Busting out at the Ohlone 50K

Photo by Joseph Swenson

If my confidence wasn't already tenuous enough, my body had to go and zonk out on the shuttle bus. Under normal circumstances, I'm a picky sleeper. I need horizontal silence, and no matter how much I want to, I can rarely take naps in vehicles or on planes unless I am: a) drugged; b) on at least hour 36 of sleep deprivation; or c) so physically spent that I lose consciousness involuntarily. After sucking down a large cup of coffee on the way to Lake Del Valle — the finishing point of the Ohlone 50K — I sat next to Beat on a tiny hard-backed seat of a school bus for an hour-long shuttle to the race start. After what seemed like three minutes, we were there and my neck was really sore. But rather than improve my energy levels, the nap left my head feeling like it was sinking into the deep end of a flu-addled haze. I never feel stellar before 9 a.m., but on this morning I was fully distraught about my physical state. Hazy head, lead legs, sour stomach, the knowledge that I had run only a few more miles in the past month than I expected to run on this single day, a forecast calling for temperatures in the high 80s to low 90s, and now this — apparently uncontrollable sleepiness.

Beat left to wait in the Disneyland-worthy line for the toilets and I plopped down on the grass, resting my chin on my knees like a pouty child and stewing on how much I really wanted to DNS the Ohlone 50K. Of course I could not, for multiple reasons, but the main one is the reality that if I'm not ready to run a hilly 50K now, in late May, then I surely won't be ready for UTMB by late August. The hundreds of hard miles I've biked in the past two months have left at least my head if not my body feeling overworked. But for all of that pedaling, I've only run a few dozen miles in that same time period, largely as slow recovery jogs. So I was overtired and undertrained. Perfect. But my big goal for the summer is a near-impossible foot race, so I needed some kind of physical and mental benchmark. I stood up to slather on necessary sunscreen, and my knees nearly buckled under the strain. I expected the Ohlone 50K to dole out some hard lessons.
 

The Ohlone 50K, now in its 25th year, is a storied event in the annals of Northern California trail running. It attracts a sold-out field of 200-plus runners and is widely regarded as one of the toughest trail races in the region. The point-to-point course traverses the Sunol Wilderness, summiting two prominent peaks and more than 8,000 feet of relentlessly steep climbing in the process. But the elevation gain alone isn't what makes the race tough, it's the sun exposure. Shade is scarce, steep canyons block any hint of breeze, and temperatures often stretch into the 90s during the five-plus hours that most everyone is on the course. (Even fast runners are told to take their best 50K times and add at least an hour for the Ohlone 50K.) But the region has a soft kind of beauty — rounded topography, clusters of broad trees, and golden hillsides that shimmer in the sunlight.

The course gains 2,500 feet right out of the gate, on the four-mile climb to the top of Mission Peak. I started out with fellow back-of-packers who were "taking it easy" in order to save themselves for the really brutal stuff later in the day. The difference between me and them was I kinda was giving that climb everything I had to give — which was a slow plod. My stomach gurgled and I regretted not waiting in the bathroom line, not that it would have paid off anyway. It took me an hour and fifteen minutes to reach the top, which I figured was slower than my casual hiking pace, but still better than full-on death march pace. Late-morning sunlight sparkled on the suburban grid of the valley, now far enough below to register as geometric patterns. Despite the rapid rise in temperatures, I was finally starting to perk up.

"Maybe I'm finally starting to warm up," I thought. I've noticed in the past that when my body is accustomed to go-all-day endurance, it can take an hour or more before I even get up to speed, like starting a diesel truck on a cold day. Still, I ran down Mission Peak at a mellow clip, figuring I didn't want to press too hard on the gas and risk flooding the engine. At the first aid station I discovered this race supplied jelly beans, which was a good omen. I had already decided pre-race that I was only going to consume simple sugars in order to keep heat-related stomach unhappiness at bay, and I always worry that I might have to subsist on gels. I refilled my water — a 70-ounce bladder already largely depleted after only six miles — and stuffed a handful of jelly beans in my mouth. The problem with Jelly Belly is there are just enough revolting flavors to ruin any handful. Every time I jogged away from an aid station I always had a hit of "Ew, peanut butter." "Gross, coffee and fruity don't mix." "Arrrgh, buttered popcorn!" Still, it beats gels. 

