From the sidelines of Western States

One question I am occasionally asked when I tell people I like this distance-running thing is whether or not I've seen the movie "Unbreakable." The answer is no, I haven't — and while one of the reasons for this is probably obvious to some, another reason was that I never mustered much enthusiasm for the mythology surrounding the Western States 100. Yes, I do understand why it's become its own legend — after all, it's the first. Back in 1974, Tevas Cup competitor Gordy Ainsleigh decided to try his own chances against the horses on foot. He finished the course in just under 24 hours and effectively invented the 100-mile ultramarathon. The Western States Endurance Run became official in 1977 and has since grown into most prestigious 100-miler in North America, attracting a deep field of ultrarunning talent and a lottery that brings in thousands of entries for less than 300 free spots. But — and I only admit this in the interest of honesty — I couldn't get past my prejudice that Western States was just a basic, somewhat bland California course with a corporate sheen. People only want to run it because all the fast guys are there and because it's the first, I thought. Nothing wrong with that at all, but it wasn't for me.

Still, the journalist in me wants to be where the action is, and there was admittedly a flickering desire to check out the scene. Earlier this year, I was chatting about cameras with an acquaintance, Amy Sproston, when I mentioned off-handily that I'd be happy for a chance to come out to the race if she needed any help on her crew. I think we both forgot about it until a few weeks ago, when she e-mailed me to ask if I still wanted to crew for her at the race. Amy is part of Team Montrail and the 2012 100K World Champion. She'd be gunning for a top finish at Western States against a lot of strong women, I knew it would be a fun race to spectate from the front lines.

I may have not harbored a ton of enthusiasm for Western States itself, but like anyone, I love a good hero story. For better or worse, Western States is where this small sport makes its heroes, and race-day speculations are fine entertainment. Who will come out victorious? The hot young talent who has been enjoying a killer year? The seasoned veteran who comes from behind late in the race to prove that experience can trump youth? The local favorite? The dark horse who no one expected? Watching these stories unfold is like watching a great sports movie without the formulaic dialogue or pandering sentimentality. It's a true story happening in real time, over many hours, through the sweat-drenched heat and fatigued night. The sidelines are a great place to witness the sides of the stories that few bother to tell. And because my own running journey has been a bit of a disaster recently, I didn't think it would hurt to venture to the grand stage to search for inspiration.

My job was to join Amy's sister Lisa at half of the crewed aid stations. Lisa comes out from Wisconsin every year for some sisterly bonding, but she often handles the bulk of the crewing herself and it can be stressful. Amy actually had an entire entourage this year, with two friends, Jason and Dillon, from her home state (Oregon) to help with crewing, and a pacer in her friend Robyn, a fast road marathoner who had never participated in a trail race or ultramarathon. It's true that we all had some outside interest in being there, and also that Amy probably didn't need any of us (with the exception of her sister.) She's pretty efficient and self-contained. But Amy was gracious in letting us all be a part of her Western States experience, and for that I'm grateful.

2013 will be remembered as "The hot year." It was officially just the second hottest Western States in history, but I have a difficult time imagining anything hotter. I saw 110 degrees in Sacramento the day before the race. It barely dipped below 70 overnight in Squaw Valley at 6,200 feet, and the heat-trapping canyons along the American River easily saw ambient temperatures in the 110s with brutal sun exposure and no breeze. My car thermometer repeatedly showed 100-degrees-plus while driving along the Foresthill Road. I slathered my skin in sunscreen and vied for the tiniest slivers of shade along the course. Lisa and I carried camp chairs and coolers up and down steep paved approaches to the aid stations; it was actually the first time I had done much walking in the week since my knee injury, and it was tough. We had our share of mishaps — leaving the cooler with all of Amy's cold drinks in Squaw Valley, miscommunication with the guys as we shuttled between aid stations, frantic rushes when the schedule got tight. All of this time, Amy was running steady, hitting her splits from 2012 almost exactly despite the extreme heat, and coming into the aid stations quiet but collected.

