Bigfoot 100k
On Saturday, October 8, 2016, I ran the Bigfoot 100k race, which is actually more than 110 kilometers or 68.8 miles. Here’s how it went down.
Elk Pass to Norway Pass
11.0 miles, +2,287’/-2,691’
7:44 am. The Bigfoot 100k begins in one minute. We’re starting forty-five minutes late because our buses from the finish line missed a turn and each had to make five thousand point turns on pitch black, narrow forest roads to get us back on track. The delay afforded me close to an hour and a half of something close enough to sleep to make up for the lack of it the night before. Despite an evening of pre-race jitters, I felt calm and conversational at check-in. I snapped out of my power nap just before arriving; feeling alert and energized, but emotionally steady. I’m ready for this.
Nine days ago my game plan was to hike a lot at first to conserve my energy, pushing harder at the end if I could. Eight days ago, I did my last big training run up Larch Mountain. It’s 4,000’ of sustained climbing over seven miles, most of it up front. That was the first time I ran, and I mean literally ran, the entire way up a climb like that. And it messed up my whole plan. When the race director Candice Burt said to head towards the arch, I made sure to get up front because I was going to run. The whole thing if I could. All of the nearly 15,000’ of climbing and definitely the 16,000’ of descending.
7:45 and we’re off. Most trail runs start on wide road to spread out the runners a bit. This one jumps immediately into single track, and then stays mostly that way until the finish at Marble Mountain Sno-Park. It’s a fairly standard practice to hike a lot at the beginning of an ultra race and I wanted to establish a gap ahead of the hikers. Because I’m running the whole thing today.
It isn’t raining, but drops are still falling from the trees. It’s cold enough for me to wear my fully waterproof jacket, one of many required pieces of gear. I also have a heavier, insulated jacket with the tags still on it in my pack shoved into a Ziploc bag. I bought both of these jackets for the race to meet the minimum requirements and was convinced I would be able to return them unused because I know how much I heat up on a run. Within half a mile, the jacket is off and I’m regretting wearing it right now because I could have returned both.
The race initiates at Elk Pass through lush old growth forest. Elevation change is subtle and the trail is muddy and eroded from last night’s storm. I pass a runner and check my pace on my watch. I’m not going out too hot, but am moving along well. A pair of 120 mile distance runners fly past me. Elk Pass is about mile 51 for those who started the race yesterday at 4:00 pm and endured a night of hell. They’re 51 miles in and I have brand new legs, yet they’re outpacing me. Impressive.
Back at the Elk Pass aid station, my stomach was grumbling and I didn’t want to break into my nutrition until I was on the trail, so I grabbed an egg muffin. Shortly thereafter, I had to take care of the business one needs to take care of around 7 am, when I usually wake up. However, when someone asked about a bathroom, they were handed a shovel and a roll of toilet paper, then pointed into the woods. I decided to wait until Norway Pass, which I recall having a bathroom icon on the Nat Geo map.
I’m a few miles in and already have a couple problems. There are two types of problems in life: the ones you can live with and the ones that need to be addressed immediately. When the prior springs up, all I can do is say, “This is my life now”, and move on. The latter takes precedence over all.
After a lot of sock experimentation in my training, I went with Lululemon running socks, which make for the perfect layer of cushion inside my Hoka One One Speedgoat shoes. Despite hundreds of miles of this configuration, my right shoe is eating my sock for the first time ever. The heel of the sock slips to the arch of my foot. Some pebbles sneak in and are rubbing on my exposed heel. This is my life now. I can handle this.
But I have to take a dump. This is a problem that needs to be addressed immediately. The trail crosses its first of three paved roads. I see a park sign and that’s my clue there’s a vault toilet nearby. It’s barely off the trail and it’s warm, clean, and stocked. Done. Not a glamorous detail, but maintaining a healthy gut is a critical part of ultrarunning, so it’s worth mentioning.
I hop back on to find that I’ve fallen into the ranks of the hikers. The first noteworthy ascent comes up and I’m walking behind racers wise enough to conserve their energy for later. Something I know I should do, but don’t want to do. The trail is narrow here along a steep bluff so it takes some time until it’s safe or polite to pass. Then it’s back to running.
An hour in and I have half a PROBAR Base to get 180 calories in me, as I will do religiously every hour today that I’m not at an aid station.
