29 hours

     After almost 30 weeks of consistent training, my goal of running and finishing a 100 mile trail race has been realized. I've been putting off writing this because I'm still processing the experience, so I'll just run through the details and try to gain some insight.

     I don't think the reality of what I was attempting really struck me until I got the race info packet in my email. Mandatory medical check ins, strict aid station cut-off times, elevation profile...it was all there, waiting for me to put words into action.
     Tara and I rented a van and made the drive to Leadville, Colorado on Thursday afternoon and slept at a rest stop in Glenwood Springs that night. Friday morning we arrived at our destination. The mountains around Leadville are massive. They're not as dramatic and jagged as the Wasatch, but the amount of space above treeline let you know that you're up a bit higher, and breathing is going to cost more. The medical check in was nothing more than a weigh in and receiving a wristband with your emergency contact and physical stats. Check that off the list. I had been looking forward to the pre-race briefing, but the gymnasium where it was held was packed to the rafters with racers and crew. The elevation was starting to work on me, and the heat, lack of space and overall stuffiness of the meeting drove us outside with a lot of others. Not being able to hear anything from outside, we decided to risk missing important updates and drove out to a couple of the aid stations. After scouting out some of the directions we found a quiet pull off and slept for a couple hours. Not much else to do that day but rest and make sure everything is organized. We headed into town for last minute supplies and dinner and hunted down a campsite early. The nerves were really buzzing and it was perfect timing for peace and quiet with Tara. With everything organized and ready to go we hit the sack just in time for the most hellish lightning storm to tuck us in. Instead of passing through, this one just sat overhead and unleashed its fury. Thunder and lightning has a special quality at altitude. The sound rolls and rumbles, almost like it's flowing overhead. A perfect confidence booster to help us sleep.
     2 a.m came quickly, and the morning preparations and short drive to the start are a blur. The town was very much alive even at this hour. All the businesses opened early and people were everywhere. Then, all of a sudden it was time to line up at the start. All of my inner demons were talking loudly at this point. "What are you doing here?", "These people all have something you don't. Go home." Without Tara being there, I might have listened to them, but I couldn't let her down or the people who were at the time driving down to help me.  It was time to find out what I'm made of. I kissed Tara goodbye and waited for the gun. "You're better than you think you are, you can do more than you think you can." That choked me up. The emotions were running high. Countdown. Gunshot. We were off. 625 people running through the dark with lights on our heads, all toward the same goal. I cranked up the headphones and tried to soak it all in.
     From the start to May Queen is 13.5 miles. It's beautiful and runs around the north side of Turquoise Lake. Around mile 9 I twisted my knee enough to partially pop my kneecap out of groove. This is a problem I've been dealing with since I was a kid, and a few years ago I had surgery to correct it in the right knee. This was the left, and although it hurt, I just ignored it. The pain went away and I kept on trucking. I arrived at May Queen at 6:32 a.m. Tara greeted me with a smile, fuel and water. Doing great, feeling great. 13.5 miles in 2 hours and 32 minutes.
     May Queen to Fish Hatchery is 10 miles and climbs over 11,000ft Sugarloaf Pass. It's a long sustained climb and one hell of a bomber downhill. I rolled into the aid station at 9:05 a.m. It was starting to heat up so I changed into lighter clothing, filled up, got a kiss from my wife and I was off. 23.5 miles in 5 hours 5 minutes.
     Fish Hatchery to Half Pipe is 5.6 miles and is what I remember as my least favorite part. Lot's of asphalt leaving Fish Hatchery and mostly dirt road for the rest. It was hot and exposed and this short section took 1 hour 54 minutes. I lost focus on this section and fell behind on my calories. To make matters worse, this is the only aid station where I would not see Tara. I stumbled through at 11 a.m. 29.1 miles in 7 hours.
     Half Pipe to Twin Lakes is 10 miles. I rallied through here and got caught up on calories. I was oddly excited to get through Twin Lakes and climb Hope Pass. We moved off the dirt road to more single track here and it was shaded so I picked up the pace. I made it to Twin Lakes at 1:20 p.m. 40 minutes ahead of the cut off and feeling positive. I took a bit more time here fueling up, cooling off and taking care of my feet. It was good to see Tara and she got me refocused. I picked up trekking poles here for the climb. 39.5 miles in 9 hours 20 minutes.
