Susitna 3, Chapter 2

Even though it felt like a single heartbeat, I was surprised to learn that only two hours had passed since the time we checked into Luce's Lodge. It could have been much longer. While Beat was choking down his spaghetti and trying to recover his energy, I spent most of an hour in the back room with all of my gear spread out in front of me. Finally, I decided to put most all of it on — microfleece tights, wind tights and wind shell pants, fresh polypro base layer, microfleece pullover, wind vest, Gore-tex shell, thin balaclava, face mask, windstopper hat and fleece balaclava, gators, liner mittens, shell gloves with handwarmers, vapor barrier socks with feet warmers and Drymax liner socks. The only items of clothing I packed back into my sled were things I had more than one of, such as liner gloves and socks, and my down coat — my lifeline. I started the race feeling over-packed and it only took me 40 miles to make use of nearly every non-required item I brought.

It was just after midnight when we stepped back out into the deep cold, but as Danni predicted, the wind had died down. I briefly glanced at the thermometer on the river and saw the needle hovering near minus 20. I didn't need to look any closer. "It will probably take us five hours to get to Alexander Lake," Beat said, and I agreed. We started trudging up the Yentna River.

The trailed veered back into the woods, climbing the river bluff and emerging into yet more rolling swamps. The glittering sky became more muted, an indication that it was starting to cloud up. Having moved several dozens of miles inland, the robust birch and hemlock we passed when we started the race were gone. The forest had deteriorated into stands of scraggly black spruce that twisted in gothic shapes over frozen swamps — the kind of scenery that dominates Alaska's Interior. It was strange to think that it was possible to cross entire climate zones on foot, and the time it was taking made it seem more like an expedition than a 100-mile race. "This is one way to get your money's worth out of the Su100. Walk it," I thought to myself. "I feel bad for those biker guys who have to sleep in their own beds tonight. They're completely missing out." It was a lie, of course, but it felt good to think it.

We passed Danni about seven or eight miles from the checkpoint. "How are you feeling?" I asked her. "I feel cold," was all she said. I lingered for a second, expected to start exchanging our usual playful banter, but then realized the expectation was ridiculous. We weren't out for a fun hike in Glacier National Park. We had just walked 50 miles through the middle of nowhere Alaska and it was minus 20 out. It was a time for solitude and silence. Even Beat and I didn't say much in the 12 miles to Alexander Lake, except to remark about the soft trail, its difficult footing, and how slow-going it was. We were only five miles from the checkpoint when we encountered the first skiers — a mere 10 miles in front of us. Their proximity to a couple of mid-to-back-pack runners spoke to just how bad the trail really was. From the inside of my ice-crusted face mask, I could hear my raspy breaths becoming louder and more frequent. I was working so hard. I was tired. And yet I was moving so slowly. It just wasn't fair.

At 4:30 a.m., we practically crawled up the steep hillside toward the Alexander Lake cabin. The tiny single-room building was choked with bodies, some sprawled out on a bunk bed and benches, others slumped against tables and the floor. It looked like a makeshift morgue for the victims of some kind of mountaineering tragedy. The other two people on the "Couple's Foot Tour of the Susitna 100," David Johnston and Andrea Hambach, were two of only a few who were still awake inside the stuffy, crowded room. "It's easier running 50 miles than trying to hang out here," David said, and I could relate to the stifling claustrophobia of an overly crowded checkpoint. The checker got cups of soup for Beat and I as Beat put on dry layers. He said he overdressed for the trip in. I told him I had put on nearly everything I brought, and still sweat so little that my base layer was essentially dry. I nervously hoped it didn't get much colder.

About 30 minutes later, Danni stumbled in. She was shivering and looked extremely tired. "I need a nap," she said, then spread out her sleeping bag and crawled under the checker's table. The checker expressed irritation but Danni was already zonked out. I felt bad for the checker, being stuck in this stifling place all night long. I wasn't about to stay much longer. I figured most of the people there were dropping out of the race, probably in various states of moaning pain, and it was not a happy place to be. David and Andrea escaped and we left at 5:15.

On the way out, I remembered to grab my poles out of my sled. I bought hiking poles last-minute at REI upon recommendation from my friend Amy Sebby, who ran the Susitna 100 last year and was biking it with her husband this year. Until Alexander Lake, at mile 53, I had forgotten about them, but pulling them out proved to be one of the smarter decisions I made. The poles helped me navigate the difficult footing in the punchy snow, and later in the race would save some pressure from my howling IT band. Plus, hiking with poles gave me a sense of purpose. Less trudging, more "skiing." I felt smooth and efficient as I "glided" along the winding trail.

