Hardrock 100: The Hardest Thing I've Ever Done

On December 6, 2015 I was on a hike with my wife and a couple of friends.  Sarah was four months pregnant with our first child and was enjoying the second trimester boost, so the going was good.  Just yesterday I got the word that I finally made it into Western States, on my fifth try.  I had a 45% chance of getting in, so I was thrilled to finally be in the race, but not surprised.  WSER seemed like a doable challenge for the year.  I would get most of my training in before the due date on May 13, and muddle through the remaining weeks after Oliver came.  I dreamt of taking him for the final lap around the track.

Then the texts and Facebook messages started coming in.  

“Go buy a lottery ticket right now.”

“Dude. WTF. You are in Hardrock too. No. Way!”

W. T. F.  I was speechless.  With a 10% chance of getting in on my fourth try, and my season already set with Western States, I counted Hardrock out for the year and didn’t even bother watching the lottery.  My first thought was “OH SHIT”.  As soon as I heard the news, I knew I was going to do them both.  Given how hard it is to get in, how many years it took, I viewed both races as once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.  Each race increases the chances in the lottery exponentially based on the number of consecutive applications, so in order to have a reasonable chance of getting in, one needs to qualify and apply many years in a row.  Who knows if I will be able to qualify for Western States or Hardrock again for so many years in a row?  But doing both of them back to back in one year?  In the years where I’ve done more than one 100+ mile event, I always had a couple of months in between.  Now I had three weeks!  And six weeks and nine weeks post baby!  And all the sleep deprivation!  Not to mention that I just started a challenging new job where I was trying to accomplish a lot before going on paternity leave.  WOW, this year is going to be intense.

While Western States was a race I’ve always wanted to do, Hardrock was the big one.  Just thinking about it or seeing pictures of those mountains gave me goosebumps.  The San Juan mountains just looked so beautiful.  They were also very tall and rugged.  With a 48 hours time limit, Hardrock is the hardest 100 miler in the US, except for Barkley.  It has 33000 feet of ascent at an average altitude of 11000 feet.  We summit a 14er as part of the course.  The weather is tough, with regular thunderstorms.  The trails are very technical, and sometimes there is no trail at all.  There are countless stream crossings (so feet are always wet and more susceptible to blisters).  And big chunks of the course I often covered in mud or snow.  It’s hard.  

I focused my training on Hardrock, since it is by far the harder of the two events.  I figured if I’m in Hardrock shape, I can finish Western States.  Training started out very well.  We were going to Mt. Diablo on a regular basis, and finding ways to continue going out into the mountains together even as Sarah’s belly grew.  We got into a mode where Sarah would be mostly hiking and I would take the same route, but do out-and-backs to/from her on the steepest hills to get the vert in for Hardrock.  

Still going out together during the pregnancy. This is about 7 months.

Then in mid-March my right foot started to hurt.  And then the left.  It looked like a mild case of PF, but just wouldn’t go away despite rest.  I had to pull back significantly for about two months and tried lots of different things.  Instead of my beloved Altra Lone Peaks I started running in the cushy Altra Olympus, and got Currex RunPro shoe inserts, and tried a bunch of other things.  Around the same time I was also putting in long hours at work trying to get more done before the baby came.  It was a stressful time.  Things were looking grim for a while, and I even considered to just give up to preserve my feet and focus on my family and my job.  But thanks to unwavering support and encouragement from Sarah, and support and good advice from friends (Elke and Bob, thanks, you’re awesome), I pushed on.

Around early May my feet got better!  But now I had only five long runs left before Western States.  With both races seeming precarious, I decided to go after the bird in the hand than two in the bush and focus my remaining training on Western States instead.  Also if I decided to DNS (Did not start) Hardrock, my number of tickets will be preserved for next year’s lottery.  I figured if I can survive Western States injury free, then I will toe the line at Hardrock and see what happens.  

I still can’t believe that Sarah supported me going out for a long run five days after Oliver’s birth.  It was tough carving out time for the long runs during those intense wonderful delirious early weeks.  Luckily, Sarah and Oliver joined me on most of them!  I was able to ramp up to a 35 mile long run essentially pain free, and was cautiously optimistic about Western States.

Going out as a family after Oliver's birth - he is about 2 weeks old.

At Western States I enjoyed seeing many friends, and cruised through the heat with pounds of ice all over me at all times.  At night, during the flattish runnable section, things got rough as my feet began to hurt a lot.  But all I could think about as I was moving along the American River with my awesome pacer Chloe, was “Shit, that pain is not structural… looks like I’m going to Hardrock.”  I made it through Western States in one piece!!!  It took 29 hours to get to Auburn.  Sarah paced me for the final 6 miles from Highway 49, six weeks postpartum, and I carried Oliver for the final lap around the Placer High School track.  This was truly a family effort: we finished together with the three of us and Sarah’s parents Harold and Kay who crewed me and watched Oliver while she paced.  Wow one dream came true… one more to go!

Finishing with Oliver and the fam just like I imagined

I recovered from Western States surprisingly easily.  I decided not to do any significant running in the three weeks in between, and just focused on getting as much rest as I could with a 6 week old infant.  We instituted family bedtime at 9 p.m. which helped a lot.  I was feeling pretty good, and actually started contemplating having a shot at this thing.

We got a house for the week leading up to the race in Ouray.  Sarah and I have been thinking for a while about how Oliver would handle the altitude at 8 weeks.  We first flew into Salt Lake which is about 4500 ft.  Spent a few days there to get him acclimated (and introduce him to the family and all his cousins), and then drove to Ouray with Sarah’s parents, her sister Esther and her daughter Lena.  Ouray was the lowest point of Hardrock at 7800 ft.  We decided it was prudent to stay there rather than in Silverton at 9300 ft.    

I stared at this chart countless times leading up to the race, and the previous years too.

Oliver handled the altitude just fine.  He went up the Telluride gondola to 10500 ft with no issues.  I marveled at the beauty of the San Juan mountains.  They were vast, huge, breathtaking… and that was just a small taste.  No matter what happens during the race, I was just happy to be here.  We explored the course a bit, hiking up the famous Bear Creek trail, which I would only see at night during the race.  I was feeling pretty good, except for some lingering throat/nose congestion I picked up in Utah.  

Checking out Bear Creek trail in the light.  It was much less scary in the dark.

I went to the long trail briefing on Wednesday and the main thing I took away from it is that the descent down from Virginius is one of the places where I could die.  Duly noted. Oliver did some clutch sleeping. He slept through the night not one but two nights before Hardrock.

At the last minute I decided to start in different shoes. I hated the big awkward Olympuses during Western States. They got the job done, but just didn't feel right. I kept stepping on things funny, and my ankles weren't happy about it. Also they may have contributed to my feet hurting during the night. It felt risky, but I went with my gut and decided to start Hardrock in the Lone Peaks. I love those shoes.

Thursday came, and I checked into the race.  I had my picture taken with my number by Howie Stern no less.  Wow this is actually happening.  I’m in Hardrock.  

We are driving to Silverton at 4 a.m. on Friday, Oliver bundled up and peacefully sleeping in the car.  I went inside the gym to get my Spot tracker turned on, and then back out to spend the last few minutes with my family.  Then back out into the cold and off we go.

I started out towards the back of the pack, and spent some time with Jon Shark, a cool guy I met three weeks earlier at Western States finish.  He finished Hardrock for the first time last year with 15 minutes to spare.  We joked around that he would get more time to spare this year.  And hopefully so will I.