     Twin Lakes to Hope Pass is 5 miles and tops out at 12,600 ft and involved about 6 water crossings. I love going uphill. I'm not a fast runner, but I can motor uphill. I made it to the Hopeless aid station way under the cutoff while trying to outrun some ugly looking clouds. This aid station was surreal. The whole camp is packed in by volunteers with llamas. As soon as I broke above treeline I was treated to the sight of about 10 (I'm guessing) llamas grazing in a field. There were two or three runners on their hands and knees throwing up and several others laying on their backs in the grass. Despite all my worries about the elevation, I felt great. After grabbing a cup of potato soup from a friendly volunteer I headed over the pass down to Winfield.
     Hope Pass to Winfield is 5 miles and marks the turnaround point of the race. Halfway there I got to see Tara. The actual aid station was so crowded that they were allowing crew access at the trailhead, which is where I saw her. I headed up the dusty dirt road that leads to Winfield where I picked up my pacer, Upper Level Gumby. Gumby and Scooter (Stryker!) greeted me at the aid station and directed me to the medical tent. I started the race at 188lbs and weighed in here at 185.6lbs. Looks like I was doing a decent job staying hydrated. Gumby and I checked out and started the 2.5 miles back to where Tara was waiting. Arriving at the trailhead I changed into some warmer gear and grabbed a headlamp. It felt good to put on some dry socks, but my feet were showing some wear. Now we had the daunting task of going back over Hope Pass. I tried not to think about it, and having some company for the trip was a big pick me up. 50 miles in 13 hours and 32 minutes.
     Winfield to Twin Lakes is 10 miles. We made it back over the pass to Twin Lakes 7 minutes faster than the first trip. It rained a bit on the way up and we paused at the Hopeless aid station only long enough to get some hot soup. We rolled into Twin Lakes at 9:38 p.m. The non negotiable cut off time is 9:45 p.m. I had just enough time to change socks, choke down some food and get a kiss from the wife. I picked up Dan Chace as my pacer at this point. 60.5 miles in 17 hours and 38 minutes.
     Twin Lakes to Half Pipe is 10 miles. This started the real battle. Shaving the cutoff time so close at Twin Lakes really crushed my morale, but it also got my mind turning toward escapes. I didn't see any way with the amount of pain I was in, that we could possibly make it to Half Pipe in time. I thought I would get cut at the next station and I was okay with that. I didn't care anymore. Dan had other plans and we arrived at Half Pipe at 12:30 a.m, a full 45 minutes ahead of schedule. I was secretly disappointed that I had to continue, but it was uplifting too. My feet were really beginning to hurt and I knew that blisters were growing on the balls of both feet. 70.5 miles in 20 hours 29 minutes.
     Half Pipe to Fish Hatchery is 5.6 miles. Gumby took over at this point and I think he knew he had his work cut out for him. The section ahead was just soul crushingly boring flat asphalt. You would think that I could speed up here, but that's not how I work. Not only am I a poor flat runner, but the hard surface was hell on my feet. Gumby got me to Fish Hatchery at 2:30 am. That's 30 minutes ahead of schedule. I started to think I could do this. 76 miles in 22 hours and 30 minutes.
     Fish Hatchery to May Queen is 10 miles. It took us 3 hours and 34 minutes. I regained my sense of humor here if only for a short time. In the aid station, I dropped my favorite mitten in the port o john. In my delerious state this was the pinnacle of hilarity. As Gumby and I left the aid station we passed a few houses, and on the lawn of one of these houses (at 2:30 am mind you) were several loud speakers. Right as we passed, Chariots of Fire began to play. I think Gumby was as tired as I was at that point, and he all but lost it. "It couldn't have been scripted better!" This sense of well being quickly passed as we began to climb the Power Line trail. I convinced myself, and Gumby, more times than I can remember that we were for sure at the top. It just never ended. I could feel every step pressurizing my blisters, forcing the skin to separate more so the fluid could move. I was in agony. We climbed and climbed and climbed. Gumby kept on me about hydrating, eating and moving and miraculously, we made the top. For real this time. The long anticipated downhill was hard to take advantage of at this point though, because my feet were done. We ran when I could, but it was infrequent. We rolled into May Queen at 6:04 a.m. 24 minutes ahead of schedule. Gumby had pulled me through probably the darkest part of the race. Arriving at May Queen I knew I could do it.  86.5 miles in 26 hours and 4 minutes.
