Cuyamaca 100K

tl;dr: I got my ass kicked and kicked some serious ass in the top third of the field of the Cuyamaca 100K near San Diego. 14:35:02 earns me a spot in the Western States lottery for this year.

Levi says "It's on Strava or it didn't happen!"

The long version:

The Cuyamaca 100K kicked my ass so hard that at various points along the course I turned down both bacon and beer. ME.

But I did it! I made the Western States cutoff of 16 hours despite temperatures pushing 100, over 2 vertical miles, rocky and technical terrain as far as the eye can see, and a 32% DNF rate. Pardon me while I feel smug for a bit.

Distance PR? Check (62.3). Time on feet PR? Check(14:35:03). 100K PR? Check (my first, so I get this one for free!)

But I get ahead of myself.

I ran Cuyamaca to get into my AAA race, the Western States 100. Oh, Western States, you fevered brainchild of Gordy Ainsleigh after a double head injury, I’m coming for you. Last year, the qualifying races were restricted to 100K distance and above to receive a spot in the lottery. Yes, you run your heart out to qualify to enter the lottery with about 2700 people vying for about 350 spots with additional tickets awarded for consecutive years you’re rejected. Cuyamaca was my one shot to qualify for this year’s lottery, enter it, and pray to be rejected and picked next year. How’s that for perverse?

I hit the training hard. As someone who usually peaks at 50-60 weekly miles, I was routinely pushing 70 here under the tutelage of Relentless Forward Progress.

A typical week:

Monday: off

Tuesday: Moderate trail tempo

Wednesday: Track

Thursday: Cross train

Friday: Recovery run

Saturday: Long run

Sunday: Long run

I kick things off with Alaskan Ultrarunning Camp, then raced a 12 hour race and a hot 50 miler to get ready. Every Tuesday I’d run my version of 4 Peaks, a trail run encompassing the 4 highest hills in San Francisco to get my vert, vert, vert! At the same time, I was tweaking my gear to be ready for the heat (see previous links). I even go so far as to do some sauna training the last week once it was clear the heat would hit 90+.

The race runs three loops of varying lengths (31 miles, 14 miles, 18 miles) based out of Camp Cuyamaca. The main climbing is on the first leg, although there are some comparatively shorter, nastier climbs on leg 2. Leg 3 is supposed to be surprisingly runnable, if you have the legs. My race plan is to go out pretty hard on leg 1 while it’s still cool, survive leg 2, then count on Levi to pull me through the last 18.

When Oct 4 rolls around, I am geared, rested, trained, and healthy. Levi is nice enough to come down and make sure I don’t  die on the 18 mile loop (ok, he wasn’t that hard to convince) We meet up with Meredith and fly down on Friday afternoon to San Diego. A short drive, a nice dinner, and one...interesting VRBO later (see the bottom of this post. It’s worth it.), it’s time to get ready. I slam my wasp juice, pack up my Omega pack, tighten my Hokas, and prepare to *do this*

Obligatory Vespa picture. It's not that..no wait, it IS that bad.

The race starts out super relaxed. It’s so light, we didn’t even need our headlamps. The first eight miles fly by with rolling, runnable terrain. I high five Meredith at a turnaround, and then she’s gone for another 15 hours.

The first challenge is our climb up to Cuyamaca Peak, which actually turns out to be pretty pleasant. It’s preceded by a campground, so I avail myself of a flushing toilet (it’s the little things that give me joy) and the super organized and enthusiastic aid stations. This will turn out to be a recurring theme in the day; the volunteers are efficient, super encouraging, and so, so organized. In no time at all, my pack is refilled, I’ve got some ice stuffed in my hat, and my number has been relayed to HQ for data entry.

The climb itself is surprisingly enjoyable. It’s 9 miles uphill to the next aid station, but you can chart your progress with the runners ahead and behind. Powerhiking is a must, and I quickly fall in with a local runner named Scott. We talk about the important things: hokas, running blogs, and beer, and the time just flies by. At one point another runner flies by, but we catch him about 2 miles from the summit. His hands are on his knees and his two handhelds are gone. It’s hot and exposed (80+ at this point), and he mumbles “just need water” to us. Thanks to my experience in Overlook, I left the aid station packing about 2.5 liters of water. I’m hydrated enough to give him maybe half a liter before hooking back on with Scott. This was a nice confidence booster to feel experienced, well geared, and well prepared. We forge on.

The last half mile is straight up a paved road. Ugh. But the view makes it worth it.

I sip some ginger ale and prepare to bomb down the mountain! Which...I do for about a mile. Then I hit some super rocky, super technical terrain that eats my speed for about the next 4. 