Emerging from the forest opens up glorious views. The clouds are high enough to see the mountains and valleys infinitely in each direction. I make my first stop for photos. I originally had a goal time of fifteen hours for this race, but added an hour just for photos. I knew I would regret missing the opportunity to document this scenic and remote course. The sacrifice in pace was worth the photos I kept to trigger memories of this place.
Not more than ten miles in, I feel some bad things stirring in my belly. Gastrointestinal issues always fall into the “must address immediately” category. Nothing spells DNF like a ruined gut. A few weeks ago, I randomly ran a road marathon. Not a race, just a Saturday long run. I wanted to see if I could break three hours for the first time. It was going really well as I was lined up for a mid-2:50 finish until my gut dropped out. I held it in for a few slow miles before I had to take care of business at a gas station. I was fine afterwards and got back to my marathon pace. I finished around 3:09. I would have made my sub-3 hour goal if I had addressed it immediately. So I brought a couple loperamide tablets and took a half. It works quickly and I’m set. It’s an extreme measure I was hoping I wouldn’t need so early in the race, but appropriate in this case. No more GI issues from here.
The descent to the first aid station at Norway Pass is fast and easy. I rolled into that eleventh mile feeling like I hadn’t even started yet. I dropped off my pack for a water refill and recognized Richard Kresser who was working the aid station. This guy summited and circumnavigated the major mountains of the Cascades in a week, won the Bigfoot 200 mile race, did well in the Tahoe 200 and took fifth at the IMTUF 100 — all in the span of month or so. I congratulated him on his Bigfoot 200 win and we talked the beauty of the Timberline Trail, his inspiring me to try a summit-circumnav or two next season, and he told me, “You’re killing it right now”. I was handed my pack, grabbed a wrap and was on my way.
Norway Pass to Coldwater Lake
18.0 miles, +3,682’/-4,834’
The next leg is eighteen miles with some of the steepest terrain of the course. It ascends up Mt Margaret, bridges to The Dome and Coldwater Peak, then drops down to Coldwater Lake. I force myself to walk a bit knowing that this is a long sustained climb. I get antsy and start a low effort run uphill to move things along. I stop briefly to watch a couple dozen ravens playing in the wind rushing up the mountain. The sky is cracking open making for uneven temperatures and a surreal contrast between blue sky and alpine storms. I notice that my sock problem went away. That was weird.
Spirit Lake and Saint Helens Lake appear as I reach The Dome. I was alone here. There is something about this place. Without signs of man’s impact beyond the trail upon which I’m standing, there is no reference to the time in which I am. The scree, the silence, the hundreds of logs pushed onto the lake shores, the clouds. It’s a place that has been in this state for hundreds, thousands, millions of years. I know nothing about Spirit Lake, but the name is appropriate. My late, great friend and adventurer, Michael Leming, called the mountains his church. He understood why there was spirituality connected to summits. Why the Greeks believed the gods lived atop Mt Olympus. I was feeling this now. Ancient places have a presence. They feel alive with the ghosts of every creature and being which has lived and died in its boundaries. Every tree that has grown and fallen. Every rock that has broken. A runner passed me. It was hard to pull myself away.
It occurs to me that I might have signal at this elevation and I take my phone out of airplane mode. Two bars. I text my wife, Alycia, that she won’t be able to track me as was the original plan because there ended up not being enough SPOT devices for everyone. She asks for the HBO GO password, updates me on what our son is up to, and we tell other “I love you” before signing off.
It’s a bit of a relief knowing that that no one is keeping track of my progress. I originally rented the device mostly out of fear of getting lost. When I ran my first 50 miler back in May, the Quad Rock 50, I added six miles to my run in a backtracking incident. I’ve spent the summer ramping up my navigation talents and techniques, and have thoroughly studied the directions and distances on this course. If I don’t need it, I’d rather not have it. I feel this place more without a connection to the outside world.
Heading up to 5,700’, the cloud base fell below and a chilling wind rushed up the slope. I felt like I was flying through the mountains as stone giants lurched in the fog. At one point, I stretched my arms wide open and yelped as I sprinted; embracing a moment of chaos and wild freedom. The cold air urges me to rush along the ridge into the saddle ahead of Coldwater Peak. Dropping below the clouds, I get one last look at the lakes to the south, and see the valley to the north for the first time. The view from Coldwater Peak is surreal. The fall colors paint the grey, deep gorge red. Cliffs jut out into bowls holding small cratered lakes high above the rivers below. It feels like a troll is going to jump out at any moment and ask me to answer his questions three.