That sense of purpose soon faded into overwhelming exhaustion. I started stumbling often, and more than once drifted all the way off the trail into the deep snow, where I had to use my poles to push myself out. I had taken two caffeine pills at Alexander Lake, but they seemed to be doing nothing. "I'm falling asleep on my feet," I said to Beat the next time I caught up with him. "Seriously, I don't think I'm going to get through this thing without a nap."

"You'll be fine," Beat said. "Just wait for the sunrise. You'll see."

"No, seriously, I am too tired," I said. "I can't even keep my eyes open."

"You're not going to fall asleep," he said. "Just keep moving. When the sun comes up, you'll feel better."

Dawn was breaking with an eerie, deep crimson light on the horizon. The red glow and violet sky made the black spruce forest seem even more foreboding, and the swamps never seemed to end. I pulled out my secret weapon, chocolate covered espresso beans, and started stuffing them in my mouth with abandon. Before I knew it, the entire bag was nearly gone. The caffeine and sugar did revive me some, and the growing light muted my overwhelming desire to sleep.

I was glad to leave the gothic swamps and drop back onto the wide Yentna River. In my four times traveling on that river, I hadn't once been there during daylight hours. I was excited to see it from this new point of view. We stopped at Luce's again, now 65 miles into the race. It felt like success, but there was still a long, long way to go. Beat encouraged more eating so I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and more coffee. We congratulated a cyclist, Anna, who managed to revive herself from the dead at Alexander Lake and continue down the trail. "I admire that kind of fortitude more than I admire speed," I told her. Perhaps this is because I can relate to fortitude, but still — it takes some serious grit to not give up after you've convinced yourself you have to give up.

We finally broke away from Luce's Lodge at 10:45 a.m., and walked into what felt like a balmy morning. In the new heat, I could actually pull my face mask down and breathe fresh air, and take my mittens off for more than a second to eat and take photos. "Wow, I can't believe how much it's warmed up," I remarked to Beat as we packed up. Then I looked over at the thermometer. It was 0 degrees outside, but in comparison to the night, it felt like spring.

The proprietors at Luce's had warned us that the Iron Dog Snowmachine Race was to begin at 11 a.m. Known as the world's longest and toughest snowmobile race, the Iron Dog takes participants nearly 2,000 miles, across the Alaska backcountry to Nome and back to Fairbanks. I'm normally a fan of the Iron Dog — really, anybody who dares to traverse such incredible and hostile country on the Iditarod Trail is pretty awesome in my book. But I was not looking forward to watching snowmobiles race toward us at 90 mph. Sure enough, the first pair zipped past us about two miles from Luce's, and more followed in short order. Motors hummed like manic mosquitoes and processions of bush planes buzzed overhead. Spectators lined the river with their snowmobiles, building fires on the ice, drinking beers, and sometimes yelling toward us. One team headed straight toward Beat and me before veering around us, one snowmobile on each side of us helpless hikers. Others buzzed closely beside us while launching off nearby jumbles of ice that had been smoothed over to resemble a motocross course. We were both uneasy and I was borderline terrified, but I didn't know where else to go. The trail itself was nearly as wide as the river, and it was impossible to determine where exactly the fast-approaching snowmobiles would choose to pass. All we could do was stick close to the Su100 stakes and hope the Iron Dog snowmobilers made a conscious choice not to run us over.

I quickly grew tired of the Iron Dog circus, and wanted nothing more but to get off that frantic river. Shortly after I made a choice to increase my effort as much as I could physically stand, I started to feel quite ill. I felt flashes of extreme heat followed by almost instantaneous deep chills, until I had to stop and lean against my poles, breathing hard and waiting for the vomit that would not come. Amid my nausea is when I also first started to notice just how much pain my feet and legs were in. My IT band burned and my feet throbbed with every step. I blinked against the hard sun but there was nothing but sickness, and pain, and more sickness. Beat tried to talk me through it; he offered ginger candies and encouraged me to eat, but I knew eating was an unthinkable proposition, like pouring hot acid on a fire. Sometimes I felt so overheated that it was all I could do not to rip all of my layers off, but the chill would come so quickly that I refrained. "My feet are killing me. My legs are killing me. My body's shutting down." I breathed heavily in and out, in and out, but the only relief was my brief stops to lean against my poles.

