On June 25/26, Meredith ran the Western States 100, the granddaddy of ultramarathon trail events in the US. It takes years to get in via a lottery, and its participants are treated to a crapton of heat, climbing, altitude, with an honest to goodness river crossing thrown in for good measure. This is not her story. Well, not all of it, at least. That’s her tale to tell. I can tell you what it was like *pacing her for 22 miles.
*In longer races, runners are allowed both crew and pacers. Crew meet them at specific points along the course with extra supplies. While the race provides an amazing amount of support, it helps to have someone you know with your stuff to kick your ass in gear. Also present are pacers, runners who accompany the racer through dangerous or dark sections. It really takes a village to run a point to point hundo. Jeremy and Megan were crew #1, Ethan, Kathryn, and Corey were crew #2, Mark Pepper was pacer #1, and I was pacer #2. Whew. And that doesn’t count the spectators and support crew!
Being asked to be a pacer is yuuuuuuge! At times, you’ll be called upon as a navigator, an entertainer, a medic, a cheerleader, a dietician, a drill sergeant, and/or a shoulder to cry on (not here, you’re wasting hydration!) In short, pacers play the Han Solo to your Luke Skywalker, giving you the one shot you need so you can blow this thing and go home.
I was so thrilled to be asked! Here I am with my game face on:
The blow by blow:
4:45 pm, Foresthill, CA
Happy States-mas, everyone! So far today, I’ve slept in, baked a loaf of bread, and sampled Sacremento’s best ramen while Mer has been just running. Yowza.I hadn’t even arrived yet and my energy level was starting to dip...and then we finally arrived at Forest Hill. Holy cow. I’ve been trying to get into Western States for 3 years counting now, and pulling up into one of the biggest aid stations in the town of Forest Hill was a like a family reunion at Disneyland on Christmas with celebrities.I was so excited I could barely focus. “Guys, guys! I just saw Sally McRae run through! I need to go talk to URP’s Eric Schranz and just say hi! Sarah Lavender Smith came through at 24 hour pace!” Once I started to see Jeremy’s eyes glaze over, I realized that everything I just said was something I’d normally be texting to Mer. Holy crap. She’s doing this!
It’s a party in here! (Sarah Lavender Smith coming through on sub 24 hour pace)
We hang out for a while. As the hours pass, I try to nap, but the honest to goodness 12 foot alpenhorn down the road keeps my adrenaline up and my spirits high. Whatever. As darkness finally falls, I jog down the road to see our guest of honor pull in. She’s looking businesslike and ready to run! Which is good since she’s behind her A pace and looking to make up some time. We get her in and out like a well oiled machine. Blister care? Done. Watch handoff? Completed. She’s fed, equipped, and out moving before too much time passes. Good job, team.
12:00 am, Penryn, CA
It’s midnight in Penryn, population 831. I’m lying on some cushions on the floor of an AirBnb, trying to turn 90 hard earned minutes of inactivity into a night’s sleep. As I stare at my eyelids, my tired brain churns ceaselessly. Western States is a stage, and we are all of us merely players. The star? Meredith. Meredith, who’s been running for 21 hours now and counting. Meredith, who’s gone up and down more hills in one day than I do in a week. Meredith, who’s got the best damn crews and pacers rooting for her, but hey, 100 miles is a long way, any way you cut it. Meredith, whose hopes and dreams of three years for this race are going down *right now* Did I leave enough time to get to the pickup point? We can’t be late. Do I know my way once I start pacing? I can’t get her lost. Don’t fuck this up. 89 minutes left…
1:23 am, somewhere between Penryn and ForestHill
This is how we die, right? On a modified rickety camp school bus bouncing its way down to the river. I look out the window and there’s a big ole drop about 3 feet on the right.
I stop looking out the window.
2:51 am, Rucky Chucky campground
After many, many hours of “hurry up and wait” our esteemed guest has arrived! Eager to start my pacing duties, I fill up her hydration bladder and get ready to close up her trusty pack. I grab the zipper...which, horrifically, comes off in my hand. F*ck. 30 seconds in and I’ve dropped the ball. After some fumbling, some hasty planning, and some quick thinking, Mer is back up and running with Mark’s pack and a somewhat chastened new pacer.