By the time I reached the bottom of Sunol canyon, mile ten, the heat was beginning to take its toll. Fellow racers were sitting in the shade or having volunteers pour water over their heads. I didn't feel overheated yet, but when I pulled out my bladder it was again only a quarter full, meaning I had sucked down another quart and a half of water in just four mostly downhill miles. I took a couple of salt tabs, ate some more jelly beans ("Ugh, coconut") and started up the next steep ascent. 

As I climbed, one of the first thoughts that occurred to me was, "This isn't nearly as tough as pushing my bike up Oriflamme Canyon." When the trail leveled out and cut across sideslopes on its rolling traverse, I thought, "This is way less work than hike-a-biking down Noble Canyon." The Stagecoach 400 comparisons, and the fact that I was passing quite a few people, boosted my mood and I responded by running harder when I could run, and marching forcefully on the grades that my calf muscles refused to lift from. Because it was so hot, and because the scenery was similar, I spent a lot of time reminiscing about the Stagecoach 400. Apparently, in my memory, I hike-a-biked the whole thing, because I was thrilled that I only had 31 miles to cover in the Ohlone 50K. "I only have to do seven hours of this. Yay, biking is hard, running is ea-seeeee." (Note: I do not actually believe this. But I'll play any mind game with myself in order to get through a tough challenge.) 

Photo by Joseph Swenson

Still, my body wasn't willing to listen to the tricks without protest. My hamstrings ached, a persistent side-stitch stabbed at my kidneys during the descents, and my knees were just sensitive enough to keep me from letting go on the flatter sections even though my energy levels remained high. I continued my Jelly Belly/ salt tabs/ ridiculous amount of water regimen. It was too much water and caused me to feel extremely bloated, and I eventually stopped taking salt because I felt that way, but it did keep the sweat layer flowing nicely. I usually wither in heat and never imagined I could survive, let alone thrive, in a fifty-kilometer run in 90-degree temperatures. I probably have the heat acclimation of the Stagecoach 400 to thank for that as well.

The final ascent to Rocky Ridge nearly did me in, though, as it did to many of the racers. The narrow, windless canyon had trapped a pocket of air that felt hotter than a hundred degrees, and the exposed climb left me feeling dizzy enough that I had to stop and take a few breath-catching breaks. The people around me weren't faring much better, and as soon as I reached the top I really just wanted to take off and get this race over with. My leg muscles and joints were surprisingly not achy, despite my lack of run-specific training in the past few months. For this I really have to credit the Hoka shoes. Those things are awesome, and no, the company doesn't sponsor me. Hoka One Ones are fat bikes for feet — all of the fun, less of the impact.

About a mile from the finish I realized I might actually be able to come in under seven hours — which was way better than my early race estimation of "hoping to break nine." I kicked up the gears and ran the last half mile at 6:20 pace — which for me, because of my neglect of speed work and awkward gait that limits leg turnover, is full-on sprinting. I came in at 6:59:29. I shaved nearly a half hour off my 2011 time, even though the heat was significantly higher this year. I found and surprised Beat, who had finished just a few minutes earlier. "Goes to show that specific training is overrated," he joked.

But I did have a good day at the Ohlone 50K, and I'm grateful for that, because it probably helped my confidence more than any amount of resting could do. Not that I'm going to jump full bore into run training just yet, but at least I have a positive benchmark.

Results from the 2012 Ohlone 50K.

Accepting risk

Good times: Keith near the summit of Mount Diablo

I'm about to write about something I haven't discussed openly before, but there was a short period of my life when anxiety nearly took control. It was the summer of 2002, and I was 22 years old. I've never been a generally anxious or high-strung person, but I can recall vivid moments of my childhood that were suddenly, and randomly, overcome by rolling clouds of fear and despair. For example, at age 10, while riding in a car through Anaheim during a family vacation, I saw an old blanket on the street and convinced myself it was the body of a missing girl I saw on the news. The darkness I felt still haunts me.