The descent begins. The trail is steep and technical. I was hoping to bomb down this section, but I have to negotiate the terrain a little more than I’d anticipated. My GPS watch lost satellite connection and I paid too much attention to bringing it back online which resulted in a couple non-injurious stumbles. When it does return, I’m unable to load the route. No big deal, because I can still see the trail map, and my location. Between those two and the well marked course, I don’t really need the dotted line telling me where to go. I haven’t been looking at it, anyway. The vegetation thickens and the trail vanishes in places, which is inconvenient on a 20% grade slope. The slim gap of exposed skin between my socks and running tights on each ankle is being torn to shreds from the brush. The river’s roar gets louder as I approach a bridge and begin the journey west along Coldwater Lake’s north shore.
The sudden change from down to mostly flat confuses my muscles and I feel heavy hamstring cramping coming on. I take it down to a sluggish jogging pace and am reduced to walking occasionally. I snap a few photos of the mountains towering over the lake as an excuse to take breaks. The trail is fitted with heavy wire netting to fight erosion, which my feet catch a few times; once taking me down hard. I run out of water and fill up at a stream not far from the aid. The long lake makes the last couple miles feel infinite. Despite all the elevation change, what I dreaded most about this course is this segment. Being able to see my destination for close to an hour without it ever seeming to get closer is torture. This is my first dark, and my darkest, moment.
I wonder if my theory of running this whole thing wasn’t going to work out. That I’d hurt myself. My training for this event has been a risky experiment meant to minimize time away from my family. My longest trail run in the past nine weeks was about sixteen miles pacing Denzil Jennings at the Mountain Lakes 100, the event I was originally going to do instead of this had it not sold out. After Quad Rock 50, Alycia pleaded for me to not take entire weekend days for long runs anymore.
I kept my mileage and elevation up by doing a lot of shorter distances on steep terrain. Usually twice the grade of most of this race. I did a lot of double and triples during the week by run commuting and running at lunch. In early August, I went on a group run around the Timberline Trail. Despite barely breaking into double digits on a single run since Quad Rock, the 42-mile circumnavigation around Mt Hood went far better than I had expected and made me confident that I’d cracked the code to something shaped like family/trail running balance. But now I’m questioning my training.
I see Howie Stern taking photos along the trail and throw a smile and a wave to his camera. I pick up the pace running it into the next aid station and to the loudest cheers of the race.
“Do you have a drop bag?”
I answer this question the way I will answer this at every aid station: “No”. With the strict mandatory gear requirements, I figured I’ll have to carry a lot of weight on me. What more would a few nutrition bars and extra socks add? Other than water refills and about a third of my calories, I’m running this self-supported. I’m pretty proud of my pack. I have a Nathan Vapor Air, size small. This is one of the smallest running hydration packs out there. I’ve got all of the mandatory gear in there and then some. I applied seventeen years of parachuting and paragliding packing technique to every item of clothing I had and surprised myself at how well it all fit. I had a long sleeve wool shirt, socks, beanie, and extra gloves in a sandwich bag.
“How are you feeling?”
A tip to aid station workers: never ask this question. Don’t ask ultra runners how they are feeling. Tell them.
“Oh, man! You look like you’re just getting started!”
“Looking strong!”
“How do you still look so fresh?”
That’s what you say. I’m lying when I respond, “I feel awesome,” but I need to say it so I don’t think it. I’m hurting.
Coldwater Lake to Johnston Ridge
6.6 miles, +2,287’/-612’
I grab a veggie burger, pop a couple ibuprofen, and walk out along the second of the course’s three paved roads. It leads to a highway which I cross onto a bridge. The concrete feels uncomfortable underfoot. The route returns to single track on the other side of the bridge and the landscape becomes barren as the Mt St Helens blast zone draws near.
It’s a slow mix of walking and jogging as I start up the highest sustained climb of the course to Johnston Ridge. I hydrate a lot and take deep slow breaths. As the calories and oxygen get into my system and the ibuprofen takes effect, I feel renewed. The cramping dissipates and I assume a better pace from power hiking and running up the grade.