I was so happy to just start Hardrock and feeling healthy enough to have a chance of finishing after everything this season has brought.  I adopted the same mindset I did at Tahoe 200: I want to see as much of the course as I can, and if I finish, that would be awesome.  I set my goals as follows:

1. Make it to Kroger’s Canteen on top of Virginius Pass (mile 32) in daylight
2. Summit Handies Peak, the 14er (mile 65) the next day
3. Finish

With those goals in mind, I decided not to look at my watch and just run by feel and go with the flow.  I usually do better that way and enjoy myself.

In the meantime, Jon Shark and I went over the first, and the biggest river crossing, holding on to a cable.  Jon recounted how last year he lost his trekking poles there, when the river was much higher, just a few miles from the finish.  I was glad we didn’t have to do this in the dark.

The climb up Cataract ridge was relatively mellow and reminded me of Col Arp, the first pass of the Tor.  It was gradual and very green.  Wildflowers everywhere!  I let Jon pass me by and went at my own easy pace, talking to folks here and there and taking pictures.  

Luckily for me, this was the hottest year on record for Hardrock, which meant very little snow or mud on the course, and fewer and smaller stream crossings.  Hottest year for Hardrock meants temps in the low 80s.  Since I just did Western States and the requisite heat training and in general prefer heat to cold, this was fortunate for me.  

I hit Chapman Gulch (mile 11.5) feeling good.  Quick in and out and up to Grant Swamp Pass.  That was another thing that stuck out from the long trail briefing.  Because of the unusually dry conditions this year, the descent from the pass was particularly treacherous: “going down a concrete wall covered in marbles.”  Going up to the pass I was floored by the view of Island Lake and not thinking about what was on the other side.

Island Lake, right before Grant Swamp Pass

Then I was on top of the pass.  Where is the descent?  A few hikers hanging out at the top pointed to behind a rock outcropping.  I walk over there and the trail ends at a steep drop-off.  I look up at the hikers, and they point to the drop off.  That’s where I go.  

I love downhills, especially the technical ones.  But I have a fear of slippery slopes where the sliding is hard to stop.  If it’s slippery but zig-zaggy, that’s OK because there the switchbacks are natural braking points.  But if it’s slippery and straight down, I find that very scary.  And that’s what I was staring down at.

View from Grant Swamp Pass.  Oscar pass, coming up next, is straight ahead.

I took a deep breath, sat down on my butt, and gingerly made my way down the scariest top section and off to the left where there was some scree.  Scree I can do.  After a while of awkward slow progress, I gained some confidence, and stood up, and let myself slide down in a small river of rocks.  But then the river started going faster and faster, so I got scared and sat down again.  I really don’t want to slide uncontrollably!  Clearly my screeing skills need to improve.  I could have probably done better had I been feeling more confident.  But the sketchy top section took that away.

My arms and hands banged up from being used as brakes, my butt covered in dirt, and shaking from adrenaline I finally made it down to a place where I was not afraid of sliding down the mountain. WOW, THAT WAS INTENSE.  I AM PUMPED.  LET’S DO THIS!

Descent from Grant Swamp Pass. "Like going down a concrete wall covered in marbles."

My crew, Sarah, her parents, Esther, and Lena, were waiting for me at Chapman Gulch.  Sarah told me one of the runners we met earlier was hit hard by a rock in his ankle descending from the pass.  I guess it was good to be in the back of the pack for this section where there aren’t too many of us going down at once.  

Greeted by Sarah and Lena at Chapman Aid

I saw this runner later, his ankle was seriously swollen, but he still finished!  What a stud.  I think this kind of perseverance is the spirit of Hardrock.  The race is dedicated to the hard rock miners who pioneered this area in the late 19th - early 20th century.  They carved these trails and roads through the mountains and burrowed into the rock.  

Sarah and Oliver walked with me for a half mile along the crew access road, which was really nice.  Then I was on my own going up to Oscar pass.  Oscar pass is not nearly as intense as Grant Swamp.  An old mining road zigzags all the way up to the pass at 13000 ft.  The mountain side here was red and orange, probably from all the trace iron.  I made a good time up, and chatted with some nice folks, feeling great.  Pass number three of Hardrock!  I’m actually doing this!  Things looked promising for goal number one, getting over Virginius in daylight.

The descent into Telluride was fun.  I picked up an impromptu pacer - an ultrarunner from Georgia who was traveling around the area, and decided to check out the course.  We hiked/ran together to the aid station.  Hey, I’m actually running!  That’s the first sustained running I did so far and it felt good.  Sometimes it just takes 25 miles to warm up.

Telluride, mile 28, had a ton of food.  I had a breakfast burrito, and Sarah convinced me to eat part of giant donut.  The donut wasn’t very good.  Sarah walked with me through Telluride to see me off on the climb up to Virginius.  

I pressed on in a steady hike.  I was excited to get up to Kroger’s Canteen.  After watching the video so many times leading up to the race, I am actually going to get up there!  This aid station is perched on top of Virginius pass at 13000 ft.  All the volunteers are Hardrockers, and there is a waiting list to volunteer.  They backpack in all the food and provisions, some years through a lot of snow.

I caught up with Jon Shark again, and chatted with him for a bit.  I was still moving well, but starting to get tired.  Finally catching sight of the pass, I am elated that I’m almost there.  Then another runner tells me it’s about a mile from the top.

What??  A whole other mile??

Of course he is right.  Once we crest the fake pass, there is a lot of traversing and a little grunt of a climb at the end.  I succeeded at not looking at my watch for the whole day, and in that spirit just accept reality and keep moving.

Finally I hear the cheers of the volunteers and I am in Kroger’s Canteen!  I happily tell everyone how getting here in daylight was my #1 goal for the race.  A friendly volunteer points me to a rock to sit on, hands me some soup, pats me on the back and tells me “You’re safe.”

I feel anything but safe.  For whatever reason I feel uneasy hanging out up there.  Maybe it’s the exposure - the aid station is literally a small tarp stretched over some rocks -  maybe the altitude, or maybe the anticipation of the descent where I could die according to the trail briefing.  I do not linger.

In the Kroger Canteen video, the frontrunners make the descent look easy - just run down some snow - WEEEEEE!  Staring at it from the top looks terrifying.  Luckily, there is a fixed rope for the first pitch.  I cling to the rope for my dear life and make my way down in fits and starts.  Then there is some steep snow, but I can see grooves where people slid down it.  It’s pretty slippery, and I’m told gets icy after dark.  Good thing I got there in daylight.  I can barely brake enough with my elbows, can’t imagine going down in the dark and ice.  My hands, arms, and butt are freezing from the snow.  Oh yeah, here is the 3rd pitch they were referring to in the trail briefing.  Looks like some rocks covered in snow with water running down somewhere underneath.  There are some grooves where people have gone down, so I started on one of the grooves.  Steve Ansell, a runner I met earlier, tells me to go further left.  The danger is falling into the water and rocks through the snow.  So it’s good to go around where the water flows.  

I’m glad to have people like Steve around.  And I am glad that three quarters of the Hardrock field are veterans.  Steve has been talking the whole day about how the weather is too hot.  In the evening once it started getting dark, and I’m starting to get cold, I grinned and asked him if it’s still too hot now.  He said yes, in fact it is.  He tells me he does Alaska stuff with Beat (i.e. Iditarod) and likes it cold.  Ah OK, that makes sense.  I’m definitely in good company.

Third pitch over, we’re now on a steeply descending dirt road making our way down to Governor’s basin aid.  We’ll be on this road for around 11 miles, all the way to Ouray, the lowest point of the course at 7800 ft.  I enter the aid station full of adrenaline and yell in exhilaration: “I made it down Virginius!!!”  The volunteers chuckle and help me get on my way.  

It’s getting dark and I get into a good running groove with Andy Barney.  He’s a three time Hardrock finisher, and has done many other races I’ve been in, like Wasatch, Bear, and Bighorn.  He thinks we’re on 42-hour pace.  That’s encouraging to hear, but I know better.  The shoes haven’t began dropping yet.