"You're just sick," Beat told me. "It happens during an ultra. Just keep moving. You'll get through it."

Snowmobiles raced by. I started to secretly fantasize about one of them smacking me head-on and putting me quickly out of my misery. I was beyond the ability to put words together into a coherent sentence. So when Beat looked at his phone GPS and warned me that we might have to pick up the pace in order to make the cutoff, I just grunted, "Can't."

"We're not even doing 2 mph right now," he said. "If you can just try for 2.5 ..."

"This is just ... way ... more hurty than I thought," I said.

"I know," he said. "It hurts. But it won't always hurt this bad. Just keep moving."

"I can't do this for 30 more miles," I said. "I just can't."

"What are you going to do?" he asked. "You can't just sit down on the trail and wait."

"I know that," I said, still breathing heavily. "I know that. But Flathorn Lake. I just have to make it to Flathorn Lake."

"You're not going to quit at Flathorn Lake," he said. "It's only 15 miles from the finish. If you don't finish, we'll have to find some 50 milers for you to do so you can qualify for Tahoe Rim." (a 100-mile trail run in June that I already signed up for.)

"Oh, there's not going to be any more 100-mile runs," I said. "I hope I don't finish Susitna cause I don't want to qualify for Tahoe."

"No more 100-mile runs?" Beat said, sounding genuinely disappointed.

"No," I said, not even hiding the irritation in my voice. "Please, please. I can't think about that. I can't think about the cut-off. It just stresses me out. It makes me feel worse. Please can I just drag along for a bit and try not to think about how awful I feel?"

Beat seemed dejected that I was being so unfairly grumpy with him, but nodded and walked on ahead. I fished out my iPod shuffle. Instead of listening the music, though, I could only think of it in terms of time. "One song is about five minutes; that's 12 songs an hour. At 2 mph that's 12 songs for two miles. Twelve miles to Flathorn means 72 songs. I can listen to 70 or so songs. Maybe add 10 more songs for the short ones, and because I'm moving slower than 2 mph." Then I started to count the songs. I made it to three songs, and lost count.

The music droned on. We turned onto the Susitna River and the white expanse opened up even wider. My stomach started to settle a bit and I was able to force down some Goldfish crackers and a peanut butter cup, but I could not stop dwelling on the pain in my feet and legs. Every step felt like a prick of thousands of small and large needles. Even my song math couldn't hide the fact that I had lots and lots of hours left of this. It was ridiculous, so ridiculous, and unfair, even if I had done it to myself. My body didn't want to do this anymore, but it had to because I was the one who had stranded it out here in the middle of this god-foresaken Alaska river. My body was angry with me. I was angry with me. The music droned on.

As I trudged toward the looming mass of Mount Susitna, my iPod switched over to a song from the "Ride the Divide" soundtrack. I downloaded this soundtrack, along with several other new albums, just days before the race so I'd have a fresh Susitna playlist. I downloaded the "Ride the Divide" music because I had seen the movie several times, and was hoping the music would fill my head with images from "Ride the Divide," which in turn would remind me of my better days during the 2009 Tour Divide. This particular song didn't ignite any recognition from the movie, but it did wrestle my attention away from my own self-absorbed suffer-fest. "July" by Amy Petty started to fill my soul with something that almost felt like hope.

I listened to the whole song, removed my mittens, fished around in my pocket until I found the shuffle, hit the back button, and listened again. The lyrics rang with a more lasting kind of truth, as though I was suddenly able to see myself in the aftermath, beyond the suffering and pain:

Do you remember when all we had to do was get up to go to school on time?
Do you remember what it meant to refuse, said she wouldn’t let you play outside?
Now we’re so caught up in this great big. big world and so quickly the seasons change the wind;
Now before I lose myself in the blur, I go back where I begin.

Tears filled my eyes, which quickly became streams, and before I even realized it, I was bawling. I was glad Beat was a ways ahead, because I was in the midst of a full-on emotional breakdown, blubbering, sobbing and generally just spewing out a lot of built-up pain and frustration. I wiped away the tears and snot and let more stream out. I reflected back to the 2006 Susitna 100 and my emotional breakdown in the Dismal Swamp, when it was raining and I was wet and cold and pushing my bike through the slush of that wide-open nothingness. There was a point when I sat down on the trail and gave up. And then I got up and kept going. I never forgot that moment, and can never forget that moment. It was the first time in my life I realized I could be that strong. And here I was, back on the Susitna River, back where I began.