I pull into the aid station, say hi to Megan, Meredith’s sister, and drink about half a Shift pilsner. mmm. Then I jam the last 4 miles back to the start to finish off the first 50K in about 6:30. So far, so good. While Levi helps me load up, I chug a liter of coconut water and then I’m off.

Off into the worst part of the day. It’s 90+, technical, and mostly uphill. The only saving grace is that about every 10 minutes there’s a short, hot breeze, but otherwise it’s a slog through a tiny track cut through high grass. Thank god for arm coolers; I’d take a big mouthful of water from my hydration pack, then I’d spew it all over my arms. Rinse, wash, repeat

Let’s leave me slogging up those hills, for a brief foray into the difference in racing roads vs trails. So why is holding a literally blistering 14 or 15 min/mile pace such a big damn deal? Well, imagine you’ve already been out running longer than a lot of people work for a full day and you’re getting pretty tired. Now imagine that you’re running on a surface that’s composed of a series of 1-2 inch jaggedy rocks. Oh, and it’s 90+ out, and you’re hauling 2 liters of water on your back, y’know, so you don’t die. Plus you have to keep an eye out for ribbons to navigate. By the way, it’s uphill. That’s loop two.

So yup, I’m still slogging away, and by this time I hit a stretch of mental fatigue. I am picking my way down the back of the hill, so it’s not as physically challenging, but now I’m alone and counting down the steps to the next aid station. Mentally, I’ve hit a rough patch and for me that means getting SUPER emotional. Timewise, I’m ahead of the game, and all I need to do is not fall about over the next marathon or so.

I pull up into the “gator aid” station, eye the beers, but then get completely distracted by the popsicles. I happily munch away. There’s a shirtless guy with two handhelds there and a legit ultrarunner beard, but he’s flat out in a chair and not looking good.

My brain hates me. It’s pushing 100 degrees and I’m slogging up a(nother g’damn) hill at mile 40. My internal monologue goes on droning “Just gotta reach Levi. Four more miles. Four more @(&$*&#$ing miles…” I try music, but with all the stimulation from the rocky ground, the hot wind, the bright outdoors, music is just...too much. I rip out my earbuds, but then my brain decides to start its own playlist of really horrible pop. Evidently my brain loves Taylor Swift and hates me. Thanks.

The end of loop 2 ends in a panic when a guy runs up to me at the aid station and tells me I cut a loop off the course. After talking to the volunteers and the super nice race director, we figure out that no, I didn’t go off course. He did. And in the end, he was talking about, literally, a 30 foot loop. GEE THANKS BRO.

Levi picks me up and we’re off. Timewise, I’m in great shape. I could almost pull 20 minute miles on the last 18 miles and still make the cutoff. Physically, I am falling apart. My stomach (and by proxy the rest of me) is revolting. My theory is that the heat has taken away all the blood from my stomach and all the food and hydration has just gotten stacked up. To make matters worse, my heart rate is higher than it should be and I’m struggling. Poor Levi has a bunch of great food stories that normally would have lasted miles, but I cut him off when I start to turn green. I take some ginger candy, then some pepto, and it helps. Kinda.

Let’s just look at the scenery for the bit.

At this point, I am getting super frustrated. My legs are chewed up. They’re not sore, they’re not cramping (much), they are just DONE. So we fall into a run walk, with me gesturing at landmarks and grunting when it’s time to run or walk. Time seems to stretch on, agonizingly, and the distance ticks by with depressing slowness.

We finally get to the next aid station. There’s bacon frying, music playing, and beer to be had, but I’m having none of it. I take the usual, throw in some rice balls, and then soldier on. Sad face. But at least the last of the major climbing is done! And boy, look at that view.

The next five miles are legitimately gorgeous, but my brain is done. I keep moving and I keep cursing the rocks. The sun finishes setting so I whip out my headlamp. Three miles later I notice it’s upside down. Whoops. Fast forward to the aid station where I eat some chicken noodle soup with goldfish and sip some ginger ale. Amazingly, they have plenty of ice and plenty of energy. Bless those volunteers.

The seven miles to the finish last an eternity. It is pitch black now, except for two little circles of light from our headlamps. Aside from getting passed twice (blast!), there’s absolutely nobody around. The ground still is frustratingly rocky and uneven, and my last shreds of attention are focused on Levi’s heels. It is abundantly clear here that we are but nature’s guests in a vast, wide expanse. It’s humbling. All we can hear are our own footsteps and the cicadas* in the bushes surrounding us. The trail weaves drunkenly (and for that matter, so do I) up and about, passing through odd hot and cold patches of air until we meet up with a fireroad. That finally, FINALLY leads us back and I kick the last mile in to the finish line at a 10:30 pace.