The descent into Ouray (mile 45) is a long, gradual, smooth dirt road.  I ran all of it and felt good.  Little did I know that was pretty much the last running I would do for the rest of the race.  I took a wrong turn around Box Canyon, but used my phone with preloaded course route to quickly get back on track.  I got into town around 1 hour ahead of the 48 hour pace, at 10 something.  (I still don’t look at my watch, but ask Sarah what time it is!).  

I am greeted by Sarah and Kay.  I change my socks again, get some food in me, put on some layers and head back out with Sarah.  Yay, I get to spend the night with Sarah with just the two of us!  WIth Oliver’s arrival, we had spent very little time with just the two of us.  I think our first “date” was when Sarah paced me for the final 6 miles of Western States three weeks earlier.  So getting to spend this night with her was special.  

Pretty soon after heading out the excitement of being with Sarah wears off and I start feeling really tired.  Not in a pain cave or a bad head space like often happens during nights, but just really tired.  Like I should be somewhere taking a nap.

The Bear Creek Trail is not nearly as scary during the night.  Just point my headlamp tunnel vision straight ahead and pretend the steep drop offs are not there.  We walked at a steady pace and were alone for most of the night.  There was something enchanting about walking with Sarah in the middle of these mountains under the stars.  Though at the time I mostly just felt tired.  

The long walk up Engineer pass ends with a grunt of a climb off trail.  I was told that in normal years that section is also rather muddy.  Hard to imagine how much more difficult that would be!  We crested the top as it was starting to get light.  Now it’s around 6 miles smooth sailing descent on a dirt road to Grouse Gulch.  I started running… and my body did not want to run.  It said “Nope, no running.”  To Sarah’s chagrin, I did not take advantage of the nice runnable downhill, so we walked it into Grouse Gulch (mile 58) a little bit after sunrise.  Dale, who was to pace me for Day 2, and Harold were waiting for us.  

Handies peak, the 14er is coming up next.  Am I up for it?  I just felt really tired, and wanted to take a nap.  Also, after doing some business on the trail, I had to clean up and change.  This was going to be a long aid station.  Right as I was about to go down for my nap in Dale’s car, I decided that I wanted to continue.  It’s a new day!  (This was still my longest aid station, 28 minutes)

Dale and I set off for Handies Peak - Goal #2 of the race.  Dale brought a new energy, and we had good conversation for a bit.  But pretty quickly the lift from seeing Dale and the new day wore off, my replies became monosyllabic and the walk up Handies became a death march.  I had very little power going uphill.  That congestion I picked up last weekend in Utah has now taken over my lungs and airways.  All the dust and ascending to 14000 feet were not helping.  On top of it, my left hip/glute area was getting ominously sore.  I’ve never had pain there before.  I’m guessing it gave out because of the undertraining.  This caused me some anxiety as I still had nearly a day to go.  A whole day!  I popped an Aleve preventively.  I’m very frugal in my Aleve usage due to potential strain on the kidneys, saving it only for structural issues… and now was the right time.

Dale did an awesome job prodding me to keep moving with just the right combination of encouragement and tough love.  Who knows, he was probably prodding me with his trekking pole too, I wouldn’t remember.  I often had to stop and pant to regain my breath.  When we crested the Great American Pass at 13000 feet, I thought we were almost there.  Instead we had to descend way down… and climb the big dark mountain way off in the distance.  Am I going up Mordor?  

Going up Handies Peak.  Am I in Mordor?

Oh but the view from the top was breathtaking!!! Jagged ridges covered with a patchwork of snow stretching to the horizon.  Wow!  I climbed Handies!

Dale and I on top of Handies.  I was floored by the view.

Goal #2 accomplished!  Now Goal #3, I have to finish this thing.  Descent down to Burrows Park (mile 68) went pretty quick, and I was greeted by AWESOME volunteers.  This little aid station turned out to be my favorite of the race.  We chatted (or mostly Dale was being nice and friendly while I gulped down food), spun hula hoops (mine maybe went ¾ of a turn), and they had these most amazing homemade potstickers!  As soon as I saw them, I realized this was exactly what I needed.  I was so happy.  I scarfed down a few, took a few to go, and was stuffing my face with them, as we walked to Sherman (mile 72).  

Harold and Kay were actually waiting for us at Sherman!!!  They drove 3.5 hours from Ouray to be there.  I was so grateful.  The main thing that I remember from Sherman is the bathroom.  They decked out a pit toilet into a spa-like bathroom complete with candles and motivational running posters.  Dale convinced me to lighten my pack a bit.  I came into the race with a lot of respect for the mountains and was prepared for the worst.  I carried an emergency blanket, and lots of extra layers.  Given that the previous night was pretty warm, I decided it was OK to drop a layer or two.  

Only 28 miles and 3 aid stations to go, and 16 hours to do it (yes, I was watching the clock now).  I could move at less than 2 miles an hour and still finish.  Sounds easy, right?  Well, it’s Hardrock… nothing here is easy.

The 8 miles going to Pole Creek felt very long.  After a relatively easy 2500 foot climb in the heat, that still took a good part of 2 hours, the trail stretched forever along a beautiful flowery valley.  The flowers were out of control.  But all I could think of was keeping a good pace on this “easy” section.  Dale said I had to make 3 miles an hour here to be on pace, so all I could do was focus on keeping up the pace. I summoned my Tahoe 200 powers to the rescue.  In Tahoe 200 I couldn’t run for pretty much the entire race, but I still managed to keep a good pace walking over 4 days, and made it before the time limit.  So this is what I had to do here as running was out of the question.  Dale pushed me by telling me to reel in the runners in front of me.  I could keep up with them fairly well, and even gain a little bit on the flat sections, but at the slightest uphill I fell behind.  Dale was consistently on my case about moving.  So after a sadistic little climb to the aid station, I looked at my watch and was thrilled that we made it before 6!

Wild flowers are out of control.  But I was very focused on making 3 miles per hour.  

Took a quick break in this stream.  It felt good to chill the feet.

I had 20 miles left to go and 12 hours to do it.  The 48 hour pace times in the Hardrock manual suggest I need to get to Cunningham, the last aid station, by 1:50 a.m., leaving me 4 hours 10 minutes for the final climb and descent.  We wanted to try and gain as much buffer on this as possible.  

We crested another little pass at 12500 feet on our way to Maggie Gulch aid.  Sun started to go down and the wind picked up.  I put on my jacket and we descended down to the aid station.  

At the aid station I had to escape the smoke from the fire!  No matter where I sat, the smoke followed me.  One sweet volunteer kept moving the fire around, but no matter where he moved it, and where I moved, the smoke found its way back to my nose.  We all had a good laugh about it.  

The penultimate section is undervalued.  It seems easy by the numbers - 1700 ft of ascent and 3160 ft of descent over 6 miles.  But the 1700 ft was almost entirely straight up.  We left the aid station and started walking straight up the mountain.  No switchbacks, and I’m pretty sure no real trail either.  In my exhausted wheezy state, this was torturous.  I had to stop and pant increasingly more often despite Dale’s urgings to keep going.  

We finally topped out at the pass!  It was windy, but the night was clear.  I was so happy.  We looked around and way off in the distance saw a string of lights going up a huge black mass.  We decided this must be the climb out of Cunningham, the final aid station.  Getting close!  

Then it was time to descend.  The descent was also partially off trail, following sparsely placed flags.  Wow, I cannot imagine doing this in the fog or rain.  You’d definitely not be able to see the next flag with low visibility.  And without a clear trail to follow, I can see how folks get lost.