The first signs of tonight’s approaching storm become visible as the horizon lowers. The wind picks up and black clouds form in the distance. There’s a small sign on the trail which reads, “Hi Mom! I’m proud of you! Keep Going”. 34.4 miles on the watch. Halfway. This note to a mother from a thoughtful child signifies there is now less than more left to run.
One of the two French Polynesian runners here from Tahiti, Maranui Aitamai, is on my tail. I’m not really trying to be competitive with others, but I let it motivate me to push harder. He catches up and we chat a little bit. I’m intrigued by how the two selected this of all events and what mountain trail running is like in Tahiti. He points out that the island is basically a 10,000’ volcano. As to why this event:
“We didn’t think it would be so cold! The sky is blue in the pictures.”
“Oh, those photos are from the 200 mile race in August. It’s always like this in October.”
We run both with and against each other. I realize I’m back to real running. I’m feeling amazing again. We leapfrog our places into the clouds, passing a couple 120 mile competitors near the Johnston Observatory. I pull ahead onto the last paved section of the course and run it into the small aid station. Sean Lang from Santa Cruz is taking a chair, something I’ve never been able to do in a race. I keep this stop short. A water refill, a few cups of ginger ale, a banana, and I hit it hard.
Johnston Ridge to Windy Pass
7.2 miles, +1,189’/-’1,244
Too hard! It’s mostly downhill out of the aid station and the frigid wind is a rush. I’m booking it for a mile until WHAM! My left hamstring totally locks up. I walk a bit, then stop to stretch. Maranui catches up, stops, and asks, “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, it should go away quickly.”
And it does. I appreciated that Maranui paused to check in on me. Todd Nardi, the race’s Medical Director gave us a three word brief: “help each other”. This echoes in my mind throughout the remainder of the event. It’s time for the buddy system. I pull in front a bit, but we’re mostly running together.
The sky ahead of the front clears a bit and the behemoth Mt St Helens reveals herself. Large helicopters are running cargo loads over the badlands in the valley between Johnston Ridge and Mt St Helens, now flying below our elevation.
It’s a fairly straight-line descent across the valley and charging into St Helens. The first substantial stream crossings appear and my shoes become submerged. My feet are wet. This is my life now.
A helicopter flies low overhead, passing just above Maranui. I see the opportunity coming and snap a photo.
Another runner appears on the horizon. I recognize him as the only other runner here with the same tiny Nathan Vapor Air pack that I have. I eventually catch him and we introduce ourselves. Greg Hanscom from Seattle and I are evenly paced. We talk career and family a bit and then the aptly named Windy Pass appears before I know it.
The aid station at Windy Pass isn’t much more than small, but cozy tent. I take a moment to get out my USB charger and plug in my Garmin Tactix to record the rest of the run. My phone is about to die, so I shut it down and stow it in a Ziploc. Another runner’s pacer taking the role of volunteer refills my water. Maranui stops in for a brief moment and gets out before we do. I’m delighted to learn that a friend of mine, Anthony Lee, checked in here just before us. He’s running the 120 mile race hell-bent on revenge after finishing past the cutoff time last year. He will go onto take third overall. The front of tonight’s storm touches the mountain so I put on my rain jacket and head out.
Windy Pass to Blue Lake
14.0 miles, +2,818’/-’3,732
A thick fog drops onto the Martian-like blast zone. I’m charging into it hard to try to catch Anthony before I realize that 120 mile runners and 100k runners take different routes between here and the next aid. The jacket comes off almost immediately as I heat up. My water refill was too heavy for this leg, so I dump half of it out. Greg catches up and we stick together. We’re hauling through the grey, rocky, open terrain. There are three ridges to clear and night will fall upon us soon, so we need to move quickly.
The plains are a pure joy to run. The trail is just soft enough. The views of St Helens and the waterfall on the north side are unreal. Climbing out of a river crossing, we pass a couple intrepid hikers in a rush to beat the storm back to their car after visiting the falls. A band of white mountain goats looms on the banks above at the next river crossing. I have to stop and power up my phone for one last photo. Greg runs ahead to catch a runner just ahead of us.