The black despair that had dominated my heart suddenly faded into something almost joyful. The pain was still there, but it was nothing I couldn't manage. "Beat's been through so much worse, and got through it," I told myself. "I've been through so much worse, and I got through it." I lifted my chin, plunged my poles into the squeaky snow, and attempted to march the best I could. The afternoon sun blazed overhead, already sinking lower on the horizon. I crawled up the icy Wall of Death and found Beat at the top. He had laid out his sleeping pad and gathered up some chocolate for a snack. He expected me to arrive broken, and was ready to make a peace offering.

"Thank you so much," I said as I briefly sat on the mat. "But really, I'm so much better now. I was just at a low point. I just had to get through it. I'm sorry I was so grumpy with you."

He wrapped his arms around me. "It's all right," he said. "It happens. I know how it is."

Tears filled my eyes again. I was still an exhausted, over-emotional wreck, but at least now my overexagerated emotions were veering toward the positive. I was again overcome with love and gratitude. "Thanks so much for waiting for me," I said. "You know you didn't have to."

"Of course," Beat said. "I wouldn't leave you."

P.S. Beat has started posting his write-up from the race. You can read the first part here.

Susitna 3, Chapter 1

Anxiety condensed into fear as frost accumulated on the windows inside the truck cab. "Now it's 12 below," Steve announced and snapped a picture of the temperature gauge on the rear-view mirror. The nearly full moon hugged the horizon, casting an ominous violet glow over a forest of birch and black spruce trees, all freshly coated in snow. We pulled into the Point MacKenzie General Store parking lot and emerged in the biting air. The frozen morning suddenly came alive, with the purple reflection of the moon retreating from the deep crimson light of the sun. I grinned in spite of myself. "Hello Alaska," I whispered.

We struggled to keep fingers and toes pliable as we packed our sleds, checked in, and ducked into the store for breakfast. Beat and Danni quietly picked at their pancakes and Steve looked sick with nervousness. I felt more in my element with the prospect of the snowy trails and cold, but I envied their running experience. Each one of them knew they could travel 100 miles on foot in one shot. I really had no idea. Over the past few days, I visited with many of my friends in the Anchorage area, and always got the same question — "Why are you running it this time?" My simple answer was to see if I could. In my mind, the Susitna 100 itself wasn't the journey I sought. I was looking for a more internal experience, amid a daunting and unfamiliar physical challenge, with the knowledge that unlike many of my more epic adventures, I would be sharing this experience with somebody else, somebody I was in love with. What would the dynamics of that be like? For me, all of those aspects were more intriguing than the simple act of traveling to Alexander Lake and back. And for that reason, even when I was at my lowest moments of the race, I never found myself wishing that I was on a bicycle instead.

Thanks to last-minute gear adjustments and my desire to photograph the bike-ski-run procession, Beat and I missed the start of the race. Despite starting a few minutes late, we quickly caught up to the Conga line of cyclists pushing along the soft trail beside Ayrshire Road. Several of the cyclists seemed panicked, but I knew that this roadside trail didn't represent the condition of the snowmachine highways that dominate this course. It was a clear day, and traffic would smooth out the trail soon if it hadn't already.

The condition of the snow itself was disconcerting, however. Fresh snowfall followed by extreme cold covered the trail in very dry, unconsolidated grains of fine snow that is often called "sand," because that's what it resembles. Sand can be packed well enough for bikes and snowmachines, but feet still tend to punch through the crusty surface to the soft fluff below. It's like running on the beach — very taxing physically, and the uneven surfaces wreak havoc on feet muscles and tendons before working their way up the legs. On top of that, sandy snow is too rough and cold to offer any sort of glide for skis or sleds. Our 30-pound sleds tugged behind us like stubborn dogs.

Despite the already difficult conditions, we were all smiles in the first miles of the Susitna 100. The day dawned bluebird bright and gorgeous, and we ran strong and warm in the sunlight even though frost buildup on our faces indicated the temperature was still below zero. The trail dipped into and climbed out of drainages and crossed frozen swamps surrounded by spindly black spruce. The condition of the snow and drag of the sled made jogging along at 4 or 4.5 mph as physically taxing as climbing steep hills or trying to knock out 8-minute miles had been back home. I certainly couldn't afford the effort for 100 miles, but knew we had to hustle in the first 22 miles of the race to make the Flathorn Lake cutoff.

