39.4 miles, 1987 vertical feet
I did not sleep well at all. It was really hot in the tent; it took until about 3 AM for the ground to cool. I could seriously feel the heat being drawn up through my pad, as if a charging computer or a 54 pound pitbull was sharing the bed. We didn’t bring sleeping bags, just pads and bag liners. Unfortunately this made for very sticky sleeping — without my down bag as a barrier it felt like I was lying and sweating on one of those hydrophobic bed-wetter mattresses. I recently read some disgusting statistic on how much sweat/skin cells are absorbed by the average bed. I definitely believe it now. God bless our mattress; it’s at least 20 years old and probably more human debris than original fill at this point.
I didn’t necessarily feel anxious about the coming day; I mean at this point I had already run 20 miles on very little sleep and that went great, and I’ve long exercised conscious denial of jet lag -- treat the day like you simply had insomnia the night before, and do not take any 6 hour afternoon naps. I’ve had some really sleepy sluggish afternoons followed by concerts where I was completely alert on stage. I had clearly re/pre-hydrated sufficiently because I woke up at least three times to pee. This seemed a reasonable trade for sleep considering the day to come. At the evening meeting Reid had stressed that this was probably the hardest stage of the race and the one in which the most people DNF. At 39 miles it’s a few miles short of the “expedition stage” of 43, but while that stage is gorgeous start to finish and also climbs into cooler higher altitudes, this one is in relentless scorching sun and has long monotonous sections with no trees for shade. It was likely to be around 115 degrees. He made repeated reference to a long flat stretch where many people lose the will to continue. They are advised to make it to a bridge and wait in the shade; often after sitting for a while cooling down they are ready to continue. He said if you make it through this stage you’re likely to finish the entire race.
I planned to take three liters of dilute Tailwind in my pack as well as salt tablets and a liter of plain water in small pocket bottles. I wanted options in case hot Tailwind proved sickening. I also would be carrying a few of Mary’s electrolyte packets for a boost at the aid stations. (Also the D-cell signal beacon, my hiking poles, the signal mirror, 1000 spare calories, emergency blanket, ointment but no bandages, a foldable saw… just kidding about the saw. A reference to Cheryl Strayed’s “Wild.” READ THIS BOOK.)
At breakfast I met Mikie and asked if she minded talking about what had happened yesterday. Just like Shane she was completely open and willing to share her horrible experience with a total stranger. I no longer remember details but she just felt like absolute shit, was overheating and puking, spent some time just sitting in an air conditioned vehicle to cool down, and then resolved to keep going. I learned much later that this was a woman who, like my brother, had qualified for and run the Boston Marathon. I am so far from a qualifying Boston time that it’s amazing, fascinating, and humbling to see the different factors play out on this race. Why were these strong runners getting sick but not me?
Despite the added half hour for the “wave start” I was still scrambling at the last minute getting my Achilles taped by Corey the medic. I knew I was going to fall immediately behind at the start so I told Reid to go ahead and fire the airhorn, but he held the start for me. Again I settled into a comfortable walking pace while the group disappeared from sight… for a while I could still see the French guy Jean-Michel but soon I couldn’t even see him.
I thought of the times I’ve been cycling with people who are faster than me and how pleasurable it is once I can no longer see them and simply settle into my own rhythm. That’s how this morning felt, and I enjoyed the beautiful surroundings (we were told that the *first half* of the day would be really pretty, before the relatively boring landscape set in), took some pics, and decided it was time to start running commando. I’d bought a cute little running dress that Lisa S-B had posted about on FB and saw an opportunity for increased airflow.
Before this trip I'd always run in shorts but I loved the idea of no abrading waistbands. I'm including this video of my in-home trial mainly to advocate for adorable rescue pitbulls. This is our Bella and our former foster Athena (who has since been adopted and is well on her way to becoming a therapy dog).
Running in a dress w/o undies makes peeing so much easier! No need to squat or even step off the trail, just assume a wide stance like a man. This also made it way easier to monitor the color. Seriously, this is important stuff. I now think my attention to pee was a key factor in my continued health throughout the week. (Guys? Do you evaluate the color of your stream? Answers in comments section please.) Since I was peeing so often I used a trick I learned from the guide on my first bike trip — the one where I met Bill — in the absence of toilet paper, a warm rock is very absorbent.
I didn't anticipate having the same experience as yesterday vis-a-vis the other runners, since this stage had relatively less uphill (similar elevation change but twice the distance). I just enjoyed myself, starting to pick up the pace when it felt good, yelling WEEEEEEEEEE!!!! while running downhill through a wash, followed by “that was dumb you fucking idiot” when my ankle seized up on the sharp ascent. OK this is not biking where you get the uphill for free, Sue. Take it easy.
Eventually I caught up to Jean-Michel and asked him to take my pic.
commando!
