Because it's beautiful, that's why

Ultrarunning is an eccentric sport, so it makes sense that people have their own eccentric reasons for getting into it. I was exposed to this community for years before I developed any interest in participating. My first glimmer of intrigue sparked about three years ago, when I was traversing Heinzelman Ridge in Juneau. From a high point I could see mountain ridges rippling like waves across the Juneau Ice Field — all of these mountains I wanted to visit but would never be able to reach in a day. For my own reasons — bears, wolves, unpredictable weather, and the potential onset of disorienting fog overnight — I didn't want to attempt solo backpacking trips in the alpine of Southeast Alaska. But if I had the ability to move faster, I realized, the possibilities would be greater. The more efficient my steps became, the more mountains I could visit. Distance — not speed — was my overlying motivation to become "a runner."

Ultra-racing is a fun and challenging way to develop distance skills, and the Laurel Highlands Ultra was an ideal test. The 70.5-mile race traverses the entire distance of the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail in southwestern Pennsylvania. The race launched in 1979 when two brothers set out to see how far they could get in a day. The following year, seven people showed up for the challenge, and a tradition was born. The current race directors, Iditarod veterans Tim Hewitt and Rick Freeman, invited Beat to come out to Pennsylvania and run their race. Beat in turn convinced me that the Laurel Highlands Ultra would be a good shakedown run for UTMB. I also liked the idea of a point-to-point course — 70 miles is a decent amount of ground to cover in a day, and I expected a scenic tour of one of the more remote regions of the eastern United States. Just a few years ago, seventy miles was well beyond my scope of what I could cover on foot in one day. Laurel Highlands was an opportunity to see how far I've come.

Of course, by race morning, I was less than enthused about all of it. We flew into Pittsburgh in the early morning hours on Friday, slept hardly at all, spent the rest of the day socializing and prepping, finally made our way home around 11 p.m., and then set our alarm for 3 a.m. Saturday so we could travel to the start with the race directors. Still operating in Pacific time, I groaned to Beat, "Why do we have to wake up at midnight to run on rocks and roots?" Beat pointed out that a few days worth of sleep deprivation and jet lag was also good training for UTMB. True, true.

About 130 racers were gathered for the dawn start of the seventy-mile race, which began at the parking lot of a small park and quickly funneled onto the narrow singletrack at mile zero of the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail. Beat had hurt his hip the weekend before during the Diablo 60K, and the injury was still causing him quite a bit of pain. Before the race, he taped his hip extensively with kinesio tape, but he was noticeably limping in the first mile. I think he only bothered to start the race because we had already made all these arrangements to travel to Pennsylvania, not to mention self-imposed peer pressure from his friends. Beat promised he would drop at the first signs of real trouble, but I doubted this was going to happen. We ran together for the first eight miles, following the racer conga line up the rocky trail. As soon as the pack began to break up, I surged ahead. At the first aid station, mile 11, I waited for five or so minutes before deciding that Beat would likely catch me soon if he didn't drop. And if he was contemplating quitting, he probably didn't want me around to try to talk him into it.

The Laurel Highlands are the remnants of some old and crumbling mountains, leaving behind piles of massive boulders that the trail often wove through like a maze. The mountains themselves are actually the highest in Pennsylvania, and the high point on the trail is close to 3,000 feet. Though the giant rock gardens were my favorite aspect of the route, I'm a vista person at heart, and I was constantly scanning for spots to break out of the forest. I admit I wandered off the trail and onto the rocks once or twice in hopes of catching a glimpse of the Youghiogheny River or even downtown Pittsburgh, which I'm told can be seen across fifty-odd miles of mostly open green space. At one point I broke off from a small group I had been running with to locate the vista in the picture above this one, and then sped up to catch them again. "Stop and smell the roses type?" an older man asked as I passed. "Yup," I replied. "This is my motivation. I wouldn't be out here otherwise."

I passed the 50K mark while running with a friend of my friends Leslie and Keith, Kendra. We never got around to talking about just how small of a world this ultrarunning community is, but we did joke about veering toward the 31-mile finish and pretending we thought we entered the 50K all along. For me these were hollow words, because I was actually feeling pretty good. All the miles beyond 31 were mostly unknown territory for me, but I was consciously working on staying "light as a feather" in order to avoid pounding my feet while still lifting them enough to stay off the rocks. But by mile 40 I was beginning to regularly fail at this goal, stumbling more frequently until I finally took my first crashing blow into the rocks, hitting my left shoulder hard. This made me angry and I got up and started sprinting, trying to race off the pain that was coursing through my arm. I noticed I actually balanced much better when I moved faster, but I could hardly keep up that speed for thirty more miles. I vowed to pull out my trekking poles at the next aid station.