A couple new problems spring up. I’m beginning to feel a knob of pain in my mid-back. I can’t tell if something is jabbing into me or if this is a muscle cramp. I can live with it. I take a sip of water and I hear it drain. I’m already running out of water! I must have dumped too much. I have ten miles left on this leg. I do ten mile runs without water all the time, but they take a little over an hour. I have at least two hours ahead. I decide to take what I believe will be my final sip in five miles, then make it to the aid station and refill. I’ll keep an eye out for clear water sources, even though I know they’re scarce here.
Twilight sets as the wind and moisture increase. I have an abundance of energy and plan to ride the momentum out to Blue Lake solo, rather than go with the buddy system. I’ll take some time to recover there. I’m pushing the pace and surpass Greg and the other runner. I see Maranui ahead, slowed down a bit by rock hopping the river crossings. Wet feet are normal to me now, so I just run through the water and move in front. The first incline arrives and it’s not slowing me down. I can feel a little bit of cramping creep up and I say out loud to my legs, “I can’t give you any water right now. Please hang in there!” I’m in my rhythm, I’ve reached that flow state, and elevation change no longer has any effect. It’s trail running zen.
I’m alone as the darkness vanquishes the light. It’s headlamp time. While my pack is off, I make the delightful discovery that I have at least twenty ounces of water. The hose connector was pinched. I immediately make up for lost hydration and still have plenty left. The first ridge in the dark is a breeze. The trail is easy on my feet. The rain and wind only serves to keep me cool as I burn down the other side and up the next ridge.
This is the moment when Bigfoot strikes. I learn here why this event happens where it does, and when it does. This is what sets Bigfoot apart from just another long trail with lots of hills. Badwater is held in Death Valley in mid-July for a reason. The extreme heat is a feature of the race. We’re here in October because it wouldn’t be the same test of survival otherwise. This weather isn’t unfortunate. It’s intentional.
As I make it over the second ridge, vegetation disappears and it‘i’s just sand and ash. Gale force winds push a heavy combination of ice and ash up and over the exposed mountain. My headlamp reflects off the particles and the ground disappears. I’m in a t-shirt, and am in no position to stop and get out a jacket. I opt to keep moving. I’m still warm from the last fifteen or so miles of running.
A smarter me would have removed my headlamp and held it in my hand to get it below my eyes. But I made due by crouching a bit to get a better look at the ground. This sandy trail is easily erased by the wind. I can feel the indentation in some spots and probe for the path with my feet, but it disappears altogether at points. Being on a ridge, I can trust that forward is away from tangential descents. I scan the floor and move in the direction of the least falloff. The course is well marked, but the atmosphere is too thick to see the markers until they are right in front of my face. I slowly find them and each reflection in the darkness is a spot of hope.
This is oddly familiar. I started skydiving in 1999. I picked up BASE jumping not long after, and speedflying (a high speed sibling of paragliding) in 2004. Today, speedflying is the only aerial sport I still practice. Right now, there is something happening reminiscent of these activities. In each of these, you start off by entering into a situation which you will not survive. Death by trauma due to impact from falling, essentially. Apply training, gear, and a cool demeanor and it becomes a recreational activity. It’s not so much the risk that makes these appealing to me, but the process of making these normal; and the pure sensory experience. I’m understanding the reality of the situation. Death from exposure is a guarantee here without applying training, gear, and a cool demeanor. The scream of the wind closes the association loop by turning this into an intense sensory experience. I’m basically on an extended skydive. I’m making this situation normal. This is my life now.
I cross the peak and descend the soft face into the forest. I have to backtrack a couple times up to the last known marker when I slide down the mountain’s face and wind up off trail. I catch the reflection of a marker below through a chance break in the clouds and rush towards it. Tree tops. The forest deflects the wind and I have a clear view again.
It gives me the confidence to run full stride for two steps before I catch a root and fall hard down the mountain. I felt a jerk on my foot and immediately knew that my shoelace had just snapped. I always carry an extra set of shoelaces on remote trail runs. For some unknown reason, I left them at home for this race. I try to run on it and it seems OK for now.
A couple steep turns and I’m running almost right off of a cliff. The Toutle River is raging below. Ten more yards and a sign reads “Climb rope down. Cross river”. It’s positioned in way that makes me believe this will be a full-on repelling job, but I’m game. The actual rope location was slightly less hardcore, but still a significant obstacle fifty miles into this race. At the briefing, it was advised to just get our feet wet in the Toutle rather than risk slipping in a rock crossing attempt. I jump in. When the course was marked a week ago, the river was low enough that no one got their feet wet. It’s rained a bit since then, and then cold water hits my groin.