Beat and I often ran side-by-side and made animated gestures as we chatted and I gushed about how much fun we were having. He looked relieved that the subzero cold wasn't as big of an issue as he feared, and seemed genuinely impressed by the stark subarctic scenery of the Sustina Valley despite its lack of dramatic mountains. We watched sled dog teams speed past, waved happily at snowmobilers and leap-frogged frequently with Danni, who also had a permagrin on her face. "This is just ... amazing," Danni said as we dropped onto the open ice of Fish Creek Slough and jogged toward the dramatic view of Mount Susitna. "Isn't it, though?" I beamed with pride. My friends like Alaska, too.

We were in an out of Flathorn Lake Lodge fairly quickly — just enough time to refill our water bladders and eat a bowl of Peggy's famous jambalaya. Danni, Beat and I headed out together across the lake, still talking and laughing. I pointed out the slough where I broke through the lake ice and got frostbite on my foot in 2009. "I was in a much worse place the last time I was here," I said. "It's so weird to be back here."

The sun drifted low on the horizon as we traversed Dismal Swamp, finally fading into a golden blur behind Mount Susitna. We encountered the leaders of the bike race at Susitna River on the "Wall of Death," so called because it's generally hazardously icy. Three cyclists rode side by side down the river trail and pushed up the Wall, smiling and congratulating Beat and I as they passed even though we were merely at mile 28 and they were an astonishing 22 miles from the finish. A good year for bikes indeed. "There's going to be a headwind on the Yentna River," Jeff Oatley said to me in his characteristically nonchalant way. Last year in the White Mountains 100, it was Jeff who warned me that Beaver Creek would be significantly colder than the rest of the course. I didn't do anything to heed his warning last year and became seriously chilled on Beaver Creek. Why, oh why don't I listen to the things Jeff Oatley tells me?

But we had left Flathorn Lake in the "heat" of the day, and I was still feeling quite strong. On the open Susitna River, the wind picked up and the chill started to drive into my insulation layers. I knew I wasn't wearing enough clothing, but at this point we were far from any kind of wind protection, and stopping out in the open, in the wind, is quite daunting. I thought if I picked up my pace, I would stay warm. But, as I learned last year in the White Mountains, a chilled body is not all that effective at warming itself. I became colder and colder. We traveled up a slough and turned onto the Yentna River. The full brunt of a very strong wind hit us directly in the face. I no longer had a choice.

"Beat, I need to stop and put on my down coat," I said. He nodded and opened his own sled to dig out extra layers as I rifled around for my coat, a heavy balaclava, my face mask and mitten shells. I removed my liner mittens, pulled on my head gear and unzipped my Gore-tex shell so I could put the smaller down coat underneath. I require dexterity to manage zippers and have many times before worked with bare fingers in extreme cold. But I'm used to having a bicycle with heat-pack-warmed pogies that I could quickly retreat into when my fingers lost strength. And this time, I was already starting with cold hands and a chilled core. My fingers froze almost instantly. The speed and potency at which my hands became completely useless took my breath away.

Panic gurgled up from my gut. The fierce wind tore all around me. There was no way to get to tree cover without wading through deep, unbroken snow. I brushed my rigid hands futilely against my zipper and knew that battle was lost. I gathered up my down coat and stuffed my hands inside the pockets, holding the mass close to my chest. "Don't panic," I whispered to myself, which is always the first thing I think of when my breaths start to become short and fear washes over me like a black tsunami. I thought of my bivy bundle. I could pop that open and crawl inside on the open river, then hold my hands between my legs until they warmed up. Amid this rampant swirl of thoughts, I remembered Beat was still there.

I turned back to him. "I froze my fingers. I can't zip up my coat. I really can't." The squeak in my voice startled me.

"Ok," he said. "Just give me a second. He zipped up his own coat and pulled on his liner gloves. It occurred to me that despite his lack of cold weather experience, he was doing the smart thing by taking care of himself first so we didn't both end up in crisis. A warm sensation of love and gratitude washed over me, and the panic tears I had been fighting filled my eyes. Beat walked over to me, helped me pull off my Gortex shell and then pulled my down coat over my arms, zipped it up, and helped me put the shell back on. As he finished packing his sled, I used my hand stumps to wrestle my mittens back on. Already I could feel warmth building in my core. I jumped up and down and swung my arms until my hands began to burn and my painfully tingling fingers began to move upon prompting again. I breathed out. Crisis over.