Even with my bright headlamp, I had a hard time seeing my footing.  Then I remembered that I still had my 600 lumen UltraAspire waist lamp!  I paused and turned it on… and everything around me illuminated!  This made me very happy.  The other awesome thing about a waist lamp is that it’s not at eye level, and therefore produces shadows.  Seeing clearly gave me confidence to descend quickly.  

After descending for a while, Dale told me that we’re going to cross that road and go back up.  What road??  All I see is a snow field somewhere off in the distance.  I argued with Dale for a while that it was a snow field, not a road.  Of course Dale was right, but I saw a snowfield all the way until I was standing right in front of the road.  Wait, did you say go back UP?  What do you mean?!  Turned out that big black mass with a string of lights going up it was just our next little climb up Green Mountain.

After another long crawl, we made it to the top of Green Mountain, and started the off trail descent straight down the mountain.  Luckily I had my downhill legs, and was making a good pace.  Eventually we got on a steep technical trail.  I stopped dead in my tracks as I saw something that looked like a cackling looney donkey.  Eventually I figured out it was a cairn.  But something was wrong with it.  “Dale, is that a piece of wood in this cairn?”  “Yes,” came the reply.  “Ah, OK.”  And we descended down to 10,000 feet to Cunningham aid station.

We made it to Cunningham by 12:15, gaining about 1.5 hours on the 48 hour pace!  And Sarah greeted me at the aid station!  It was now her turn again, and night number two for her.  Did I mention she was 2 months postpartum?  With over 5.5 hours to go 9 mostly downhill miles, I got comfortable and let myself relax.  Until a kind stern authoritative volunteer (aid station captain?) who was a Hardrock veteran grilled me over my equipment and told me to get out of here.

I can see why I should not have felt comfortable.  As soon as we got on the uphill, I quickly slowed down to a crawl.  Sarah made me eat a couple of caffeinated Gus… and they were not helping.  With all the congestion, dust, high altitude, and almost two days, 90 miles, and 30000 feet of climbing I had nothing left.  I trudged along, trying to focus on my walk, and take one breath for every step uphill, a rhythm that seemed to work on the previous climb.  But I just could not keep my focus.  I felt miserable and I was thinking about how miserable I felt, and stopped to wheeze and pant.  

We looked at my altimeter, and it was not looking good.  At this pace it would take something like 4 hours to do the 2500 feet, ~2 mile climb, leaving me less than 2 hours for the 7 mile downhill to Silverton.  Not the odds I wanted to play.  And that’s assuming I make it over the pass in the first place.  I was feeling worse and worse, and was stopping more and more often.  Sarah did an amazing job of cajoling, encouraging, and tough-loving me to move forward, and not letting me stand around and pant for too long and pushing caffeine on me, but all I could think about was “Is this how it’s going to end?  To come such a long way, overcome so many obstacles just to get here, and it will end right here on this pass.”  

I’ve had lows in other races, and plenty of negative spirals, but I was able to keep moving forward no matter what the voice inside of me said.  Now, I was so taxed and on the brink, that unless every ounce of my body was focused on moving one foot ahead of the other, I could not move forward.  Sarah was reading out the altimeter readings every 5 minutes to try and motivate me.  But as soon as the self-pitying negativity came up, I halted, leaned down on my poles and panted.  

If I let despair sip in, I would not make it.  I focused on instilling a sense of calm, and kept repeating “A sense of calm” as a mantra in my head, while I put one foot ahead of the other.  Eventually the steep switchbacking trail turned straight up the mountain, and the dark outlines of the pass became visible.  The straight up trail was particularly difficult because I really had to engage my calves which took a lot of energy and oxygen, making me break to breathe.  But thanks to being calm, I had an idea that I could side step on the steepest sections, like going up a snow slope, so I wouldn’t have to engage the calves.  That helped a bit.  And the little victory of solving a problem made me feel better.

Finally the relentless grade eased up a bit, and the outlines of the pass became clear.  We made it to the top just after 3 a.m., leaving almost 3 hours for the 7 mile descent.  This seems totally doable!!!

The trail on the other side of the pass was technical and eroded.  But I’m very motivated by technical downhills!  I picked up the pace and bounced down over the rocks.  At least that’s how it felt.  Then there was a very steep slippery section.  Did I mention those scare me?  I slowed down to a crawl and wound up falling on my butt.  Sarah got down quickly on her butt and was imploring me to do the same.  But I had this thought that if I slide down on my butt, I wouldn’t be able to stop sliding and slide right off the mountain.  So instead I pulled myself up, which was a challenge in itself, and slowly picked my way down with poles.

I got into a good groove once the grade eased up… and stepped too close to the edge of a narrow eroded exposed section of trail and fell.  I had the instinct to fall upslope, so I found myself laying down on the trail, listening to rocks I set in motion bouncing for a long time below me.  And every time I moved, I sent more rocks bouncing down.  I figured that the ground on which plants grew was more stable, so I eased myself towards plants, and used that soil for support to get back on my feet.  Did I just almost die?  I felt disassociated from myself, like my body was just a vessel, and the thought felt remote.  All I could think about was moving forward to the finish, though logically I knew this was a very dangerous thing that happened and I need to be more careful.  

Sarah later told me that it wasn’t quite that steep, and there was a snow bank not far below, but at the time I thought I almost died.  In my 6 years of trail running I’ve never eaten it like this.  But It was mile 94 of Hardrock and two days of no sleep and I got sloppy.

Finally we got on the jeep road.  It was 3:39 a.m., and I just had 6 downhill miles on the road to cruise to the finish.  I started jogging and realized I was only going slightly faster than walking.  So I picked it up, but quickly ran out of air.  The body really did not want to run.  So I settled into what felt like a fast downhill stride.  Now that I was a little more relaxed, it occurred to me that the air passageways in my nose were clogged down to a small fraction of their normal size.  The mucous mixed with dust created a cement like mixture.

Sarah implored me to run.  But I decided that 2 hours 20 minutes was plenty of time to walk down 6 miles of road.  Sarah reasoned logically that we did not know that it was definitely 6 miles, the segments lengths are not always accurate, and we did not know for sure how much distance we’ve already covered.  More importantly, Sarah argued, we did not know if what looked like a steady downhill on the elevation chart actually had some steep surprise climbs that could slow me down a lot.  But I dug in my heels and walked.  I was done.  

Eventually the lights of Silverton appeared, but we seemed to be moving in a circle around the town and not getting any closer.  I started getting anxious and kept asking Sarah to estimate how much distance we had left by looking at the route in her phone’s GPS.  She was using her thumb to try and gauge the distance and I was worried. And there were some little hills that slowed me down.  I started panicking and even ran for a bit.  And finally we entered the town with plenty of time on the clock.

I relaxed.  This is actually happening!  I could not believe it.  After nearly two days out in the mountains, I’m finishing Hardrock.

FINISHING.  HARDROCK.

I tried to let that sink in but it felt surreal.  Sarah and I held hands as we neared the finish.  Then I saw a stroller.  Oliver!!!  Sarah’s parents, her brother and Dale were also waiting for us.  It was nearly 6 a.m. and my little boy was peacefully bundled up asleep.  I stared at him and considered taking him out and kissing the rock with him, like I imagined I would do, but he looked so peaceful, and it just didn’t feel right.  Finally I was overcome with emotion, turned towards the rock, spread my arms wide, ran towards it, and kissed it.  It was 5:44, so I made it in 47 hours 44 minutes, with 16 minutes to spare.

I hugged Dale Garland, the race director, and Blake Wood, who just finished his 20th Hardrock came over and hugged me.  

I finished!  I am now a Hardrocker.

We're back in Silverton!

Dale and Sarah, my awesome pacers.  Can't believe this happened.  

Picture taken by Daniel Petty for the Denver Post.  My look says it all.  