I had been aiming to hit the fifty-mile marker at twelve hours and was convinced I had it as late as mile 40. But the rocky section where I crashed slowed me down substantially, and I actually hit mile 50 closer to thirteen hours into the race. The Laurel Highlands Trail is marked with mile posts for the entire distance. Some runners find these marks of (slow) progress annoying, but I use GPS anyway so they mostly just gave me something to look forward to. At the mile 46 checkpoint, Tim gave me Beat's status — still in the race, about a half hour behind. I grabbed my trekking poles and began the long climb from a lower point on the course back to the 3,000-foot range.

Over the course of the race I had been eating what I might call a "50K diet" — mainly sugar, with salt tabs, and less than a hundred calories per hour on average. This works fine for me for seven hours or so, but by hour twelve I could feel the all-too-familiar onset of a bonk. In luckier situations, bonking simply means an energy hole that is relatively easy to dig out of. But a combination of the intensity of the effort, warm temperatures (mid-80s with high humidity), and mild dehydration sent my stomach into revolt and I couldn't put more calories down without heavy consequences. In less than two miles I went from feeling great to using every ounce of my diminishing willpower to avoid laying down in oh-so-soft-looking beds of ferns. Nausea wracked my stomach until I gave into vomiting, which made my gut feel marginally better but my head about ten times worse. I slowed to a near-crawl. There were definitely some 25-minute miles in that section, even after I finished the climb and re-entered the rolling terrain of the high ridge. I felt horrible, but strangely, I wasn't upset about it. The sun was drifting low in the sky beyond the canopy of trees, casting rich light and stark shadows across the carpets of ferns. Laurel bushes in peak bloom lined the narrow trail, creating purple-and-white walls of blossoms. The earthy sweet aroma probably would have been wonderful if I wasn't so nauseated, but even still it wasn't terrible. I could walk it off, I told myself, and in the meantime I felt entertainingly loopy, almost high.

But beauty can only sustain a poor physical state for so long. I slouched into the 57-mile checkpoint feeling so depleted that if I had been attempting a hundred-miler, I would have given strong consideration to dropping. Even with just a measly half marathon left, I still found it difficult to contemplate the miles ahead. I held onto Beat's sage advice for all similar ultra situations — "It will get better, before it gets worse, but then it gets better again. It always does." I forced down a cup of ramen soup, which proved to be my rapid turning point. Before I even left the aid station I was feeling okay enough to eat a few cookies and several cups of iced ginger ale. Darkness was settling in, so I switched on my headlamp and set into the final stretch a renewed runner — well, at least I was running again.

At mile 61 we hit the sole stretch of road on the course, about three-quarters of a mile of gravel. I was really excited to see this short section of easy travel, as I was becoming weary of stumbling on rocks. But sure enough, it only took about a quarter mile of unrealized tedium before I was struggling with the sleep monster. Funny how that happens. I slowed to a walk and occupied myself by shuffling through the screens on my Garmin eTrex ... smiling at the 14,000 feet of climbing it had registered so far and zooming out on the map to see just how far I had traveled, on a wrinkled line drawn over an impressive swath of southwestern Pennsylvania. At the top of the road was the last aid station, and I had no energy so I ate some more soup and wasted a little more time. Turnaround number two came, along with the resolve to run, the conquering of the rocky descent, and feeling the best that I had felt, arguably, all day long. (The race started so early that I did not feel awake until 9 a.m. Pacific time, which was nearly 25 miles into the race, and by then I had, well, 25 miles under my feet.) I can honestly say I enjoyed every minute of those last eight miles to the mile 70 marker, and finished feeling strong. Which, for my own eccentric reasons, is the ideal way to finish a race. I don't do this kind of thing to empty my tank ... I do it to feel full.

Rick handed me my trophy, an impressive mahogany replica of a trail marker with the number 70 inscribed in the wood. He said they'd mail me a plaque with my finishing time, 19:01. It was well ahead of my goal and good enough to be respectably midpack — 46th of 130 starters and 85 finishers, and 10th of 17 women. Beat limped into the finish at 20:27, having endured his hip pain that entire time. He had an experienced friend help him diagnose the injury today — tightness and strain in several muscles in and around his glutes. It sounded miserable and I think Beat ground it out only because he has so much respect and admiration for Tim that he didn't want to disappoint him ... awww.