Then, to celebrate my victory, I sit on a picnic table bench and put my head in my hands.

*Megan tells me at the finish line that there aren’t any cicadas down there. THOSE WERE RATTLESNAKES. ARGH!

Huge, huge thank you to Levi for keeping me sane and moving. Congratulations to Meredith for running lap 3 by herself after being ditched by her pacer on race day (gee thanks, Elmer Dudd)

Many, many things to love about the day. The race was fantastically well organized. Every aid station was well staffed, on top of its game, was well stocked, had enormous amounts of ice, and was amazingly enthusiastic. I’ve never seen copious amounts of ginger ale, coconut water, and hot food at aid stations before, much less remote ones. The runners were meticulously tracked, and their progress was almost instantly radioed into a dedicated radio bank at the start/finish. I’ve been to road marathons in the middle of big cities that weren’t as organized! The course was well marked; when I almost went off course once, it was obviously my own damn fault. When I had a question about the course, the query percolated up to the race director within a minute. All my concerns were handled efficiently and effectively. Needless to say, this was about as far from Overlook as I could imagine.

I made some good decisions; I don’t think I’d change my strategy for the day at all. I came in geared and trained for the heat and it paid off. Going out hard felt rough later on, but an aggressive start let me feel confident near the end. I was nailing my nutrition and hydration for most of the day, and I felt I adequately addressed my nausea by backing off pace and calories.

The views were gorgeous. Bleak, but gorgeous. I’m used to coastal or forest terrain, but this desert really offered some breathtaking views in its own right. Just watching the light progress throughout the day was worth the trip in itself.

So I achieved my goal, felt strong in my decisions, and though the race was well run. Shockingly, this isn’t one of my favorite races. I’m still trying to figure out why. I’d say it’s mostly the technical terrain; picking my way up and then down technical hills with lots of loose rocks wore on me mentally. That strain of constant concentration, plus the heat, plus the stress of a time cutoff, mentally ground me down to a nub. At no point did I feel as if I couldn’t finish. At the end, though, I had retreated deep, deep into the pain (fatigue?) cave and was just mechanically pushing through. I felt lacking in joy, which is definitely odd for me during ultras. Usually I’m giddy with delight to be out there. This time, i was all business and all focus, and it paid off. But it also definitely cost me.

There’s always give and take in an ultra. I passed/was passed by the same folks over and over again, each of us stuck in a private world of joy and suffering. But this is nothing new. You figure out what makes you tick and you use that to bring you out of the pain cave. I jammed my throttle into overdrive for so long that by the end I had basically run out of mental gas. Doris had left me a cute note which helped heading out of lap 3, but the last 2 hours were just a mental fog with me numbly following Levi. It was a strange sensation, but I had stabilized and was moving, so I couldn’t complain. It’s comforting to know that even when I’m at my lowest, I can keep moving. At the same time, it’s a novel sensation to be at a point where even cheering and awesome tunes are lost in the haze. Willpower is finite.

I was beat up at the end, but hey, if a bear came after me, I’m pretty sure I could have slogged through the night. I really, really hope I don’t make it in to Western States this year. But if I do, I’ll be ready.

Now to the off season!

Oh yeah, I promised you pictures of the house. Here ya go.

Encounters Overlook 50M

50 miles, 13K of climbing, 15K of descending, 100+ degree heat



This weekend I shared what can only be described as an EPIC ADVENTURE on the trails with some of my best friends. Despite 100+ degree heat, undersupplied aid stations, questionable race directorship decisions, and nearly 14 hours on the trail, I had an absolute blast. Man, I love this sport (and the people in it!)

So I originally signed up for the Encounters Overlook 100K with Meredith, Mark, and Levi. This, I figured, would be the closest I’d get to the Western States 100 course. Well, life intervened, and gave me a shot at the ACTUAL WS 100. The only problem was that the qualifying race was in early October, only a month out from Encounters. Bollocks. So I made the slightly unhinged decision to keep Overlook on my calendar (bad idea) but actually dropped down to the 50 mile (good idea)

Pop quiz: why was I so set on running this race?

A. Ann Trason, an ultrarunning legend, was returning to race directing!

B. It’s still an awesome way to see the Western States 100 course

C. It would be one last big training stimulus before taper

D. I’m more than slightly unhinged

E. All of the above

Spoiler alert: it’s E.