In 2002, strange moments like these returned. One July afternoon a huge thunderstorm rolled over my house as I sat alone in the front room. The blasts of wind and thunder struck me with a fear so deep that I started shivering, even as I failed to understand why I was so scared — after all, I was in my house, under a roof, and I was safe. There was another incident when I was hiking with my friend near Moab and suddenly felt a sense that we were terribly lost. This irrational fear also had no basis in reality, and yet I felt dizzy and hopeless as I looked out across the sandstone plateau we were traversing. Fear started to affect my decisions. I refused an invitation to a rafting trip on the Green River — not because I truly believed it was dangerous, but because I didn't want to subject myself to the fear. I teetered on the verge of a panic attack for hours during a canyoneering trip in Quandary Canyon. Toward the end of the summer, I began to wonder if I had some kind of psychological misfire, possibly even a mild anxiety disorder — which is why I didn't discuss it with anyone, because I didn't want to be labeled as crazy. But fear was always creeping around the periphery of my life that summer, usually for reasons I did not understand.

The summer of 2002 also was, likely not coincidentally, when I started cycling. I purchased a low-end touring bicycle because I was enamored with the idea of bicycle travel, and practiced (not trained, practiced) by leaving my house in The Avenues of Salt Lake City and pedaling up one of the nearby canyons — City Creek, Emigration, Millcreek, and as I grew more confident, Big and Little Cottonwood canyons. Some of these were day-long rides, on narrow and winding mountain roads, and I was humorously bad at it (yes I did tip over at a stop sign once, with platform pedals, because I forgot to put my foot down until it was too late.) But the act of riding my bicycle never ignited the same anxiety that just sitting around my house sometimes did. I felt safe on my bicycle, inexplicably so, to the extent that I would sometimes find comfort during a random anxious moment by reminding myself that the next day I got off work early enough for a ride up Emigration.

In September 2002, my then-boyfriend and I embarked on our first tour, a life-changing fourteen days through Southeastern Utah and Southwestern Colorado. There were times on the trip when I was legitimately frightened, because it was snowing hard and we only had summer sleeping bags and skinny tires, or because we were crossing a hundred miles of waterless desolation on a remote and lonely Highway 95. But the act of confronting these very real fears, rather than sitting at home or work washed in ambiguous anxiety, was empowering. The final pedal strokes into Moab filled me with a sense of bullet-proof confidence, because I had done it — I had beaten my fear.

Those were the first 600 miles of a journey I've been on ever since, a journey that has been less about bolstering my strengths and more about confronting my weaknesses. One of my largest weaknesses is the fact that I am, in the hidden corners of my heart, a fearful person. It's true. I've confronted this weakness in places I would have never imagined back in 2002 — the icy desolation of the Iditarod Trail, the explosive storms and crushing fatigue of the Great Divide. There have been moments in nearly all of my larger challenges when I was deeply afraid, but had no choice but to be brave — and that, too, creates an empowering shift of emotions.

My involvement in cycling and endurance sports had a direct correlation to decreasing anxiety in my day-to-day life. For example, I used to be afraid of flying. This anxiety held on consistently until I reached a very distinct turning point — the Penn Air flight I boarded after the 2008 Iditarod Invitational, from McGrath to Anchorage. I remember sitting in the window seat, taking off, feeling the small plane bank hard in early turbulence, and I genuinely did not care. I had just crossed a bewildering swath of frozen Alaska under my own power — what could this plane possibly do to me now? Flying hasn't bothered me since.

Of course, nothing I write about here is an rational assessment of risk. I'm writing about emotional responses, and how deeply they can affect the way I approach my life. And I write about it now because of the recent motorcycle collision involving my friend Keith. He's been so upbeat and optimistic through the ordeal, and I joked that I've been more traumatized by the whole thing than he was. But in a way, it's not a joke. While we were still at the hospital in Sonora, Keith went into the bathroom and the emergency room doctor pulled me aside. She was concerned about nerve damage and Keith was showing somewhat alarming signs that this was possible. Nerve damage could lead to longer term, more disabling injury. Although I didn't understand all the details, I think the doctor simply wanted to convey the gravity of the situation and why they were transporting him to another hospital when both Keith and I expressed a desire to just let me take him home.