We still had about eight miles to travel up the river, long and slow-going into the brutal wind. I was constantly on the margin of being too cold but unwilling to stop again in the wind to put on more layers. Every time I saw a light against the river, I was certain it was Luce's. At one point, I decided it must be just around the corner and asked Beat how far he thought we were. He consulted his phone application and announced it was five more miles. "That's impossible," I said, until I consulted my own GPS. We trudged quietly into the inky night, beneath a sky washed in stars, but all I seemed to notice was the wind. Beat had to make another stop to grab his own down coat. I felt I couldn't afford any more stops, and selfishly asked him if he minded if I run ahead. "No, I'll catch you," he said, but he sounded unsure. I should have just waited a few minutes, but I was being selfish, and didn't want to lose the feeling in my hands again. "See you soon," I said.

The lights of Luce's were a half mile away when Beat finally caught up to me. He was breathing heavily and had a white look of distress in his face, like he was about to pass out. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Are you OK?"

"No," he said. "I am really sick. I almost threw up back there. I think I am deep in bonkville."

Amid the dangerous cold and wind crisis, I hadn't eaten or drank a single thing since the Dismal Swamp, which was likely more than five hours before. Beat was probably also not eating or drinking in that time. I wrapped an arm around him and pointed to Luce's. "That's the checkpoint right there. We're really close."

He nodded and trudged beside me. "I'm sorry I left," I said, trying to mitigate my guilt. "I was just so cold I didn't want to stop. I had no idea you were struggling."

"You left me," Beat said in a somewhat playful tone, but he looked despondent, and I believed he was disappointed that I ran ahead. I'm learning this is an important aspect of partnership, both in outdoor adventure and in regular life — never assume, and never leave the other person behind.

Luce's Lodge was crowded with runners and cyclists who were on the return ride down the river. The mood inside was jovial, with racers taking turns sitting in the lodge's sauna and downing giant plates of spaghetti and meatballs. Steve was still inside the checkpoint, repacking his gear and also looking borderline hyper — excited and anxious — about the epic conditions of the race. I ordered a plate for myself and a Diet Pepsi for Beat, and tried to coax him to eat something. I removed wet layers and sat down near the fire. As my body warmed up, I started shivering rather violently and spilled coffee on my pants twice before Beat took the cup away from me. A group of snowmobilers walked in and said they saw temperatures around 16 below on the river with 25 mph winds. One racer said it was closer to 19 below in spots. It was still early; there was a long, cold night in front of us.

Beat's eyes were bloodshot and his face was ghostly white. He said he was experiencing a major bonk. And he would know, because he's been through more than his fair share of ultras. "I'll be able to get back out there. It's just going to be a while," he said. I knew I would need to dress significantly warmer to go back outside, but I was certain I had enough gear with me to fight the wind. Under the reported conditions, the windchill would have been somewhere in the range of 40 below. Definitely too cold for a single layer of windtights I was wearing when I left Flathorn Lake. No wonder I was chilled.

At this point, we were only 41 miles into the race. Not even halfway; not even all that close to halfway. As I sat mulling this prospect, Danni bounded in looking cheerful. "How was the river?" I asked her. "Did you get cold?"

"Not too cold," she said. "But that wind was going to be a deal-breaker for me. I decided I was going to quit if it kept up, but I think the wind is dying down now."

"Hopefully," I said. "Beat and I are going to spend a little more time here. He needs to eat something and I wouldn't mind drying out some stuff." Other racers sat down next to us to chat. The bikers told us the Alexander Lake trail was bad — soft and slow — and the crosswind was brutal. Several were bedding down to take naps. One 60-something-year-old runner came in wearing jeans and talking up a storm about the HURT 100, as though Hawaii somehow had relevance to the task at hand. I was ready to return with Beat to the solitude of the trail, but knew we were both going to have to get healthy first if we stood a chance outside. I munched on my spaghetti and contemplated 60 more miles of this.

Susitna 3, the video

2011 Susitna 100 from Jill Homer on Vimeo.

I'm still too knackered to write up my race report, but I did throw together a quick film of some of the video and images I shot during the race. The music is "July" by Amy Petty. The song was included on the "Ride the Divide" movie soundtrack, which I recently downloaded as part of my playlist for the Susitna 100 to help motivate me by inserting Tour Divide images in my head during some of the more monotonous parts of the race. This song just happened to pop up on my iPod shuffle during my real low point on the afternoon of day two, on the Yentna River. As my friend Danni says, "waterworks ensued," and afterward I started to feel quite a bit better. I think it's a fitting soundtrack for this video. Enjoy!