Meanwhile, the story that was unfolding in the women's race was an exciting one. Amy's U.S. teammate Pam Smith, who hadn't been on anyone's list of race favorites after struggling to a 29-hour finish in last year's Western States, surged ahead before the halfway point and continued to build her lead. Because of our aid station schedule, we didn't see what was happening at the front of the men's race, but we did see a lot of the faster chasers come through, wild-eyed and determined to keep up a strong pace in the hot hot heat. It was exciting and fun, with the added bonus of frantic, wild scrambling for two minutes every three hours. We tried to do anything we could for Amy, who was methodically chipping away at the miles — nauseated, pale-faced, and suffering just like everyone else, but moving strong.

What these men and women do at the front of these races is baffling. I know — hard work, smart training, decent genetics, blah blah blah. It's still the human element that intrigues me the most — the "whys" of every runner, not the "hows." Western States is a prizeless race in a fairly esoteric sport. Yes, you get a belt buckle if you finish, but I think belt buckles are terrible prizes. There, I admitted that too. I'd rather have a coaster. You have to admire the grit and raw energy these people give to a decidedly unglamorous endeavor.

We had an interesting mishap with Amy's pacer, Robyn, that became perhaps my favorite story of the day. Robyn was set to pace Amy from mile 62 to the American River crossing at mile 78. Amy actually prefers to run without pacers, but Robyn is her speedy training partner who Amy wanted to entice into the world of trail running by showing her the ropes at Western States. Robyn has run a marathon in three hours flat, but never anything longer and never a race on trails. Throughout the day she was visibly nervous about the prospect of pacing Amy for sixteen miles, and asked a lot of questions about trail racing customs and strategies.

Lisa and I were waiting for Amy at the final crewed aid station, mile 93, when the guys surprised us by arriving there as well — without Robyn. When we asked what happened to her, they admitted they "lost her." "We were climbing up the hill when we looked down at the river and saw Robyn crossing," they said. "We yelled and screamed as much as we could, but they couldn't hear us. I don't think Amy knew she was back there. We're not sure if she's still out there or not."

Um ... really? Robyn didn't have a headlamp or even trail shoes. She'd never run anything longer than a marathon. Was she really out there running an unplanned 50K, possibly in a condition where she'd need assistance from Amy, who was supposed to be racing? I felt a pit of dread in my stomach, and I could see all the color flushed from Lisa's face. "We lost Robyn."

They arrived at mile 93 and Amy took off almost immediately, as she was in close proximity to second position runner Nikki Kimball and fourth Meghan Arboghast. Lisa went with her, as it's their tradition for Lisa to pace her sister in the final seven miles. Robyn was excited and flustered, explaining that she didn't realize she wasn't supposed to cross the river, and when Amy noticed her at the other side, it was too late to turn around. With the rope and other runners crossing, a backward crossing would have caused an obstruction. Robyn asked people around her if she could borrow a headlamp and actually obtained one, and then spent the next fifteen miles doing everything in her power to follow Amy's lead as they climbed hills, danced over rocks, and ran through the forest in the fading light. We congratulated Robyn on running her first ultra, and she was visibly glowing and openly emotional about the experience she'd had.

Amy arrived at the Placer High School track without Lisa, as she'd surged so much that she actually dropped her sister. She ran a steady race and finished in 19:25, in third place behind Pam and Nikki. I thought she looked strong at the finish line, but just a few minutes later all the color drained from her skin and she ended up in a fetal position on the grass, and then in the medical tent. Ultimately she was okay, but you could tell that she'd left a lot of herself out there, strewn across the sun-baked dirt of the Western States course.

Generally, once the podium is filled, the journalists go home and the race carries out its quiet conclusion. Western States encourages lingering with a big awards ceremony after the 30-hour time limit has been reached, so we had a chance to spend another half-day in the hot hot heat watching the final finishers. Although I appreciate the talent and determination at the front of the race, as an individual I identify more with the back-of-packers — their quiet determination and internal rewards.

One guy finished just one minute past thirty hours, which drew a standing ovation from the entire crowd — although that guy ran every inch of a hundred miles, he would not be officially recognized as a finisher under race rules. Then nearly everyone turned and started filing away, and five minutes later, another guy crossed onto the track. A few photographers jumped back into finish line, and a few people turned to clap, but this last finisher's arrival went largely unnoticed. I admit I started tearing up as he and his pacer passed with their arms clasped. It's so hard to chase cutoffs. Those at the back of any race are there for a reason — they're having a particularly tough day, or experienced unexpected setbacks. And once you fall behind, you have to fight and you can't stop fighting. This guy fought so hard, but in the end he only just lost the battle. In the end, sometimes you fight just for the sake of fighting. I bet this guy is proud of what he accomplished.