Keith went by ambulance to a hospital in Modesto and I drove there in a daze. I got a hotel room across the street and sat on the bed awake until after 2 a.m., mowing through an entire box of Lucky Charms (yeah, I can be a bit of a binge eater when I am stressed.) I was trying to wrap my head around the possibility of disabling injury to my vibrant, active friend, and how I felt to be a part of it, and how I'd feel if it happened to me. Keith for his part was never nearly concerned as I was. Maybe because he understood better what was going on with his own body, or maybe because he never saw the same look in the doctor's eyes that I saw when she talked to me. But for both of us, it was a bad night, and I admit it has opened up a new trickle of anxiety.

Beat and I have had discussions about this over the past few days, about risk versus reward in road cycling specifically. One of his good friends was killed in a collision with a drunk driver several years ago, and he knows others who have been injured in bicycle-vehicle collisions. He questions, on a rational level, whether the risks are worth it. I'm still working through my own emotional response, which is to both acknowledge and confront the fear. I recognize that the highway where Keith and I were riding was perhaps more risky than others, but the fact remains that risk is always there, haunting the periphery. How we accept that risk is really the only thing we can control.

The most important thing I learned about myself in the summer of 2002 is that I didn't want to let fear control my life. Death isn't nearly as frightening as the prospect of soft-pedaling through life without really living. Still, life occasionally comes along and doles out harsh realities, no matter how many irrational fears I've defeated.

A harsh end to the holiday

It began where these stories always seem to begin, on a bright and gorgeous morning. Keith and I were pedaling along State Route 120, the high road across Yosemite National Park. We had a big day planned — eighty miles and a long, rolling climb to near 10,000 feet elevation. We were about twenty-five miles in, and I was feeling discomfort from several different directions — yes, remnant undercarriage pains, as well as difficulty breathing in the sustained high altitude. Also, I didn't want to say anything to Keith, but I didn't really like this road. It was a little unnerving — narrow with frequent blind corners, and the kind of traffic and drivers typical of national parks. Sometimes things don't feel right, and I don't know why. Usually when I feel unwarranted negativity, I blame it on physical discomfort.

"I kinda wish we just went hiking in valley again," I joked with Keith. "There are so many awesome trails down there, and oxygen too." But when he asked me, more than once, whether I wanted to cut the ride short because I wasn't feeling well, I held on to my resolve. "No, this is a beautiful route. I can rally."

Keith waited for me at the bottom of a long descent, where I arrived still gasping for air. I admitted I would probably require consistent breath-catching breaks in order to make it up the next climb. Keith offered to ride behind me for a while, and chatted breezily while I turned slow rotations and strained thin air through my sea-level-weakened lungs. I didn't want to say anything to Keith, but after a mile I could hear him speaking to me, but couldn't really understand the words over my own loud breathing. We rounded a corner where the pavement notched into the mountainside just as a pack of four motorcycles roared beside us. I distinctly remember being frightened by the noise of the engines and moving far to the right when, just seconds later, I heard a loud, "Nooooo!"

The scream faded into a sickening crunch, and I felt something punching my left forearm. The force ripped my Garmin watch clean off its band and caused me to teeter violently, but I was able to put my foot down before the bike tipped over. I heard Keith cursing and my immediate thought was that his front wheel bumped my rear and he crashed. But as I swung around, I saw something much worse — an overturned Harley Davidson, a half-exploded road bike, and my friend Keith writhing on the pavement.

"Don't move, Keith, please don't move," I yelled as I darted around him, gathering the pieces of his bike from the road. The motorcyclist quickly stood up and we both flagged down vehicles coming from opposite directions. One man got out of his car and offered to direct traffic while another couple rushed toward us and said they were EMTs. They immediately started asking Keith the right questions before I had even fully processed what had happened. I grabbed my cell phone but it had no reception. No one had reception. We were high on a mountain pass, many miles from the nearest towns. So I dug my SPOT unit out of my pack and hit 911.

More bystanders helped the motorcyclist right his bike so he could wheel it out of the lane. His arm was crimson with road rash and he was bleeding profusely from one of his fingers. I dug out my first aid kit, offered him antibiotic ointment, and introduced myself. He said his name was Joe, from Staten Island. He was here on vacation with his buddies. They all rented Harleys in Oakland and were traveling up the Sierras and onto the Cascades. Joe was ashen faced and shocked himself. His buddies were now far ahead. They didn't know he was missing from the group. I felt for Joe. There was no doubt that his inattentiveness led to the rear-end collision, but the action wasn't malicious. He simply didn't see us until it was too late.