I couldn’t have done this without the support of many people.  I could not have even gotten to the start line without the love and encouragement from Sarah.  She told me to keep going and to keep training even when things looked grim, and even supported me going out on long runs in the first weeks after Oliver was born.  And she paced me for not one but two nights while taking care of Oliver during the day.  What an incredible woman.  I am also so grateful to Sarah’s parents who came out to support me and watch Oliver for both races.  We would not be able to do this without them.  And I’m so thankful to Dale for taking me through that second day and pushing me to gain precious time which turned out to be critical.  Thank you to Dale G. for flawlessly organizing this race, and to all the volunteers who fed me, encouraged me, moved the fire around for me, spun hula hoops, kicked me out of aid stations and gave me potstickers.  You all are so awesome.  

My 4 days at Tor Des Geants 2014

Sarah and I wanted a last big challenge to do together before she's out of 100 milers for a couple of years as we start a family.  Of course a natural place to look would be Hardrock qualifying races!

Tor des Geants caught our intention because it looked insane.  200+ miles, and 24000 METERS of climbing with a 150 hour time limit.  Nearly 80,000 feet!  And all of that in beautiful scenery of the alps going through ancient European towns and farms.  To put it in terms we can relate to... it's twice the length of Wasatch and 50% steeper.  We were also attracted to the self-optimization concept - there are no fixed stages at the Tor.  Just places one can stop and sleep, if desired.  So it's up to us to decide how far to go on any given day, where to stop, and for how long.  It is very different from anything we have ever done, and that appealed to us.

So we went online and read all the race reports about the Tor we could get our hands on.  And that got us more and more excited.  Prosciutto and wine at the aid stations.  Endless number of ever steeper Cols.  Ropes and ladders.  Cups of coffee materializing out of nowhere in the forest.  Aid stations that are helicoptered in.  What all the reports agreed to was how beautiful the Tor was and how relentless its ascents and descents.  Nothing is free at the Tor.  Training is going to have to be serious.  

But life got in the way.  With Sarah's thesis defense on August 8, one month pre-Tor, we did not get nearly as many long runs and double days with lots of vertical as we would have liked.  Also, Sarah got a minor lower leg injury 4-5 weeks pre-Tor, so we decided to take it easy and focus on getting to the start line healthy.  We thought that the endurance and experience we've built up over 4 seasons of running mountain 100s combined with Tor's generous time limit of 150 hours should enable us to gut it out even without enough specific training.  That was wrong.

We arrived at Courmayeur almost a week pre-race and promptly took the cable car up to Rifugio Torino at 11000 ft.  Here we spent the next 4 days acclimating to the altitude.  This proved to be a good move as neither of us had altitude problems during the Tor.  It is normally an acute issue for Sarah.  

At the Rifugio, we marveled at the views of Mont Blanc and surrounding glaciers and jealously watched climbers depart or return from their expeditions.  Surrounded by glaciers, the hut didn't leave much to do for two trail runners without mountaineering experience or equipment.  In fact, they only served breakfast at 2, 4, and 6... AM.

We met some TDG runners up there, including Oleksandr Olivson from Ukraine, and Peter Larsson of Sweden.  Also the Chinese Technica team.  

Being up there gave us a taste of what is to come, as we watched a trail zig-zag its way up a particularly steep slope of the mountain from the comfort of the cable car. Seeing lightning in the distance, we thought “We're going to have to go through that... SHIT."

Courmayeur where the Tor begins.  Mont Blanc is hidden in the upper left corner.

The race check-in procedure exposed some funny differences in culture between European and American ultras.  First, there was the equipment check.  US races, despite all the litigious culture in the US, largely leave it up to the runners to figure out how to take care of themselves.  Here, there was a detailed gear list enumerating things like waterproof gloves, 2 headlamps, and elastic bandage.  

We cobbled up all the gear that we thought would satisfy the requirements and headed in for check-in.  The line to check in took about 3 hours because there was only a few people performing gear checks.  But we got to chat with a Belgian runner Pieter Schaaps and other runners.  The first hiccup was lighting.  We brought a headlamp and flashlight each, thinking this should be enough to satisfy their requirement of 2 headlamps.  But the checkers could not comprehend that a flashlight is an acceptable lighting implement for running.

"But how will you use your sticks with a flashlight?"

Luckily we didn't have to leave to find more headlamps as a friendly local we made friends with in line lent us his headlamps for check-in.  

Same friendly runner also stood up for me when my Altra Lone Peaks were deemed as too minimalist.  These are shoes explicitly designed for the Wasatch 100!!!  Luckily our Italian friend was able to convince the officials that my shoes are fine.

Gear list aside, one difference I really appreciated is the 10 a.m. race start!  For the first time EVER I was able to get a full night's sleep before a big race.  This made me very happy.

The race start was a big party complete with trance music (I love Europe!), parade and a marching band.  We oozed our way into the runner section and positioned ourselves somewhere towards the back of the pack.  And met Jill, Beat, and Dima there!  We've read Jill and Dima's blogs about the race, and Dima has been giving us lots of advice.  The remaining 20 minutes or so went by quickly in adrenaline and excitement and off we went, to the ring of a thousand cowbells.  

 

Pump up trance at the 10 am race start - I love Europe!

I loved the enthusiasm and support for the race from the Aosta community.  On our way out of town and on the trail, people were camped out ringing cowbells, banging pots and pans or screaming "Bravissimo!"  It made the race special like no other.  

The hike up to Col Arp went up fast as we chatted with Dima, Beat, and other runners.  Up on the other side, we couldn't help but bomb the soft downhill, screaming wildly with the exhilaration of being there, and finally having space to run.  

 

Looking back from Col Arp

Top of Col Arp

We ran past Dima who yelled "I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation." 

"Ignorance is bliss!" I responded as we continued to gallop down the hill.  

Folly folly folly.

We made good time to Thuile, got our first taste of the delicious aid station fare (I stuffed my pockets with chocolate and salami), and continued on to Col Passo Alto.  I hoped my stomach would be OK on this food, as it was delicious, but not something I'm used to eating during races.  Normally I fuel almost entirely by Hammer Gel and Perpetuem. 

Getting up Col Passo Alto was a long hiking slog uphill, on a relatively OK grade.   The views were incredible.  We saw people from the MUST (MRI study we signed up for and did our first observation with a few days ago).  The descent was hopping down boulders.  That was just fine on fresh legs.  We were feeling good and jogged down the remaining downhill, passing a bunch of runners.

"Why aren't they running the gentle downhill?" we wondered.  "Is it because they know what's coming?"

We passed an aid station that was a cute hotel/farmhouse, with a horse hanging out there.  It tried to nozzle Sarah.

 

If you meet a friendly horse, will you communicate by morse?

Next up was Col Crosatte.  This monster of a climb was relatively short - only 800m or 2600 ft... but over 2.6km, or 1.6miles.   That's over 1600ft/mile!  And this was one of the rare cols where we could see from the bottom all the way to the top.  The mountain side was teeming with people - runners - smaller and smaller until they looked like ants crawling over an ant hill.  The line of runners snaked for a very long time.  This 1.6mile stroll took 1.5 hours.  The final section involved going up an even steeper path through the rocks in twilight.

 

Col #3: Col Crossate

Luckily the other side was not nearly as steep.  We made good time descending.  On the way down, we briefly paused by a monument to a Chinese runner who fell and died there last year.  It sounded like a freak accident as that section was not too steep or rocky.  But he landed on his head.  It was a stark reminder that anything can happen and we need to pay close attention even on seemingly easy sections.

I ran out of water during the descent, but was able to refill from a stream.  Eventually we made it to Valgrisenche, the first life base, close to midnight, 5 hours before cut-off.  We ate some pasta and decided to put some sleep in the bank.  I was feeling pretty good.  My right knee was feeling a little tweaky earlier in the day but seems to have gotten better.  My right shin was a bit sore too, but I figured it would work itself out.  