The lead up to the race was just fine. We showed up at the finish line and rode a school bus to the start in the sleepy little town of Forest Hill (prominently figured in such fine films as Unbreakable: the Western States 100) The field was tiny! Between the 50m and the 100k, there were only about 50-70 runners at the start. Ann emerged with a loudspeaker, told us to conserve our quads on the downhills and carry plenty of water, and before long we were off.

It was a pleasant 60 or so outside, and we headed down the road, headlamps bobbing. The first 20 miles we kept intentionally casual since there were some monster climbs AND monster descents. Our first frustration of the day was realizing that a lot of the initial descent were too steep and/or technical to run down, so we’d have to expend energy and time navigating down carefully. That being said, we were in a fine mood through Michigan Bluff while the sun was rising and a gorgeous vista was coming into view around us. Even the climbing wasn’t too bad. It was steady and steep, but we made a conscious effort to rein things in.

After a 20 mile warmup, we were back where we started. We resupplied and moved on, but the wheels started to come off. It was a staggering 9 miles to the next aid station. Yes, there was some downhill, but there was significant climbing. On top of that, the temperature was steadily climbing too. In a few hours, it would top out at above 100. We started to feel it about 4 miles in. There were climbs which were completely exposed through soft dirt that was thrown into the air with every step. There was a huge amount of radiant heat coming directly from the sun, but the ground also became an excellent reflector for the heat. We were baking! When a hot wind started up, we were convection baking. It was awful; you couldn’t feel yourself sweating because it would just wick away instantly into the wind. All you could feel was the grit between your teeth and the sun beating mercilessly down.

There was exactly one worthwhile place to stop for a bit, where the evaporating water from a tiny stream cooled down the environment by at LEAST 20 degrees)

To make things worse, we could see rafters about 100 yards away in the river. The cool, cool deep blue was so close, yet so far, and the happy splashing added a particularly sisyphean element to our suffering. The urge was to run the shade (since we could) and then walk through the hottest parts, but this meant that we’d spend even more time in the sun. We pooled our resources and kept marching on. (By now, I was eating SCaps with gusto…)

When we stumbled in, we thought the next aid station, Peachtree, would be an oasis. Instead, it looked like a triage camp. They had plenty of water, but were rationing ice (what?) and potatoes (WHAT????) The volunteers did what they could with ice water runoff on our heads (wonderful!) but it was not the welcome we were expecting. It was also amazingly remote. There was a guy there who wanted to drop. He was shirtless and listless sitting in a camp chair, but there was no way to get him out of there until the aid station was closed. When he got up to puke, we knew we had overstayed our welcome. To add insult to injury, we were now in danger of missing the cutoff (along with about half of the others) We’d have to sustain about a 16 minute pace for the next four miles to make it, a pretty daunting task.

But you always have to make time for electrolytes...

But we did it! We dragged ourselves through the bad patch. Once we smelled the barn, Meredith and I took off for the last mile or so and jogged it in. Mark and Levi were close behind. It was great to see Whitney, Ethan, and Kathryn. But unbelievably, there was the same issue at the next aid station: if you wanted to drop, you had to basically wait several hours or figure out how to get out of the canyon yourself. Thank goodness they had plenty of ice. I changed my clothes, popped my beer, and tossed down some coconut water. Every runner there looked dazed and shellshocked. In one of my favorite moments of the day, I offered some beer (Hell or High Watermelon!) to a gentleman with his head in his hands planning to drop. “Sure, why not, couldn’t make it any worse.” Ten minutes later, “Hey, can I have some more of that beer?” Ten minutes later, he was headed out of the aid station, and ended up finishing the 50 miler about five minutes behind me. I AM A FREAKING ANGEL OF MERCY.

This is Pat. He likes beer.

We reconvened and considered our options. Levi decided to call it a day (smart man) and not risk heatstroke before an international trip. Mark was on the fence, but he talked himself back onto the trail with the help of some ginger candy and shotblocks.

We forged ahead and before long came to the river crossing. Amazing. The water in the American river was 1-3 feet deep at this point, which sounds trivial, but was, in fact, terrifying. Thankfully, the race directors had strung a rope across the river and provided volunteers to carabiner us in. I look at the guy who’s roping me in and do a double take. It’s Gordy Ainsleigh, the freaking father of modern ultrarunning and the guy who invented the WS100 trail run. HOLY. CRAP. It’s all I can do to thank him for coming out, but I should have thanked him for being awesome and inventing this crazy, crazy sport. We clutched the line and slowly walked across the river. It felt AWESOME and super cold. But it also felt terrifying; without that line I would probably have been swept down the river to my demise.