The EMTs  — Dan and his wife from Mono Lake — took charge of the situation, and their assistance helped calm all of us down. They determined Keith had all the good physical indicators to likely rule out a spinal injury, as well as no head injuries. But he was in a lot of pain and it was obvious something was very wrong with his back. Eventually construction workers arrived and took over traffic direction as Keith remained where he landed on the road. It took at least an hour for the ambulance to arrive. The nearest hospital was another hour and a half away.

The next 36 hours were a whirlwind of stress. They carted Keith off in an ambulance and the motorcyclist Joe, his friends, the EMTs, and I waited another half hour for a ranger to arrive. We filled out our reports and Joe's friends helped him build an arm bandage out of a greasy towel and a nylon strap. Hey was still bleeding rather heavily, but the one ambulance that arrived didn't have time to help him treat his wounds. I waited another hour for a ride with both bikes back to my car, and another hour went by before I passed into an area with cell reception. All that time, Beat and Keith's wife Leslie didn't really know what was going on — only that my SPOT sent out a 911 signal, and later that there was a collision with a motorcycle. Leslie told me later that she was surprised her reaction to extreme stress was to stay calm and eat a lot of bagels. I felt some survivor's guilt that day, both for almost inexplicably avoiding being swept up in the collision, as well as instigating the SOS call without being able to convey further information. But I had to hit 911 on the SPOT. It was the right thing to do.

I met Keith at the medical center in the town of Sonora, where a stage of the Tour of California was slated to start on Wednesday. Bicycle fever rippled through the tiny town, but I could only feel sadness, and some anger. The accident was just that — unintentional — but the fact is Joe was able to walk away and Keith could not. Bicyclists never get to walk away. And the number of friends who have been involved in vehicle-bicycle collisions only continues to grow. It can be difficult not to ask "When is it my turn?" and "Why not me?" and sometimes just "Why?" Keith held on to his usual cheery attitude and made optimistic observations about his condition. But as we plodded through the tests and procedures at the hospital, I could see that this was becoming more real to him with each passing hour. He was lucky it wasn't worse, which is something one can always say about any bad incident. But he was beginning to realize that he was in for a long recovery, that he won't be able to ride a bicycle for several months, that he might not even be able to work for a long while.

The final diagnosis: A fractured lumbar vertebrae, muscle tearing, and abrasions. He was transported to a larger hospital in Modesto for a whole second day when the Sonora doctor became concerned about signs of nerve damage, but further tests came up clear. We went through the long process of transporting him to my home, prepping him for his flight, and sending him back to Canada, broken.

Keith has a great support network of friends and he will recover. I of course realize how lucky I am that I was not hit. I think my saving grace was the fact I veered so far to the right seconds before the accident. The noise from the other motorcycle engines startled me, and I remember fluttering the handlebars when I drifted too close to the dirt shoulder. Then Joe slammed directly into Keith's rear wheel before his Harley veered to the left and turned over. The trajectory of the crash pushed Keith's bike forward and up. That's likely what hit my left arm and tore off my watch — the bicycle. Keith flipped backward onto his back, but luckily his body never made direct contact with the motorcycle. Otherwise, the outcome probably would have been much worse.

 There was lots of good in Keith's visit to California, and I wish it didn't have to end this way. I took this photo from Glacier Point the evening before the crash, overlooking the Half Dome and other mountains in Yosemite. This is the hike I talked Keith into as part of my "my butt can't handle every day on a bike" vacation negotiations. We started in the valley and climbed the four-mile trail to Glacier Point, and then I went on to the top of the Sentinel Dome, 8,123 feet. From there I ran all the way down in order to catch up with Keith, losing more than 4,000 feet in direct elevation over six miles. It was without a doubt my best running descent yet. My feet floated over rocks and confidently rounded switchbacks, as though I might actually be learning a technique or two in technical running. And honestly, it was the strongest I've felt in a while.

Keith told me that this accident hasn't changed his feelings about cycling at all. He's still excited to return to road riding when he recovers. I admit I can't say the same right now. I am a cyclist, though, and I'm sure this trepidation won't last long. But right now I'm more excited about trail running than ever, and I am grateful for my health to do so.

Get well soon, Keith.