My first duty? Cross the river. Don’t drown or get swept away. The river is cold, dark, and fast flowing. Without the ever cheerful volunteers and the guideline, I’d be downstream in a flash. As it is, the crossing is 5 excruciatingly chilling minutes of being immersed up to my waist while picking through slippery rocks. My teeth are soon chattering, I can’t imagine what that would be like after 22 hours of running.
On the other side, Mer and I share an amusingly biblical moment where I dry her feet and get her ready to move. For the first time, it hits home for real; I’m there to have a real impact on her race. I will my fingers to move faster, and soon we’re heading up a nice warming 2 mile climb to the Green Gate aid station.
4:12 am, somewhere on the Auborn Lake Trails
Mer and I had “The Talk.” It goes like this:
Mer: “I’m an hour ahead of 30 hour pace. We are *not* going to be chasing cutoffs in the last part of this race.”
Me: “OK.”
Followed in my head by “and Meredith, I am so, so sorry for what I’m about to put you through.”
And so, I went. And she followed. Until that moment, I’ve never really been a pacer. Sure, I’ve run with people at the end of their races, but that was in the capacity of entertainer, navigator, medic, and sounding board. Not now. I was here to get us to the end, and get us to the end on time.
From there on out, it was hammertime. No attempts at chatting. No more than 3 minutes per aid station. No unnecessary walking. We shut up and *ran* I have never seen anyone so focused and, quite honestly, I was scared and a little bit in awe. In the dark of the night, when push comes to shove, you see what you’re made of. It killed me to listen to her run on shredded quads and burning feet. But she was driven to keep moving and it was my job to keep her there. I’d run about 10 feet ahead of her and listen for her steps. If she got too far back, I’d slow down until she caught up, then resume our normal pace. It worked.
We passed people. We passed groups of people. We passed Howland’s brother and pacee. We powerhiked up hills and pelted down declines like it ain’t no thang. It was deliberate and implacable. It was beautiful. And, even through the pain, it was uplifting. We watched the grey of night give way to the first streaks of dawn. We witnessed the sun peek over the horizon and listened to the birds start to wake. Every so often, we marvelled at the deer silently gazing from the trailside.
Sometimes, not so silently. At one point I heard some crashing in the bushes. Praying that this wouldn’t turn into a Kami Semick situation I craned my neck over, only to see a sheepish (deerish?) looking deer staring right back at me. Whew.
And through it all….That intensity? That laserlike focus? It stayed. I’ve never seen anything like that. The sum total of our communications (or, as I call them, missives from deep in the Pain Cave) were all business. “Have we seen a flag recently?” “I want half water and half electrolytes” “This part is too rocky to run.” 1:00 ahead of cutoff became 1:15 and kept right on going. We fell into a rhythm at aid stations. I’d grab her pack and handoff for filling, she’d grab some food, then I’d scramble to keep up as she exited at warp speed. Woman on a mission. (Did I fill up my own water? N00b pacer mistake. Doesn’t matter. KEEP GOING)
Every so often I’d look up from staring at the trail 5 feet of ahead of me to see this. Yowza.
At one point, we heard bells and stepped aside to let The Jester pass on by. Huge amount of respect, but I hope his pacer knew how much jingling he was in for!
We knew we only have 7 miles left at Highway 49 where we found Kathryn, Ethan, and Corey. I exchanged a few terse sentences, grabbed some bacon, and made my hasty way out of the aid station. Thanks, crew! Your job is to wait hours, then see your running for about 200 seconds if you’re doing your job right.
Before long, it was hot. Not canyons hot, not “I’ve been running for 26 hours” hot, but still hot enough for me. But before long, we were within spitting distance of the end. I cranked the tunes and kept on trucking. When we hit the iconic No Hands Bridge, we knew that we’d made it on time. Natalie and Xav met us there for some high energy hijinks and we blasted our way up to Robie point.
From there on, it was the traditional victory mile to the track. We gained more and more friends along the way until we finally, finally hit the track.
Words fail me. Fantastic job, Mer. Thank you so much for letting me be a part of that!
Some takeaways:
- Ultrarunning is family. It takes a village to run a race/it’s all about the community. So high five your pacer, hug your crew, and without fail thank your volunteers. She did.
- If I’m about to give up, think about the last 22 miles of Meredith’s race, shut up, and keep running.
- States is freaking AWESOME (and freaking TOUGH) Maybe 2017 will be my year?
Happy trails,
David
PS Check out my sweet, sweet pacing outfit
