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.