     May Queen to the finish is 13.5 miles. To finish under the 30 hour cut off, I had 3 hours and 56 minutes to cover a half marathon. I knew it was possible, but I knew it was going to hurt. Dan was again my pacer and we headed out. My friend and the person I consider to be my running mentor, Murray, said to me before I left Salt Lake, "Enjoy the sunrise." The way he said it really made those words stick. He said it like only a person who knows something you don't know can. We were headed east along the north side of Turqoiuse Lake. The sun began to rise and the sky turned pink and everything in my life seemed right. I was still in an incredible amount of pain, but it was just one of the many things in my awareness. I was going to finish. We cruised through Tabor Boat ramp where we got to see Tara and Gumby and Scooter for a moment and all of a sudden we had 7 miles to go. We left the single track and the lake, crossed a road, descended a steep hill and we were on a dirt road. This dirt road was like the final level of some sadistic video game. Dante's final level. It was flat and runnable, and it was like a treadmill. We ran for 30 seconds at a time. We ran from ribbon to ribbon. I asked a woman, how much further? I think she said 2 miles. Why would she lie to me when I was in so much pain? It went on and on and on. Other racers were questioning too. They all had a look of panic. Dan tried to encourage me and get me to run. I thought that he must be trying to save himself. We were trapped there. And then we saw them. Ribbons marking a junction. Pavement. The pavement was short lived and we turned again to a shorter section of eternal dirt road. Buildings became more frequent. The pavement returned. A high school. Do you want some water? No. We crested a hill and in the distance I saw it. FINISH. We started a gentle trot. It was a long hill to the finish. Gumby came running down. "You've got to pick it up, people are taking a long time on this section." I threatened him with a beating if he's joking and I start running. Sprinting. I'm running so hard that I can't breathe and I'm starting to sob. Tears are welling up. My feet hit the red carpet at a blistering sprint of probably 4 miles per hour. I break the tape. Stop running. My beautiful wife is there in tears. She tells me how proud she is of me. I stoop over. Someone puts a medal around my neck and rubs my back. Stop running. I can stop. I stand there for a moment. Medical check in. Only 2lbs down. I lay in the grass. Congratulations. Thanks. Gratitude. Relief. Goodbyes. I can barely walk. 100 miles in 29 hours and 35 minutes.
     Sitting at the post race meeting waiting to get my buckle was torture. I loved seeing everyone acknowledged and awarded, but I felt like if I didn't get out of there my legs would turn to concrete. I lived and I got my buckle.
     Arriving at the hotel some hours later I could just barely walk. Laying on the bed of the hotel I started to shiver like I had a fever. I couldn't walk now without help. I laid in the shower and let the water run over me. Tara helped me to the bed and we slept.
     It's been a week now and I'm almost recovered. Still a bit of knee pain and more than a bit of foot pain. The swelling is gone and the blisters are beginning to peel.
     Running 100 miles was an intense experience to say the least. I've expanded the map of my self and I explored some territory that would have remained unknown had I not taken the leap. I had to tame some strong demons to do it. Every self doubt that I've ever had ran through my mind during those 29 hours. Every failure and shortcoming tempted me to add this to their list. Every shitty thing that ever happened to me came to mind and I thought, "Why should this time be any different?" Every time I ever quit on myself came to mind. It's easier to repeat failure than it is to forge ahead to what you want. Sometimes "almost" seems like enough. I had time to sort, to organize me. There was no satori, or dramatic flash of realization or brilliance, but just a soft reminder that I've heard a million times before. Life is good just the way it is. 29 hours will boil you down. The core of what makes me happy stood out in my mind, and they were all the simple things I already have and already am. I'm sure I'll forget this lesson soon and begin grasping and reaching and losing sleep any day now, but this lesson leaves more of a mark every time I relearn it.
     I am forever grateful for the help and encouragement I received leading up to and during this. Gumby, Dan and Scooter, that was a long way to drive and a lot of sleep to lose. Thank you. I would not have made it without your help.
     Tara, my wife, thanks for putting up with all the time I spent in the mountains on the weekends and all the time when I was too wasted from training to be fun. Thanks for staying awake for 38 hours and being at every aid station and taking care of me. You know I only do these things to impress you.

                                                                           Nothing left.