Reading the race reports, I thought sleeping at the life bases would be hard with constant noise of runners coming and going, alarms going off.  But it was just fine.  I woke up to my alarm, having slept for 1.5 hours or so.  I was worried about blisters, so I changed socks.  

We left the aid station a little after 3.  Sarah didn't get as good sleep as me, and was more eager to leave. We made good pace up the gentle climb to Rifugio Chalet.  Sarah took a quick power nap there while I filled up on tea with sugar and lemon and went to the bathroom.  It started to get light on our way up to Col Frenetre.  

It was nice breaking up the night like that into two sections.  One of the hardest things about doing 100s is the long endless slog through the night.  But with a couple of hours of sleep in the middle it was much more manageable.  

The trail back down from the Col was not technical but ridiculously steep.  It somehow switch-backed its way down what looked like a sheer drop.  Energized by a new day, I proclaimed that this was the best way to descend - soft moist trail that's not slippery or technical and very steep.

 

Beginning of the end for Sarah's feet

Sarah did not share my excitement it turned out.  A short way down the Col, she felt blisters forming.  We stopped as she put some vaseline on her feet.  Another runner passing by asked if we had "Vaselina" with pleasant surprise.  We handed it to him and he put some gratefully down his crotch.

The universe provides!

We continued to descend.  And Sarah's blisters got worse.  The steep descent was making her feet move around too much in her shoes, which turned out to be a tad too big.  She bought a different model of Hoka, but had not had a chance to try it on a long run pre-Tor.  This proved a fatal mistake.

We stopped again and Sarah put mittens on her feet, desperate to keep them from moving around.  This stopped the hot spots on the bottom of her feet from growing, but increased the pressure on her pinkies, which were turning into a big blister.

We slowed down a lot, and eventually made it down to Rhemes Notre Dame where we met up with Sarah's parents.  Sarah was in a lot of pain.  We asked for a medic and luckily there was someone there. He took one look at Sarah's feet and told her to come with him.  She was gone for a while.  I used the time to fill up on food and water.  

Rhemes Notre Dame

Sarah came back teary-eyed.  She looked like she was in a lot of pain.  She told how one large medic held her leg down while the other lanced, excised and bandaged her blisters.  The ones on the pinkies were in particularly bad shape.  We sat there for a bit, and eventually decided to move on.  The blisters should get better, we reasoned, after getting fixed up.

Next up was Col Entrelor.  A climb of about 4000 ft over 3.5 miles.  Not too bad compared to some of the other ones.  Soon enough Sarah picked up the pace, and we were back in business!  The walk up was long but manageable.  We maintained a good pace and even passed some runners around us, while still taking an occasional break.  Near the top of the Col we were rewarded with a rope and some metal steps built into a nearly vertical rock.  Once on top, I saw that the way down didn't look too steep.  I sighed with relief thinking of Sarah's feet.

 

Steps leading up to Col Entrelor

Col Entrelor with emergency aid station that was helicoptered in

Winded but happy to make Col #5

We felt good on the relatively gentle downhill through some gorgeous alpine meadows, around a tapestry of shimmering glacial lakes.   One lady set up a tea stand at her beautiful farmhouse.  She and her two sons were passing out tea to runners.  We felt grateful at how the people who live in these mountains supported us in this crazy endeavor.

 

Coming down from Col Entrelor

Warm welcome at friendly farmhouse

Thank you!  The folks at Aosta were awesome!

The nice downhill lasted just a tad too long, so by the time we got to Eaux Rousses, Sarah’s feet were in pain again.  She took off her shoes to relieve the pressure.  This aid station was long and unproductive, as we were considering taking a nap (decided not to).  Next up was Col Losson, the highest point of the course at 11,000 ft, and a 5500 ft climb over 6 miles.  Not too bad of a grade all considering, but longer than the other cols. 

“We just have to do one more Timp today, that’s all,” we mock-comforted ourselves referring to the iconic hike in Provo, Utah to the top of Mt. Timpanogos.

After we left the aid station 30+ minutes later, we realized we forgot to refill water.  As I said, that aid station was unproductive.  And we were low.  I reasoned that it wasn’t that hot, and there is got to be water somewhere in the mountains – the Alps are wet mountains! – so we pressed on.  But the low water reserve was making me stressed out and soured my mood.

After what felt like forever walking up a wide gentle trail through the forest, we came up to the next plateau/moraine.  And there was a house with a gurgling water fountain!  We gladly refilled with cold mountain water.  My spirits were lifted as we moved on.

The universe provides!

This walk took forever.  With the average climb of almost 1000ft/mile, I expected more of a grade, but the trail lazily meandered its way upward at what felt like a practically flat grade.  And as much as I peered into the distance trying to see the Col, I couldn’t see where we cross the ridge. 

The ascent that took forever - partly up to Col Losson

The way down from Col Losson

Sarah’s feet were hurting a lot at this point – “stabbing pain with every step” – so the going was slow and we took breaks to relieve the pressure.  I wish I felt more empathetic for Sarah at this point, but instead I just felt frustrated at how long it was taking.  Both because of our speed and because the trail just wouldn’t go up! 

I even wound up reprimanding another runner who was cutting the long meandering switchbacks by scrambling up completely off trail.  Apparently taking shortcuts is part of the running culture here, and there are many shortcuts to the main marked trail everywhere.  But going completely off trail in a national park while cutting the course was too much for my American wilderness sensibilities.  And it was a vent for my frustration. 

At the time of this writing, I found that the race Ethics page does state:

“Stick to the paths marked, without taking shortcuts, in order to prevent soil erosion,”

So I don’t feel too bad about speaking up.  This does not seem to be enforced though.

But back to the climb.  I swear it was more than 6 miles, given how long it took to get up there on a gentle grade.  It felt like the most gentle climb of the whole Tor… until we got close to the top.

Then the trail finally turned straight up, as we struggled to lift ourselves over crumbling piles of rock and dirt.  The mountain here was not very solid, which added to the difficulty of the ascent. 

The top of the Col was… cold.  By the time I put my poles away for the descent and snapped a picture or two, I was freezing.  Luckily the descent was somewhat runnable, so we got down from there quickly.

The next stretch we met up with Gianluca, an Italian runner we met at our hotel who had the Tor logo shaved onto his head.  He talked how it was his dream to carry his little girl through the finish line of the Tor.  He was awesome.  We chatted with him about NBA basketball while running down to Rifugio Sella in beautiful colors of dusk, our path lit by the full moon.

Sarah and Gianluca running in the dusk

The “trail” down from the Rifugio was the most horrible I have experienced to date.  It was a steep descent down a river gully.  What made it bad were smooth, flat and layered rock formations randomly jutting out at a 45 degree angle to the trail.  It felt like going down some ancient marble ruins, which have shifted to weird angles after millennia of being there.  At some points we were going down rock chutes.  And if it was hard for me, it was torture for Sarah’s feet. 

This section we were particularly frustrated and exasperated.  “How is this even a trail?” we kept asking aloud.  Apparently this sort of thing is common on the East Coast, Dima told us, but to us, spoiled by posh Bay Area trails, it was quite a shock. 

We kept telling ourselves that they will be able to fix up Sarah’s feet at the Cogne life base.  We read one story of a guy’s feet getting fixed up who sounded to be in way worse shape than Sarah.  And she would change to Altras with a wide toe box, which should be easier on her than the Hokas. 

We got to Cogne about 11 pm.