Amy, of course, has much to be proud of herself. I have a lot more respect for Western States now, as an event and as a journey. It's a great race, and it's the people involved who make it so. 

Authentic experience

I'm working on getting my knee back, and I believe motion is important for this. Swelling went down, but the joint remains partially frozen. Bending hurts. It improves every day, which keeps me optimistic, but progress seems slow for a bashed knee. On Tuesday I successfully coaxed it to spin rotations on Beat's bike trainer, and on Wednesday I went out for a relatively flat road ride. Today I decided to climb a hill — my benchmark, Montebello Road — and I was taken aback by how tough it was. I didn't realize how much I was compensating for my sore left knee by putting all of the power into my right leg. Also, I couldn't stand out of the saddle. Any time I shifted pressure to the left, I got a shot of sharp pain.

So I effectively one-leg climbed in the saddle, and the effect left me feeling like I hadn't ridden a bike up a hill in a year. Like all of my strength had drained away, all of that hard-won fitness smothered by a minor and easily obtained injury.

Fitness, for me at least, is an illusion, I decided. The quickness and frequency with which my body's physical abilities can be dramatically cut back is, if not surprising, at least humbling. As I mashed the right pedal and weaved drunken switchbacks up a pitch my friends call "The Mitt Romney," a little smile cracked through the grimace. "This is the body that's supposed to get you through PTL in two months," I thought. "RTP even sooner. I'm going to need crutches. Why do I continue to fool myself into this ridiculous farce?"

Edward Abbey called the motivation "some sort of authentic experience" when he asked these questions of himself. I tend to think of authenticity in terms of sharpness — an experience that cuts deep enough to withstand the scouring effects of time. Memory is my greatest asset, because memory is the filter that gathers and preserves these pieces of my life amid the chaos. But when I am comfortable, I am forgetful. The realization hits whenever I click back through my blog and learn how much I've forgotten. I think this is one of the tragedies of life — that so much of what we experience is lost while we’re still alive.

When I let my mind settle — by which I mean let go of the act of deliberately thinking — I often sink into the reel of memories that is forever playing through the background of my consciousness. What I find there is often surprising. The big life events — first kiss, first car, college graduation — are all but gone now, little more than vague flickers of images that may or may not even belong to me. But there are many seemingly innocuous and meaningless moments that I remember with sharp clarity — pedaling my bicycle after dark in a drizzling rain near the end of the Glacier Highway of Juneau, or swimming across a lake in West Texas as the whole sky turned a bright shade of crimson. These kinds of images are the first to emerge when my mind goes quiet. 

Often, the intensity of emotion surrounding these memories kicks my conscious mind back into gear. “Why then?” my mind asks. “And why now?” My rational mind longs to find a correlation between these long-ago experiences and the present. Otherwise, why do they haunt me?

Perhaps it’s because I’m grinding out a pavement ride beneath the glaring sunshine and it’s 90 degrees; I’m missing cold and rain. Indeed, I can still feel the chill trickling down my shoulders, the numb fingers, the yawning black void beyond the dim beam of my headlight. My knee is stiff and it hurts to push these pedals; I miss the absolute freedom of movement I felt in that Texas lake, gliding across the surface of the glass-still water. 

But there's something else about those experiences that keeps them sharp, an authenticity that preserves them over the dozens of rainy rides I did in Juneau, the entire cross-country road trip surrounding that sunset swim. What was it? What did they mean? When I chip away at the surface, the first thought that comes to me is "uncertainty." On that particular bike ride, I was headed out the road to camp in an effort to practice setting up and staying in a winter bivy after after a long ride. I thought it would snow but it rained instead, and I was intensely afraid of being so wet and facing a night out in near-freezing conditions. Everything surrounding me came alive with malice and awe — the eerie blue light of the moon filtered by high clouds, the fog-shrouded channel, the ominous bend of towering spruce trees. I remember them in a way that's viscerally real, all of these years later. 