It’s two rope climbs up from the river. The second one skipped over a rock and dropped me a few feet, nearly costing me my grip. A few steps back onto the trail and my shoe is coming off. I remove all four of my gloves and come up with a configuration that will hold for now. I’ve been wearing wool gloves under wind and waterproof gloves all day. My hands are warm and my fingers are dexterous. At the Quad Rock 50, my shoe came untied and my hands were too cold to tie them. I went three miles with a loose shoe before an aid station volunteer tied my shoe for me. I’ve learned since that many ultra trail running problems can be resolved quickly if you have finger dexterity. Unzipping, unwrapping, tying, refilling. Our lives are designed around the expectation that we will have working fingers. There is a dimly lit tent to my right. What brave soul is camping here right now?
One mountain to go and I pray the peak is not exposed. I’m running hard through the forest and see a log which looks too familiar. “Oh no, I’m backtracking! I remember this spot! I crossed this log at the beginning of the race. Wait a moment… that was more than fifty miles ago.” I’m almost ashamed to be having hallucinations so soon. They’re mostly minor and my head is straight enough to parse fact from fiction despite occasional fits of panic.
The forest approaching Blue Lake is right out of a fairy tale. It’s covered in phosphorous material which amplifies the rocks and wooden giants into nonsensical shapes in the light of my headlamp. The trees here are only slightly shy in diameter from the beasts of Sequoia National Park. I kept seeing and hearing animal attacks in my peripheral vision. A cougar would take a deer, or a bear would be feasting on an elk. I knew it wasn’t real, but I still found myself turning around for confirmation.
I made the mistake of watching my watch excessively in the last three miles of this leg which brought time to a standstill. The good news, at least, is that my GPS was accurate and I could see the glow of the aid station tents as I approached mile 56.8. This is now the farthest I’ve ever run.
I was going to change my socks here with the knowledge that I would have crossed the Toutle, but my improvised left shoelace configuration makes removing my shoe too risky. The aid workers here are on point. They tell me I’m “looking strong” and it helps. But I can detect their reaction to my condition. I ask about the next leg and am reminded that I have close to 3,000’ of climbing and a boulder field to go. I put on my rain jacket for good this time because I’ll be moving slowly. I notice that my hydration bladder is facing the wrong way. This explains the pain in my back and the clamped hose attachment. I flip it around.
My secret goal of sixteen hours is in sight. I have just under three hours to advance twelve miles, which seems logical at the time. It takes me six gulps to down two sixteen-ounce cups of hot lentil soup. I turn down a beer and check out of the last aid station.
Blue Lake to Marble Mountain Sno-Park (Finish)
12.0 miles, +2,614’/-3,172’
Blue Lake is a spur from the trail, so there is some backtracking. It triggers paranoia until I see a sign pointing to the right reading “TO FINISH!”. Which is misleading, because the finish is hours away. In my head, the worst was over. It was a climb and then a downhill rush to the finish. But Bigfoot is a video game. Each level is harder than the last. And this is the boss level.
I’m still in running mode up the final sustained climb until I hit some rocks. The trail vanishes where the notorious boulder field begins. The first section isn’t too tough. When my headlamp reflected a marker, I made my way over and the next one came into view. It really is an extraordinarily well marked course. It took a few missteps to realize that there is virtually no discernible trail in the boulder field. I ran with Anthony Lee a couple weeks ago. He mentioned that in the night weather, “The cairns are really hard to see”. This helped me to understand the situation. On mountains above the timberline where trails carved by man are erased by nature, cairns are left to guide hikers. There is no trail.
“Hey, idiot! Stop looking at the ground and LOOK AT YOUR WATCH!“
A few weeks ago, I dove into the weird and outdated world of custom GPS maps. I spent a week resurrecting unsupported software and browsing forum posts from 2008 to generate base maps formatted for my Garmin Tactix. The fight was eventually won, and I’d already gone on a few test runs to dial how I could navigate on the move with this device. I tabbed over to map mode. There it is. I’m on a trail.