Sarah has not had blisters this bad since our first Wasatch 100, three seasons ago, so we were not prepared to tackle them.  The medics were not either and there was not a podiatrist around who specializes in this sort of thing.  We decided to get some sleep and see what happens.  In the morning, her blisters were not any better.  In addition to the bulging pinkies, there were large ominous blisters under the calluses on the balls of her feet.  It was painful to even sit.

We talked about it for a while, and Sarah decided not to continue.  We thought she would rest up and join me during the later days so we can do more of the course together.  This is the first time we entered a race to run together where we decided to separate.  I left Cogne at 5 a.m., 1 hour before cut off.  I needed to build the buffer back up, so I took off at a brisk walk.

This section was relatively gentle – one long ascent to Col Frenetre #2, and then a long, 8000 ft descent to Donnas over 30km.  I enjoyed the morning walk.  It felt brisk, misty, and fresh.  The grade was gentle, and there were almost no one else around (since I left so close to cut-off).  I felt like I was just out for a stroll through alpine meadows, taking pictures and enjoying myself.

Just out for a stroll in the mountains

Being a good tourist

I made the Rifugio in a good time.  It was fairly empty and spacious.  This was a nice change from the previous rifugios packed and hectic with runners.  Gianluca was here too.  I had a big breakfast of pasta, soup, bread, and meat, and moved on to the Col.  This was an easy Col.  Soon I was on the other side, running down to Chardonney through bucolic scenes and to the sound of cowbells on actual cows.  Sarah and her parents were to meet me there.

View from the Col

On the way to Chardonney

I was operating on my mantra “Don’t throw away a giveaway.”  This means to always run downhills and flats, especially gentle, non-technical ones.  It has worked for me during 100 mile races.  And there are so few “giveaways” at the Tor, that I felt I had to take advantage of this one.  My knee was feeling a little tweaky here, but I chucked it off to just being stiff in the morning and figured it would right itself out.

A twinge of sharp pain.

And I was stopped dead in my tracks.  Shit.

I’m going to have to slow down on this gentle downhill after all.  Only day 3 – it’s too early in the game for this.  I popped an Aleve, took out my poles and started trying to support myself on the downhill.  I’ve never had to use poles on the downhill before – I’m normally a strong, confident downhill runner – so the going was slow and awkward.  At times I would try to run, try different strides, but the knee was not having any of it. 

I still made it down to Chardonney before Sarah thought I would.  I took a long break there, got some food in me and iced the knee. 

Walking out of Chardonney, some car pulled over next to me, and Sarah jumped out of it.  Hello! 

She hobbled along with me for a bit through the town – the extra rest was good for her feet, but she was not recovered.  It was good to see her.

On the way to Donnas

Did I say nothing is free at the Tor?  What looked like a mostly gentle descent to Donnas turned into a succession of stairs up and down through little farmhouses and towns.  I had lots of energy, so the uphills were no problem, but the downhills turned into problem-solving sessions.

My knee was hurting in a new way that it has not hurt before.  It was on the inward side of the knee.  The pain seemed to be close to the surface as opposed to the patella.  It only hurt during eccentric motions (i.e. when lowering myself from a step).  There was a subtle, dull ache when going up big steps, but that didn’t seem to be a problem.  Judging by the pain, its location, and the fact that Aleve didn’t do anything for it, I thought it was a small supporting muscle in the knee that was in bad shape.  Now I think it was something with the MCL.  Staring at the knee diagrams, MCL seems to be exactly in the spot where I felt pain.

Eventually I figured out a way to go downhills relatively quickly while favoring my left knee and using poles to slow myself down.  It felt very unnatural to slow down with poles on the downhill.  But it seemed to work.  It was a more awkward on downhill steps as I had to lower myself down with poles on each step.  It felt very inefficient as I was expending lots of extra energy on the counter motions, but I felt very energetic, and got pretty fast at it so it was OK.

I heard thunderclaps overhead, and put on my rain jacket.  A downpour soon followed, but it was warm, so not a big deal.  I kept leapfrogging with a Japanese runner named Miki Hashimoto.  She made it to Km 200 of last year’s Tor and was determined to finish this time.  We encouraged each other.

I entered Donnas in good spirits, despite slipping and falling on my ass a few times in pouring rain.  Then there was the walk through the entire city of Donnas that just took way too long. 

Walking through Donnas

Sarah and her folks met me somewhere in the city.  I said “Please don’t tell me there is 20 minutes to go to the aid station.”  Sarah looked down at her feet.  Drat!

I told Sarah that I was done with running for the remainder of the race.

At Donnas I had to give blood and do ultrasound for the MUST study.  So I decided to shower and change, which was nice.  And Sarah handed me a Gelato!

In retrospect I took too much time in Donnas, including getting a thigh massage from the MUST people that felt nice, but I didn’t need.  I left Donnas at 11 p.m., 5 hours later, after sleeping for about 2 hours. 

My energy level was high as I started the infamous ascent out of Donnas.  This stage was set to be the hardest of the Tor.  I went up and down the stairs to visit every house and settlement in the mountains around Donnas.  Just endless stairs.  And not nice, neat concrete stairs, but ancient stairs with large irregular steps made of uneven rocks and boulders. 

I went through a couple of nice aid stations.  One had an array of 5 big cowbells connected to each other, with a rope to swing them.  That was awesome.  Another gave me chicken fresh off the grill and some wine. 

More cowbell!!!

Since this section was mostly uphill, I felt that I made good time, and passed a few people.  My energy remained high and I felt like I was eating up the uphill.  I was feeling so good that I entertained silly thoughts like coming in on Friday instead of Saturday.  Folly folly folly.  Just lean forward and help heave myself up with both poles, and do it again and again. 

The stairs were grinding nevertheless.  I groaned inside every time I saw another ghost – an abandoned ancient house – materialize at the top of another steep staircase.  I couldn’t wait to get back out to the open high country.  I made it to Sassa around 4 am.  I felt myself swaying from side to side, and decided to sleep a little more there.  I found Gianluca in the bed next to mine.  He was to drop here.

An hour later I filled up my bottle with hot sweet lemon tea and groggily continued on my way to Rifugio Coda, the halfway point.  My energy levels were still good, so I was doing relatively well on the uphill and passing folks.  I thought the real test would be having to descend down an actual Col on the bum knee.  I lost myself in the rhythm of ascending. 

Step, place poles, heave, step, push off, step, step, place poles again.

Sharp pain in the knee.

NO.

NO NO NO!

SHIT.

If I can’t move uphill and I can’t move downhill, I’m fucked.  I stopped and took a break.  Got some food down.  I was running out of options.  I thought I would get to Rif Coda by 7 a.m., and from there it’s 6 km to Lago Vargno.  But now it was looking more like 7:30-7:40 to Rif Coda.  I tried to shift my uphill gait to place less pressure on the right knee.  It worked, but was awkward.  Desperate, I thought maybe a quick nap at Coda would help the knee.  But I don’t have too much time – the cut-off to Lago was at noon.  I took another Aleve.

Sunrise near Rifugio Coda.  Normally sunrise is an uplifting time, but I was not in good spirits

I left Rif Coda around 8:20.  I saw Miki there who left before I went to doze off.  She will be riding the cut-offs for the rest of the race, and will finish at 149:33, with 27 minutes to spare.

The relatively easy 6km to Lago took over 2 hours.  The downhills were agonizingly slow and the uphills were not too much faster.  Anytime I tried to push it, the knee would complain with a twinge of sharp pain, and I would scream from pain and frustration.

I thought of adding an Ibuprofen to the mix, but given how Aleve had little effect I decided not to further strain the kidneys for what would likely be little to no benefit.  I thought back to recent clear and plentiful pees, and mentally checked off that the kidneys were functioning fine.