My memories of Texas surround the return swim, after I overzealously nearly crossed the small lake and suddenly wasn't sure whether I could make it back to shore. My arms were burning and my legs felt like cement blocks. The sky resembled a wildfire, with streaks of blaze-red light framing mountains of dark clouds. I was scared, and yet I felt calm, deeply — almost meditatively — calm. I knew I could swim all the way back because, well, I had to. For those minutes, it was my one responsibility in the world; that flowing movement was everything. It was beautiful in its necessity, freeing in its stark simplicity. 

Is risk necessary for an authentic experience? Do we need to approach the edge and gaze out into the abyss to jolt the sensations of being alive? Clearly I'm drawn to experiences such as PTL because such a vast curtain of uncertainty surrounds them, as well as a level of life-affirming risk. There's also not a small amount of wide-eyed disbelief surrounding the whole endeavor. "I am gimpy and weak. Could I really cross mountain after mountain after mountain for days on end?" I would never believe it if I hadn't tried, and succeeded, at similar endeavors before. But I've never tried anything exactly like this. Therein lies the intrigue — reaching out to the unknown. 

And, also, connecting the foundation of our our awareness with the building blocks of our lives — our memories.

"Why do I do this? (My feet hurt.) Why? Well, it's the need, I guess, for some sort of authentic experience. (My hip joint hurts.) As opposed to the merely synthetic experience of books, movies, TV, regular urban living. (My neck hurts.) To meet my God, my Maker, once again, face to face, beneath my feet, beyond my arms, above my head. (Will there be water at Cabeza Tank?)" — Edward Abbey, "Beyond the Wall"

Limpy-K

I avoided my blog for a few days out of embarrassment, or maybe just to avoid starting a post with the phrase, "You know, maybe some of us just weren't born to run." I thought once the pain subsided, I might feel better about my chances at PTL in two months. But no, no ... I still feel like a gimpy little deer who wandered into a tunnel only to see the lights of a fast-approaching freight train.

On Saturday, Beat and I headed out to Santa Cruz for the San Lorenzo River 50K. Beat had been sick all week and nearly stayed home, but I was feeling better than I had in a while. My training runs were going well again after a few weeks of somewhat mystifying respiratory and nausea issues, and I was feeling particularly strong during bike rides. Confidence levels were still low, but I was getting there. At least I felt confident that I had the strength to bust out 31 miles.

But at mile 2.5, I went down. There was a brief distraction from a group of six or seven who were  passing on a short climb, and before I even realized that I had hooked my foot on a rock, I was face down in the dirt. This happens to me a lot. Why? Because I don't lift my feet high enough, I guess. Beat calls it "slurring your feet." He tells me I need to work on my technique. I frequently focus on correcting bad habits, but fatigue and distraction seem to unravel any and all re-education efforts. It seems my natural (bad) inclinations will always overrule my better intentions.

A woman stopped to help me up and I took off at top speed up the trail as blood streamed from my right elbow and knee. It was a slow-moving crash, but it ended in a jumble of rocks that punched a number of impressive bruises into my body. And even though my right side slapped the rocks like a dead fish, my left knee was particularly painful. A large goose egg lump formed over the inside end of the femur, and swelling built around the knee cap. I could feel the joint stiffening up and knew if I stopped moving it would probably freeze entirely. I needed to at least wait for the initial impact fade before I let that happen, so I kept running.

The trail crossed the thigh-deep San Lorenzo river, and I took advantage of the crossing to wash the dirt and blood off my limbs. The cold water felt fantastic, but as soon as we started climbing out of the river, I could feel endorphins fading, replaced by blunt pain. It seemed to be simple soft-tissue bruising rather than something more serious, and I couldn't decide what to do. Call it an education in pain management and continue running? Walk out the first leg of the race and stop at 30 kilometers? Turn around right there, DNF another race, and risk a full-blown crisis of confidence? I suspected that my knee could handle this little setback just fine, but my morale was more fragile.

It's funny that I didn't want to face a DNF. I never wanted to one of those types of runners, gutting out a race with an injury just to say I finished the thing. Deep down, I didn't really care. But I also didn't believe I was seriously injured — at least not enough to convince myself that continuing would do more harm. I was already banged up, so what did it matter if I ran or stopped? One thing I knew, however, was that I was in a moderate amount of pain, and it was getting worse, not better.