I luck out in that my GPS is locked. Looking around all I see are large boulders, steep drops into darkness, and a thick atmosphere moving at ludicrous speeds. I have a hardware compass on my pack which I use with the digital trail map to move through the boulders. A marker appears in my headlamp reflection. Boom! I look at my watch, use the compass to get my bearing, advance, BOOM! Next marker. Watch, compass, advance, BOOM! Next one. And so one. I’m jamming through this boulder field now.
I come across an array of headlamps. Two 100k and two 120 mile runners are caught on the boulder field. The other Tahitian, Yoann Mornet, who’s been killing it all day, has been stuck here for awhile and is hypothermic. “Help each other” becomes the top priority. I’m the only one with electronic navigation, so we move as group with me shouting out directions. Even with precise instruments, it’s a puzzle to escape this place. This is a boulder field, not a scree field. Many of the rocks must be scaled to pass over them.
It takes an hour to move two miles. I couldn’t care less about my long gone sixteen hour goal. Yoann and Jeff Allen, the other lost 100k runner, and I all move out together. The 120 milers fall behind. There is some climbing still to go.
This is the first place where I’m too exhausted to run. I’m cold from the slow going. I decided at Blue Lake to eat a lot there and not take in any more calories until the finish, where I would gorge myself. This plan would have worked if the leg wasn’t taking so long. Calories are fuel for the fire that is running. I’ve been warm until now because I’ve had a steady fuel supply and have kept the fire burning. But the flame is nearly out. A few meandering hills on the ridge and we’re going downhill to the finish.
We take the steep, technical descent at a polite pace. Jeff is out front. I don’t want to pass because it means that I’ll overtake a runner who is obviously faster than me and deserves to be in front. So I stay behind.
We’re about two miles away and I can’t be polite anymore. I want to warm up and I have a sudden wave of adrenalin. I announce that I want to run. Yoann is in. Jeff lets us pass. I feel guilty about it. Jeff has been faster than me all day. But if my navigation gave me an advantage, so be it. Ultra trail running is more than just being able to run up hills fast.
My headlamp blinks on and off and its luminosity drops. It’s about to die. My hands are too cold to change the batteries. I ask Yoann if I can run in his headlamp light to the finish and he complies. We stay close.
My watch reports the full distance of the race. I backtracked a bit earlier, so this is to be expected. A sign appears to our right. Marble Mountain Sno-Park — 0.5 miles. We’re sprinting at this point. A few minutes later the finish comes into view.
“Let’s cross together,” I suggest.
We’d become an unintentional and necessary pair. My navigation brought him out of the rocks, and his illumination brought me to the end.
We finished together in 17:17:18.
We were each handed our medal, which was cleverly made of wood. It felt a little silly holding this trinket, lovely as it is. I didn’t go through this experience for a necklace. I went through this to change my definition of problems. Of comfort. Of nature and wilderness. Life becomes a little easier with each challenge met. If the last seventeen hours can’t break me, what can?
I still have my insulated jacket stowed away in my pack. Dry, unused, with the tags intact. I’ll be returning it for a full refund.
We headed over to the warming tent where we met Sean Lang. I don’t remember him sneaking by us, but he got in almost twenty minutes ago. Jeff followed about ten minutes later. We all sat down covered in blankets and warmed ourselves close to a couple heaters as the attentive volunteer staff brought us hot chocolate, beer, and burgers as if they were critical medication.
We were mostly silent. Processing what had just happened. As we each walked backwards through the course in our minds, we become concerned for the people who were still out there, and feel fortunate to have survived.
Jeff throws out, ‘’Only at Bigfoot can you finish in 17:30 and still place fifth. Hey Sean, congrats on third!”
I didn’t think to ask where Yoann and I placed, but through some simple deduction I realize we’d tied for fourth place. I have mixed feelings about this bit of information and am skeptical at first. I wouldn’t go on to accept it fully until it was announced in the official results a few days later.
I’ve always had a case of Imposter Syndrome when it comes to running. Three and a half years ago, I was forty-five pounds heavier and hadn’t run much more than two miles in my adult life. I loved the outdoors, but equally loved coding and writing music. I spent my life in a chair. I was on a hike with my friend, Jeff, when a trail runner passed us. It was February and this guy was hauling up Table Mountain. We stopped him for a moment and learned he was doing a fourteen mile run, which was mind-boggling to us. That was it. We decided we wanted to be that guy.