Slowly over the next few hours I started overtaking other people just like yesterday. My stomach was feeling good enough at the first aid station to risk my first gel. Those seem so gooey and phlegmy and of course you’re not supposed to experiment with new stuff on race day. I chose a vanilla Honey Stinger, not too revolting as long as you didn’t squeeze too hard and let the thing jiz down your throat. That fascinating food Catra had, Muir Energy, still sounds much better to me. It’s real food in a little foil pouch, nut butter and cacao and molasses and coconut, stuff like that. But for now the Honey Stinger was good for staying ahead of nutrition. I didn’t want to fall behind in water, salts, or calories because once you start to feel queasy you don’t want to put anything in your stomach. That's where you can get into serious trouble especially if you don't know how to differentiate between dehydration and hyponatremia.
Since I was feeling well and able to replenish supplies at the aid stations (i.e. not worried about running out of water), I began using the plain water to wet my head, my front, my back. The dress allowed for great water flow/capture so I was basically drenched at all times. My ass made a nice wide swamp cooler… not to mention the other swamp down there. Evaporative cooling is your friend, kids! Take advantage. Many years ago in preparation for cycling in Greece in August, Bill and I “practiced” being hot all of July by not turning on the AC in our sunny top floor apartment. This is Washington DC which can get horrible in the summer. We’d wear wet t-shirts and soaked Buffs on our heads. It worked great, and also made being outside in DC much more tolerable. I really think it’s a disservice to yourself to become so dependent on air conditioning that you sacrifice going outside for months at a time. As my brother likes to say, “humans evolved without air conditioning.” I hear people say all the time that their bodies just don’t tolerate the heat, but if jumping in a pool cools you off, so will wet clothes.
I was just having the most magical time. Not thinking of competing or passing, comfortably mid-pack, just happy being out here. Around 17 miles in was the aid station where we could pick up the sandwiches we'd made that morning. The next stretch was a few miles on hot asphalt and Reid had strongly encouraged us to slow down for that stretch so as not to overheat. After the gear check and refilling water I decided just to grab the sandwich and eat while walking. Cars drove by, gave the thumbs up, I said "HEY THERE!" and it all just felt amazingly fine and wonderful.
where I ate my sandwich. by Utah standards I guess this is bland but it's still beautiful to me.
During the second half I was even loving the long desolate stretches. It felt very western. I thought of Bill as I ran a long flat section parallel to train tracks. We’ve ridden in lots of landscapes like this and we always love them. This did seem like a much friendlier route for cycling, and I was sure he was having a great day.
Around midpoint I approached the infamous shade-bridge, under which there was a “water drop,” i.e. not a full aid station but a large water container. The photographer happened to be there and with no other runners around to see, I indulged in some “WHAT HEAT? I FEEL AMAZING” show-offy histrionics. I ran at his camera like a monster. He seemed amused, and surprised.
GARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!
I didn't feel a need to stop and sit in the shade. I simply filled my bottles and, after removing my phone from my pocket (I had made this mistake more than once already) emptied one over my head, refilled it, and was off.
I did notice my pee was starting to darken despite what felt like regular drinking, and remembered the advice Lisa S-B had given me: sip every two minutes. I soon increased to every minute, since my stomach was handling it and there was no serious risk of running out of water before the next aid station. Since I was taking the salt tabs and drinking Tailwind my best guess was that I wasn't at risk for hyponatremia. I’d look at my watch, call out the time: "2:06, DRINK!” and take a sip. If I felt really good I’d take a sip of Tailwind followed by a sip of water. If I looked at my watch and five minutes had passed, I owed five sips, which I would take slowly if necessary -- this definitely wasn't the time to guzzle. Sloshy belly = puking. This really made the time pass, like counting steps or choosing a tree in the distance (HA! Ok maybe a low shrub or a rock, or a bend in the road) and running toward that with no thought to all the miles you still had to cover.
"2:14... DRINK!!!" If I said it out loud -- and I SHOUTED it because that's just how I am -- I was more likely to remember the rhythm of the numbers. If I simply looked at my watch I'd have forgotten in approximately 5 seconds what time it was.
It was definitely very hot. When the wind blew it was HOT, like when you open the oven, and people's readings from the day were in the 110-120 range (I think the latter being when someone put a thermometer down on the asphalt so that doesn't really count).
I saw the photographer again somewhere near the 30 mile point and he said "you look better than the people in front of you.” I was confused — “really? Then why are they in front of me?” “Well they looked better earlier in the day….”
I was really digging this tortoise hare stuff though it gave me no pleasure to think of people not enjoying themselves. Maybe I was the one missing out; part of the experience is supposed to be suffering, overcoming hardship, mind over matter. Whatever, this is fun, I’ll take it.