My shoulder, which started to feel better after I began using my poles, is still a bit sore. I also have been feeling under the weather, which is more likely a result of travel-induced insomnia than running. Otherwise, I don't feel worse for the wear, and don't think it could have gone a whole lot better given my limited experiences with longer distances.

Plus, the Laurel Highlands are intensely beautiful. Experiencing the entire trail in a day amid the challenges and endorphins of long-distance running was all the more rewarding. For me, those are the best reasons to run the Laurel Highlands Ultra — cool trophies aside.

Awake among the laurels

I've hardly slept in three days. There were captured naps ... five minutes here, ninety minutes there. But eastern time has not been kind to me ... my natural bedtime occurs just before sunrise. Combined with a tight flight schedule, a predawn race start, nighttime heat, and a serious case of the jimmy legs, the relief of unconsciousness has eluded me. Now on the third night I've finally surpassed fatigue and entered that waking dream state, where everything takes place behind a white veil and a few clicks off real time. It's a beautiful place, steeped in nostalgia.

We entered Pennsylvania by way of Pittsburgh. It was well after midnight in this region. This is the first time I've been east of the Mississippi in nearly ten years, and I forgot that it's kind of different out here. The freeways aren't so overbuilt. You have to dig deep into some winding country roads to get anywhere, even near cities. Farmhouses built in the 1860s are places where people live, not historic landmarks. And the hills. Oh, the hills. As we drove through the empty streets, I imagined myself back on a loaded touring bicycle, circa 2003. "I rode so many hills just like these," I told Beat. "We crossed the state line just a little north of Pittsburgh and then veered north into the Alleghenies. The Rocky Mountains were a piece of cake compared to this region. The overall elevation gains are smaller so they don't bother with switchbacks. It felt like 15 percent grades were the norm."

I didn't recognize the race directors right away, even though I've looked them both in the eyes during one of the darker moments in my life. People really do look markedly different when they're rested, clean, wearing fewer layers, and projecting an air of excitement instead of pity. Tim Hewitt looked outright strange in a cotton T-shirt and khaki shorts, and Rick Freeman was way more exuberant  than I remembered. The last time I saw them was at Yentna Station, Alaska, during the 2009 Iditarod, when I dropped out of the race with frostbite. Man, was that a depressing morning. Tim's voice of wisdom is still burned in my consciousness, and thanks to the trials of the 2012 Iditarod, he bonded with Beat as well. It felt like a little life victory to meet again under much more pleasant circumstances, surrounded by the brilliant greens of Pennsylvania hill country in the summertime, and Tim joking lightheartedly about the insanity he's experienced during his six walks to Nome. In the background, there was the nervous matter of that little 70-mile race Tim and Rick invited us to run. The Laurel Highlands Ultra. Oh, that.

This may enter my memory as my favorite running experience yet — the last eight miles of that brutal trail. There were rocks, so many rocks. I shuffled over them, stubbed my toes on them, rolled my ankles around them, tripped over them, vomited on them. The race had its expected ups and downs, and by mile 62 I was hunkered down at the last aid station, savoring a bowl of potato soup and contemplating the long descent in front of me. I wasted as much time as I could sipping ginger ale, changing the batteries in my headlight, and even arranging my pack before I returned to the now-total darkness of the forest canopy. The thing I wanted most in the world was sleep, and the only thing that was going to get me there were my aching feet. The only thing in my way seemed nearly insurmountable at the time — eight miles of rolling, rocky descending, which I suck at even when I'm fresh and strong. But when I have 100 kilometers behind me and the better part of 48 hours without sleep, at least I become a little more fearless. I pulled out the trekking poles I brought as climbing aids and thought — "Screw it. I'm going to run."

It took a few hundred yards of shuffling to work past the aches in my feet and knees, but soon I started charging down the trail, planting my poles for balance and sometimes outright vaulting over boulders. The movements somehow fell into place; I was dancing across the rocks, inexplicably without planting my face into the trail, and the motion felt amazing. I imagined myself as a mountain goat, using my four legs to float down impossible terrain. Exuberance translated to energy, the poles made me invincible, and I felt no fear. I started passing people — a half dozen people at that late and spread-out stage of the race. One guy followed me for a couple of miles, and later told me he dug as deep as he could to keep up, and still faded. Of course I never set out to "beat" a handful of fellow mid-packers. But I have to say, rather than simply bettering something you're already good at, it's even more satisfying to marginally excel and something you're really bad at. So explains my main motivation for sticking with this running thing as long as I have.