Beat, nice guy that he is, decided to stick with me during another race in which I fell apart less than 10 percent of the way in, even though he wasn't feeling well himself. I thought that continuing to jog and walk gently would help "unfreeze" my joint, but the goose egg hardened and the joint became more stiff, until I could no longer bend it more than a few measly degrees. I marched in place at aid stations to stave off full rigor mortis. "This is really kind of dumb," I thought. "I'm just dragging my leg along for a limpy jog and I'm not even getting much of a workout." I begged Beat for painkillers but he would only give me one more pill (wisely, of course, as I'd already taken the maximum dosage for the amount of time I'd be out there. Luckily I'd forgotten my own stash of Advil, as I am prone to caving into temptation.) He did encourage me to bail if I thought I was damaging my knee, and also cautioned that running with a limp risked damaging something else. Still, I felt justified in this latest experiment. After all, I'm pretty damn clumsy. If I want to continue propelling myself over rugged mountains, I'm going to have to learn to cope with a few bruises.

Beat joked about making up a phrase for the act of stubbornly ignoring gravity-induced injuries — "Pulling a Homer." "To the uninitiated, most would think that means sitting on the couch and eating a donut," he said. "But those who know the Homer family know that it means replacing grace with toughness." Heh heh.

After mile twelve my knee still wasn't willing to bend, so I made up my mind to drop at 30K point, reasoning that "running" this out was kind of pointless. But once I'd limped into the start/finish, I'd developed renewed resolve to see this thing through. Beat grabbed a bandage to tightly wrap my knee, and the compression did help me feel more stable. He then took off to run the last 20K at his own pace. As I suspected, the brief stop locked up the joint almost completely. Any bending at all caused a shock of pain. I peg-legged it up the climb and felt like an idiot encountering those who were finishing up the 30K, marathon, and 50K distances, because I was clearly going the wrong direction for a runner who was visibly limping. One of the 30K runners actually stopped and told me he would go back to an aid station about a mile away to get help. "Oh, I'll be fine, no problem, heh heh."

Surely enough, motion did eventually loosen up my knee. But the pain never went away, not even for a minute. I distracted myself with iPod songs that I put on repeat just to block out the passage of time. One of them was this kitschy death metal song, "Army of the Damned" by LoneWolf, which has been my go-to angry song for Alaska winter racing: "We run straight into a frozen hell; defeated by snow, blizzard and ice." It's silly but comforting background noise when I want to feel sorry for myself but need to keep in check that this self-imposed ridiculousness is my decision, and my responsibility. "Trapped in this white and cold cemetery; I can still walk; God seems to like me."

Still, I was openly angry when I arrived at the finish after a painful downhill stretch. I got a bit snippy with a medic who offered to help clean up my elbow and retrieve an ice pack for my knee. She was very nice and I'm grateful she offered to help (which I finally did accept), but I was in once of those embarrassed "don't look at me" moods. They were already cleaning up because I came in with 8:20 on the clock and these races have a nine-hour cutoff.

It was a beautiful course. The redwood forests are peaceful, the sandy hills are challenging, and the San Lorenzo River crossings are a lot of fun. I can't say I enjoyed myself much. I'm still contemplating what I was trying to do out there. On some level, I think I was trying to prove to myself again that I'm more than my fragile and awkward body, that determination can get me through some tough hours, and that pain does eventually get better (it did, on some level. I was running better in the final five miles than I had since I fell. Until the last downhill mile, that is, which was actually quite painful.)

Still, this series of bad races has trampled my mojo. I'm all for unknown challenges, but I prefer to have a little more faith in my known abilities. Part of my continuation strategy on Saturday involved promises to myself that in 2014 I would skip the ultramarathon circuit entirely and go back to my bike touring roots. Perhaps I'll still do that. But I have a lot of 2013 to get through yet.

I'm slowly gaining mobility back in my knee. I've been working on my range of motion and the swelling is going down, but I probably have a few more days at least before I'll be able to run, ride a bike, or walk normally. Still, I remain convinced that this was probably going to be the case whether I stopped at mile three or mile 31. Even mild knee contusions can be quite painful despite relatively shallow damage. But, alas, crisis of confidence. I finished the race, and it crept in anyway.