As I came into final aid station (around five miles from the end) the volunteers asked how I was doing. I said GREAT! which they found very surprising. "Nobody ever says they feel great at this point!” It was funny to me how they greet you as if you're walking into an ER... please take a seat, what can we get you, water, coke, ice, pickle juice (yes PICKLE JUICE is a thing)..... the pampering is almost overwhelming. They tell me Bill was here for a while, waiting for me, but had decided to move on.
Then just like yesterday they LIE and say it’s mostly downhill from here. Is this a fun prank they play on the runners? It’s definitely uphill the next couple miles, on a hot asphalt road. I kind of feel like I could run it but I decide just to fast walk, not risk getting nauseated. I pass one more female runner and figure Brian, Shane, and Candice have long been at camp by this point.
not downhill
With three miles to go I make the final turn and the road levels out. I see a couple guys just ahead of me and they seem to be walking. Then I see her… Candice… sitting by the side of the road. My heart sinks. This can’t be! I ask her if she is ok and she says yeah… there is a truck with some people who are attending to her. It’s hard to describe the emotions I feel, compassion for this amazing runner who is suffering, and also the realization that I’m possibly going to win this stage. I mean, this COMPLETELY DOES NOT MATTER, nobody gives a shit…. Everyone who knows me knows I do weird “extreme” vacations, and they’re all pretty much interchangeable. A half-marathon (hell, even commuting 2 easy miles to work on bike) is impressive to most people. Beyond that everything goes into the realm of “wow I could never do that” which is also pretty much the extent of people’s interest in the experience. [Present readers of blog excluded! I love you for your support and interest and I write this for you.]
So. Here I am, three miles to go, feeling like the underdog kid in some 80's feel-good movie. Yes, I know, this COMPLETELY DOES NOT MATTER, but, I’ve been through an exhausting and exhilarating few days and I’m feeling the feels. There seems to be nothing to do but keep running, as wrong as that seems. I remember yesterday with Theresa and how enormously reassured I had felt to to see her looking back to make sure I wasn't gaining on her. But I feel weird trying to take advantage of this situation. The idea of me turning around to see if Candice is gaining on me... well that doesn't seem endearing at all. I try to challenge myself *not* to look back to see if she’s recuperated… I am Lot’s Wife… do.. not… turn… around… OK, here’s a bend in the road, maybe I can sort of sneak a peek over my shoulder… holy shit… she’s not there… it’s all downhill… I pick up speed in disbelief that I’m about to be the female winner in the most challenging stage.
RATS this way please. Almost to camp.
Bill had been at camp almost 90 minutes. When they read the results the next morning I whooped, “YAY BILL! FIRST PLACE!” but of course it was a joke as he’s not in the race at all. Brian was the only runner before me, having arrived not too long after Bill. In the excitement it didn't occur to me to wonder how I finished before Shane. Candice did get back up and arrived 15 minutes after me but still has a solid lead over me in the overall race. She maintains the “yellow bib” (akin to the yellow jersey at the Tour de France) which I keep calling the “yellow napkin” since it's just a scrap of cloth that looks like my glasses cleaners. I just haven’t been in this sport enough to remember the word “bib.” How is that a bib? If I tucked that little thing into my shirt I’d still get food all over myself.
Anyway she clearly doesn't feel well and goes straight to the trailer she's sharing with her partner, two kids, and three dogs.
Bill shows me where the river is and I have a nice soak in my clothes. Shower and laundry done, boom. Then he tells me about Shane. Back near that final aid station he had seen Shane, wobbling, not looking good at all, not especially coherent. Bill saw the photographer coming shortly after this and told him to check on Shane, and as it turned out the doctor also drove up around the same time. They had to help him to the river to cool him down and then put him in the air conditioned car. After a while he felt well enough to continue but they said no. Pulled from the stage.
Shane’s out. Shane’s out. I can’t believe it. Later he tells me that again he was racing Brian a bit but that he felt fine, until suddenly he didn’t.
At camp I also see the medical staff and Reid huddling together having some very serious looking conversations. I hear the words “heat stroke,” and I’m not sure if they’re talking about Shane or someone else. At some point I ask someone and am told we’ll all find out later. Someone says they're talking about the older German guy Hans.
Because of whatever it is that is happening… with several runners still out on the course… the racers meeting is postponed till the morning. Bill and I are a bit relieved; the mosquitoes at the camp are horrible and we really want to get to bed. I feel a little bad not staying up to cheer the late arrivals but figure I can yell “WOOHOOOOOOO” from the tent.
Around 10:30 — nearly five hours after I had arrived — we are awoken by a big to-do, cowbell clanging, lights, maybe even honking of car horn as the final runners come in. It's lovely that they celebrate the last in and I'm happy they are safe but I am also desperate to sleep.
Once again I don’t sleep well, and that’s without even knowing what had happened with those final runners or that there were six DNFs today out of 21 starters.
A few shots from the pro photographer...
Bill looking like a badass
Someone said I look like Moses in this pic.
woo hooooooooo