But we made it across, and I said goodbye to Kathryn, Meredith, and Mark. Godspeed, guys. At this point, it turned into a normal race, if a hot one. We’d made a fantastic decision in taking the first climbs super easy. Our legs were tired, but not trashed! Some folks had to continue on from mile 35 on blown quads, but not us. There were some ups, downs, and flats, but I walk/ran them without incident on my own. There was a disgusting climb up to the finish line, but I was able to run the 1.5 miles in pretty darn quick thanks to my Hokas. I didn’t even need a light to finish as the sun was setting. It was actually pretty peaceful (if still hot) as the evening progressed. 13:45 when all was said and done, my slowest 50 mile by about an hour and a half, but a hell of a day. Super proud; I’ll take it!

Established trail...through these bushes!

No hands bridge

Highs and Lows:

Highs:

- Running with a posse for 35 miles and sharing this incredible adventure

- Seeing Ann Trason

- Seeing GORDY FREAKING ANSLEIGH

- Finishing strong, after miles in the sun and hours by myself

- The gorgeous Western States trails.

- Saving someone with a beer. Muahahaha.

- Having to pee at Rucky Chucky (Me to Meredith: I CAN PEE! Her reply: WAIT...ME TOO

Lows:

- Facing down an 80 degree packet of Vespa. I couldn’t. I just...couldn’t.

- Listening to someone who wanted to drop at Peachtree but couldn’t

- The convection oven between Forest Hill and Rucky Chucky

- Choking on dust for hours and hours

Now the big question: why?

I choose to interpret this question as: “If it sucks so much sometimes, why do you keep doing it?” There’s never just one reason, so I’ll just noodle on the mess: peer pressure, trying to attain a goal, trying to seek validity, proving I’m a badass mofo, and more. But at the core, I think I believe that suffering can be transformative.

OK, I know how that sounds; I’m not a masochist. I don’t think that suffering for suffering’s sake is a worthwhile endeavour. Nor do I particularly enjoy ALL of a difficult experience. But I do think that tackling challenges headon and staring the impossible in the face is an empowering, enriching experience. Pure stubborn pigheadedness can be trained, apparently. It’s going to be rough at times, but sometimes just powering through the pain cave brings people together and breaks down barriers, mental or physical. Annnnnnnd sometimes it gets you hurt. The trick is distinguishing between the two and that only comes from experience. There are excellent reasons to DNF, and when my day comes, I hope I’m smart enough to realize that “enough is enough.”

If road running can be distilled into the phrase “chasing PRs”, ultrarunnering can likewise be characterized by “seeking suffering.” I swear, half of the fun is doing crazy sh*t and then later bringing it up incessantly by saying “Yeah, this is bad, but it’s not as bad as the time that ______” (commence humblebragging)

So yeah, I love trail running. I don’t love every moment of it, but it’s pretty damn close.

Race critiques:

I was kind of shocked at the lack of direction from the top. I can understand aid stations running out of ice on a hot day and having to institute rationing, but not having a clear plan with a well established communication system to move out dropped/DNFed runners was kind of shocking. On the bright side, the course was the best marked that I’ve ever seen.

Takeaways:

It was a gnarly race. Even the race photographer described the scene as “carnage.” But hey, it happens. I ran with some great people and we treated it as an adventure. I got a great training stimulus for the Cuyamaca 100k (my A race, only 25 days away!) and a newfound appreciation for the Western States 100. I’m not any more excited for Western States, but that’s only because I think I maxed out earlier. I am super happy that I made some really good decisions including, but not limited to:

1. Stashing coconut water in my drop bags

2. Stashing extra hydration gear, lighting, and nutrition (e.g. ginger chews) “just in case”

3. Taking the ginormous early climbs super easy and having the muscle integrity at the end for kick

4. Hitting the hydration and electrolytes HARD and staying on top of both in brutal conditions

5. My gear is just right. I’ve got my loadout for my first 100k ready to go.

Onwards to Cuyamaca 100k and (oh please don’t let me get picked this year but I totally need to enter the lottery for) the Western States 100

David

Gear:

Hoka One One Stinson ATR
Ultraspire omega

Ultimate Direction Body bottle

Pearl Izumi Sun Sleeves

CEP calf compression sleeves

Garmin Forerunner 310XT

Nutrition:

Vespa CV-25

Trail butter

Margarita shot blocks

EGel Cherry bomb

Lemon lime cytomax

Gin gins Ginger Candy

Coconut water

S Caps