I finished in 19:01, in a race where I seriously doubted my ability to stay in front of a 22-hour cutoff. And the course was even more difficult than I expected — 70 miles of nearly a hundred percent technical singletrack, with about 14,000 feet of climbing, on typical Northeast U.S. grades. The race was mostly filled with experienced locals and race veterans, and even then the finishing rate was fairly low — out of 130 starters, 85 finished. I had a few set-backs as you almost have to in a race that long, but overall I'm happy with how it went down. The scenery was stunning. I really enjoyed spending time with Tim, Rick, Loreen and other Eastern runners. I'll likely end up blabbing further in a full race report, but for now, in my sleepless haze, this is what I remember. Good stuff. 

Women of the Tour Divide

Group shot in Idyllwild before this year's Stagecoach 400. The were several past and future Tour Divide women in this race: Me, Eszter Horanyi, Tracey Petervary, Mary Collier, and Katherine Wallace. Photo by Craig Lassen. 

I've been what you might call a Divide racing superfan ever since I stumbled across online chatter about the Great Divide Race in late 2005. For me, the 2,500-mile GDR was a dream race: A cross-country bicycle tour, pedaling across the stunning landscapes of the Rocky Mountains, pushing personal boundaries, and living at the sharp edge of the human condition. I devoured every update from the 2006 event: That year, only six or seven people started in Roosville, Montana. Fixie Dave had his bike stolen, most quit in Montana, John Nobile had to drop out with injuries in Colorado, and Matt Lee was out front by himself for more than 1,000 miles before he became the sole finisher. It was a decidedly anticlimactic year in Divide racing — and I was hooked.

Later that summer, I laid out a loose three-year plan that ended in me lining up for the GDR in 2009. My then-boyfriend, Geoff Roes, shook his head at this grand delusion, but he got sucked into the dream himself. He ended up starting the 2008 Great Divide Race, and pedaled with the frontrunners until he dropped out in Colorado with extreme fatigue. John Nobile went on to win and set the record on the border-to-border route, which still stands. I was there when Geoff returned to Alaska completely shattered, and watched as it took him weeks to even get excited about running again, let alone biking. By then I already understood that Geoff was a much, much stronger athlete than me, and the Divide was too intense for him. That should have been enough to scare me away — and yet, the dream persisted.

I pursued that dream with single-minded focus even though it began to disrupt my career in journalism, and continued even as my relationship with Geoff broke apart and I woke up every morning of my training weeks with a strong desire to give up and go home. But I stuck with it, and the 2009 Tour Divide was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. From the fun touring in Montana with John Nobile, to setting out on my own in the desolation of Wyoming, to the intense emotional shifts of Colorado, to the soul-crushing mud and storms of New Mexico, I still feel like I experienced a second lifetime in those few short weeks. I wrote a book about it, and even still I continue to discover new insights and inner strength that I derived from that experience.

Every year, friends ask me if I'm going to return to the Tour Divide. The answer is: I want to, and I think about it often, but I want my head to be in the right place before I make a commitment of that magnitude. I'm not really interested in riding the Great Divide at a relaxed touring pace. Although I love bike touring, I'd rather use that amount of time to explore somewhere new, or try something new, like backcountry trekking in the Brooks Range. However, I remained intrigued about returning to the Divide to live on the sharp edge of the human condition — by moving as fast as I can. In 2009, I finished in 24 days, 7 hours, and 24 minutes. Even under similar (muddy) conditions and with similar fitness, I already see how better decisions could slice full days off of my time here and there. Everyone knows your first time down the Divide is a trial run, and after that you have a strong advantage with everything you've learned. Most racers also realize that the Divide is largely a contest of luck. But the Divide is one venue that plays to nearly all of my meager athletic strengths, and there's a fair chance I'll go back someday if the stars align. I get the sense that after this year, any record attempt is going to be a true test — if not impossible — for someone like me.

Right now, the 2012 roster features eleven women — eleven! It's going to be a exciting year to follow the race, which begins in Banff on Friday morning. I compiled a little bit of background for the awesome women of the 2012 Tour Divide:

Eszter Horanyi, 30, from Crested Butte, Colorado: I think Eszter is the woman to beat in this year's Tour Divide — and not just among women; all the boys will have to watch over their shoulders as well. She's a strong cyclist with an enviable combination of talent, experience, mental strength, and stamina. In 2009 she won the 24-Hour Solo Nationals and in 2011 she set the women's record in the 500-mile Colorado Trail Race. Her training rides for this year's Tour Divide included strong wins in the Arrowhead 135 and Stagecoach 400. Unless something goes wrong for Eszter, a sub-21-day finish is likely, and those who know her better would probably place that time around 18 or 19 days. My prediction: She's going to scorch it.

