is something about moving through darkness, by
yourself, under a cold night sky, that just feels alive. The bright moon, and bright stars, they simply pull you
along, through fatigue, over doubt, into the unknown. Every step, every breath,
difficult, but forward. As I began to hike to this final summit, I knew I was
approaching the last segment of a very long journey. A 400 mile journey. The
cold wind, the thin air, the steep climb, they all began to fade into the
background. Into the forefront came something pretty special. Something I
didn’t expect. Something I hope I can hang onto for a long time.
How does one describe the feeling of finishing one, let alone four 100 mile races? As I made my way down the mountain, I could feel the invisible pull of the Wasatch finish line. I could see it in the distance, and it seemed with every stride that moved me closer, I moved a little faster. Images of all my races began to flood my mind. Then, like that, after 400 miles, 93 hours and 30 minutes, I raised my arms and took my last step, across the final finish line, and out of an amazing chapter in my life.
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| Buckle, Number, Plaque and Certificate - it's official |
To climb a mountain. To run 100 miles, four times in four months. To climb a total of 74,000 feet. To embrace 32 days of training and racing in solitude. Away from my family. To sit down while climbing a mountain knowing I have nothing more to give. To get back up knowing I can’t give up. To simply remember why I’m out here. To confront this beast. So others might see how families affected by a certain disease called Tuberous Sclerosis suffer, in obscurity, but who are willing to give everything but up.
That, I now know, is pleasure. Something I hope I can hang onto for a long time.