I’d really slowed down as a speed flyer and hiker as I fell out of shape. I hated exercise. I even hated running. I’d tried it all and never stuck with anything. In trail running I saw the potential for an activity that I would love doing while enhancing my capabilities in other sports. For the first couple years, I could never admit that it did anything more than serve my other activities. Over time, I’ve come to value backcountry mountain trail running as much as speedflying. It’s on my A-list now.
Nine months after the initial log entry of my new running career, I did horribly at my first 50k. Jeff had done a marathon and signed up for this event. He convinced me to join him when I’d never run more than six miles. It was the Hagg Lake Mud Run, and it was the worst conditions this course had ever seen. Jeff was injured during his training, but came out to support me. I finished in a little under six hours. I followed this with the NYC and Seattle Marathons before dedicating most of my miles to dirt. I ran solo trail ultras all the time on my own until I truly tested myself at Quad Rock 50.
That’s about my running experience before this. I don’t know the gear brands. I don’t know the names of this sport’s heroes, or the high profile events. I don’t know the vernacular of the sport or what the best practices are. So I feel out of place.
This is why I feel like an imposter. I showed up and dropped the rank of a lot of real runners down a notch. People who started running in high school, competed as collegiates, and are now conquering these tougher ultra distance races as a natural progression of their running career. They’re usually people who have been clean and square their whole respectable lives, while I was an overweight coder with no qualms about my vices. I elbowed my way in and have trouble shaking the guilt from it.
I sit in that chair for close to an hour as the 120 mile racers we’d passed arrive. I have an epiphany. It doesn’t matter how I got here. We all started the race at 7:45 today. Three people crossed the finish line before me. We all followed the same course. These are undeniable facts. This event has not drawn the usual square types I meet in mainstream running clubs. These are people who put their life on the line for something incredible. It’s an environment not unlike the wonderful world of aerial sports. For the first time, I have hope that I'll be able to shake this feeling. I’m gaining real experience and might just belong here after all.
I head back to my car to get some sleep before driving home. My teeth are chattering uncontrollably and I can’t wait to get the heater running. The car doesn’t start. The dome light has been on all day and drained the battery. It’s warmer than outside, at least. I throw a towel on the front seat, strip down and toss my wet clothes in a plastic bag, dry off, slip into PJs and climb into the back where I’ve made the warmest, coziest bed imaginable. Complete with sleep mask. I’m out in seconds.
The Aftermath
I wake up around 5 am and shuffle back in the heavy rain to the warming tent. Adam Cooper, who I met on the Timberline Trail in August, has just come in. I just missed Anthony’s third place finish. We chat about the challenges of the last couple legs. A lot of people have dropped out.
I ask around for jumper cables and some assistance. I have cables, but I’m parked head-in between two unoccupied cars, so I’ll need to chain a second set to get a jump. I get a wise piece of advice from Mike Burke, who I also met on the Timberline Trail, to just get some more sleep and check back in after the sun is up and more people are awake. I get up around 8am and Greg is having breakfast a couple cars over. “Help each other” prevails and he pulls over with cables to get me on my way. We head out.
When I get signal, I use Siri to dictate messages to Alycia. Despite having just done this run, I’m going to join her at her best friend’s son’s first birthday party. The drive home is gorgeous and silent.
I come home to a handmade “CONGRATS!” banner and a chocolate cake. This means the world to me. Training has been a point of stress for us. She had too many days alone with our toddler son, Henry. I’ve made an effort to not allow my training to impact her schedule, working from home and taking care of our child if I do need a longer weekend day away. The good luck note she left for me this morning was enough. This was over the top.
That night, we opened the bottle of Sokol Blosser 2011 Peach Tree Block Pinot Noir I’ve been saving for today. Alycia perfectly prepares our massive organic ribeyes and lobster tails. I inhaled my 28 ounce steak. It’s what one does after burning 10,000+ calories in one go.
We celebrated and talked about where I’m going from here. Alycia doesn’t want me to enter another race until Henry is in kindergarten. My efforts to minimize the impact my training has on our family have fallen short. I’ll be 42 then and would miss the best racing years of my life if I wait that long. But her happiness is important to me. It’s difficult to explain why I want and need to enter official events. The opportunities, challenges, and comradery they provide simply don’t exist in solo or fun runs. I’m vying to do one race per year. Next year will be my first hundred miler on condition that I can truly make the training and family life balance work. I have some time to figure it out.