Tracey Petervary, 39, from Victor, Idaho: Another strong contender for the win. When it comes to adventure bikepacking, Tracey's resume is tough to beat. She's the only Tour Divide veteran among the women competing solo this year; she completed the 2009 race in 18 days and change as the stoker on a tandem with her husband, current men's record holder Jay Petervary. She's ridden a fat bike 1,000 miles on the Iditarod Trail from Knik to Nome, Alaska — twice! — and holds the women's record on both the Northern and Southern routes. Tracey said this year's Stagecoach 400 was her first truly solo multiday race, and that she learned a lot. She's a fierce competitor and I expect she'll be gunning for the front of the pack as long as she can.

Katherine Wallace, 40, from Phoenix, Arizona: I was fortunate to spend a little bit of time with Katherine after this year's Stagecoach 400. Katherine is a good-natured Kiwi with strong legs and humorously large water bottle cages on the fork of her Salsa Fargo (I'm fairly certain I saw 1.5-liter bottles stuffed in there.) I got the impression that she was going to take a conservative approach in this year's race with the goal of finishing, but she definitely has the motor to finish fast.

Tracy Burge, 51, from Clarksville Ohio: Tracy appeared in an article in the Dayton Daily News about being the "oldest" woman to race the Tour Divide, which she is riding in part to celebrate her 50th birthday. But Tracy actually won't be the oldest woman on the course this year; Jo Ann Burtard is 56. Tracy got her start in endurance sports in 1994, racing a marathon with her sisters. In 2008, she rode across Japan and Thailand, and from Greece to Spain during a round-the-world trek.

Sara Dallman, 43, from Wilmington, Ohio: I couldn't find much about Sara online. She seems to be a friend and training partner of Tracy's and is a bit of a runner herself. It's possible Tracy and Sara plan to ride together, although in an interview Tracy talked about riding alone.

Sarah Caylor, 42, from Caledon, Ontario: Sarah, a chef from Canada, is an endurance mountain bike racer who plans to put a couple of gears on her singlespeed for the Tour Divide (1x9). In her blog, Sarah mentioned she plans to ride about 140 miles a day, putting her on a 21-day pace. Sarah is a registered holistic nutritionist with a blog full of healthy energy food recipes. This makes me wonder if she has a specific plan for fueling on the Tour Divide. The GDMBR is the epitome of a food desert, illustrated well in the movie "Ride the Divide" when Adrian, a raw vegan, scours a gas station for food and leaves with a single jar of olives, reasoning that "they're pickled, which isn't the same as cooked." If your body isn't accustomed to processing nutrient-stripped junk and turning it into good energy, it can be difficult to function on the limited foods available on the Divide.

Michelle Dulieu, 41, from Rochester, New York: Michelle is an endurance road cyclist and randonneur who has finished the Cascade 1200. In 2007, Michelle set a women's record at Quadzilla, a 400-mile circumnavigation of New York's Finger Lakes. She's obviously strong at long distances, but it's unclear how much mountain biking experience she has. Although the Tour Divide is not a technical course, there are definitely some stretches where a little experience with rocks and mud can be an advantage. Still, randonneuring is just about the perfect background for an event like the Tour Divide.

Melissa Liebling, 33, from Tucson, Arizona: Melissa won the solo singlespeed division at this year's 24 Hours of Old Pueblo in Tucson, riding 241 miles in 24 hours and 28 minutes. Melissa is obviously a talented endurance rider, but it's not clear if she has any multiday experience.

Elena Massarenti, 37, from Valsesia, Italy: Elena is an adventure athlete who with a companion once paddled a canoe 1,600 kilometers along the Yukon River and trekked 1,000 kilometers across Patagonia. It appears Elena is planning to ride the Tour Divide with Marco Costa, a Tour Divide veteran who finished the 2011 event in 19 days.

Jo Ann Burtard, 56, from Santa Fe, New Mexico: Jo Ann has competed in the New Mexico Criterium Championships as well as a few mountain running races near Santa Fe. There are several road racing results online, but I couldn't find much else about Jo Ann.

Caroline Soong, 30, from Prescott, Arizona: Caroline won last year's Tour Divide, and this year will be racing it on a tandem with her boyfriend, Kurt Refsnider, the other winner of the 2011 race. Tracey and Jay Petervary currently hold the tandem record, and I'm among those who assumed it would stand forever — because honestly, who would want to challenge that? But Caroline and Kurt have a definite shot at the record if they can conquer the divorce-cycle stereotype.

There are 95 people total listed as starters for the 2012 Tour Divide. You can follow this year's race beginning Friday at trackleaders. com.