From Lago, I had 28km to go to the life base of Gressony and 12 hours to do it.  Still in the game, I thought, but the section that was coming up had many short-ish but very steep ascents and descents.  I had a big meal at Lago, grabbed some food to go and moved on 15 minutes later.

I headed out for Col Marmontana.  I walked as fast as I could, desperate to make good time on the uphill, sweat dripping off my forehead in the rising warmth of the day.  Walking along a well-marked path, I realized I have not seen a flag for a while.  The Tor is extremely well marked, so that was troubling.  I walked a little further and still no flag.  Pulled up the GPS on my phone, and saw that I was off course (I had the gpx for the course uploaded).  A hiker following behind told me I needed to turn around. 

Shit.  Just what I needed.

Apparently a few more runners took this wrong turn.  Unclear if they followed me or did it on their own.  Luckily I only lost about 15-20 minutes.  I made a good time hiking up to the Col, but was feeling the impact of dealing with the knee for the last 24 hours and moving through the night.  My energy levels were starting to decrease.

I ate a Chocolate Cherry Clif Shot with 100mg of caffeine hoping for an energy boost, and proceeded to the downhill to the emergency aid station.  The downhill was only 1 km, but it was steep and technical, often involving practically scrambling down rocks.  I thought I can do it in 30 minutes but the knee was not agreeable.  Finally I gave up trying to push the pace and just focused on getting down.  At one point I even got desperate enough to try scrambling down on all fours.  It didn’t work very well so I got my poles back out.

After the helicoptered in aid station, there was the brutal ascent back up, that was scrambling up a boulder field.  It felt rather precarious.

My knee was getting worse.  As I thought more about my knee, complaining with sharpish pain at every step taken incorrectly, I started thinking about dropping.  I thought about the long trek we have coming up in Nepal, and how that would be ruined by a knee injury. 

Knee injury.

I thought about my best friend Galen and how his life was changed by a torn meniscus.  While I can push through the pain, I need to evaluate what the pain is telling me.  And I always thought that sharp pain meant bad news.  And sharp pain in the knee meant the problem was structural.  Not something that can just be ignored. 

Risking injury to go just a little bit further was not worth it.  Even if I was to get to the life base of Gressoney before cut-off, I didn’t have enough time in the bank to take a proper rest. 

I called Sarah and told her I was thinking of dropping at Niel, the next aid station. 

Clouds churned in the mountains around me, revealing this patch of the Alps or that, making fleeting figures and patterns, like a curtain with big shifting holes in it slowly moving around in the wind.

The churning clouds

Having made that decision, I relaxed the pace and just focused on covering the remaining distance safely.  Without the sense of purpose, the adrenaline and whatever else kept me going started wearing off.  My energy sagged and the weariness from 4 days in the mountains began to set in. 

I made it to the next emergency station that was helicoptered in, ate some food there, and told the volunteers how much I appreciated their involvement and that of their communities.  The volunteers have been on that ridge since Sunday – 4 days!

Despite the difficulties that I was having and the reality of dropping looming over, I had an overwhelmingly positive feeling about the Tor.  I think it was the awe-inspiring beauty of the mountains around me and the gratitude of being able to see so much of it in such a short time.  I enjoyed this sense of journey, of making progress from place to place, the discovery of figuring out where the next Col was, following the moving ant lines of runners up it with my eyes, the anticipation of seeing what was on the other side, and then the release from finally ascending all the way up and taking in all the open space around, and seeing what lay beyond.  And being treated like a hero or like family by all the folks in Aosta contributed to making me feel so good about the experience: the two grandmothers that set up a table in their town to pass out sweets to runners, the mother and her son dispensing tea at their farmhouse, the lady who took my autograph, the folks grilling chicken in their town in the middle of the night, the people spending almost a week at the aid stations that were helicoptered in, everyone on the trail giving way and exclaiming “Bravo!  Bravissimo!”  Their enthusiasm and support were infectious.  The race is a huge deal to these people, and they welcome us with open arms into their mountains and their community.

Even if we don’t get to do the Tor again, I would like to come back and hike these trails.

From the emergency aid station to Niel it was about 3.5 miles and about 1700 ft down.  It didn’t look bad on the elevation chart.  But any pixel on the elevation chart could mean a climb or descent equivalent to The Grunt at Wasatch.  The real story that the elevation chart didn’t tell was the condition of the trail.

After yesterday’s rain, it was mudslide.  In places it went steeply down, twisting this way and that, like a slide in a water park.  Virtually vertical stacks of boulders lined with slick mud and running water. 

On good legs, I think I would have been relatively confident on it, using the sliding to my advantage where appropriate.  But now I was focused on getting down without further aggravating the knee.  This meant taking painstaking slow steps, making sure each foot was stable, and trying to avoid any sliding whatsoever.  I still managed to take a spill once or twice.  Time and time again I felt thankful for having the poles with me to stop me from sliding and to help lower myself down rock steps. 

It was during that time, crawling and hobbling my way down the slippery slope, trying to stay off the bum knee that the realization dawned on me clear as day.

I shouldn’t be on this mountain.

If I was ambivalent about quitting before, I now knew it was the right thing to do.

Sarah texted me about a runner being helicoptered out of that aid station.  “That sounded ominous”, I thought, as a light rain started up.  “Not going to be me”, I thought, as I redoubled my effort at staying safe. 

Closer to the village, I paused at a particularly steep and muddy section of trail.  At this time, I was passed by a local who casually walked down the thing while talking on his cell phone and carrying his poles in the other hand.

HA!

Reminded me of the locals in Bali descending the steep rocky Agung volcano in sandals.

I saw Sarah and Harold, her dad, who apparently came up the trail to meet me!  I told Sarah that the gully with the diagonal slabs of rock from 2 days ago was now the second worst trail I’ve ever been on.

The 3.5 mile descent took 4 hours.  I got into Niel about 7:30. 186km and 14000m of climbing.  I stretched out my hand and smiled as a kid aged 11 or 12 cut the wrist band off of me.

I am done.

Arriving to Niel

I am done

A day or two later, the disappointment about not finishing set in.

I have no regret about dropping.  Given the sharp and worsening pain in the knee, it was clearly the right thing to do.  In any case, 3.5 hours would not have been enough to go from Niel to Gressoney while bagging a full Col in between.

Still, a DNF, is a DNF.  And it was the first DNF decision I made for myself (not counting my previous DNF at Bear where Sarah hurt her knee and we dropped together).

One of the things that makes running huge races so addictive is the huge feeling of accomplishment from finishing.  Dropping felt the opposite.  A visceral sadness and disappointment, not helped by logically knowing that I did my best and dropped for the right reasons. 

There were many things that went right for me during the Tor:

• My energy remained high.  I feel that I have enough endurance to finish the race within the time limit.  To be fair, I only made it 57% of the way through, with 2.5 days left to go.  So I am sure it would have gotten much harder.  But during 100 mile races I normally feel much more beat up and exhausted by mile 57. 
• My morale remained high.  I never got to a point where I felt beat up all over and had negative thoughts like “This sucks.  What am I doing here?”  These moments are typical for me during a 100-miler.  Perhaps it was thanks to the relatively slow pace of the Tor.
• No stomach issues, despite eating lots of foods I never had before on race day (meat, cheese, etc).
• Zero blisters in 4 days, despite rain and wetness.  Adjusting the way I tied my shoes on the first day, and changing into fresh Drymax socks at every life base must have done the trick.  And not running much probably helped too. 
• No achilles issues despite lots of steep uphills.  Something I was worried since I tweaked my achilles earlier in the training season and took few weeks off to recover.
• My leg muscles were up to the task.  After 4 days and 14000m of climbing, I was barely sore.  The MUST people said the lactic acid level in my blood was actually lower after the race than before.

What went wrong was not enough specific training and experience.

In 20/20 hindsight:

• I wouldn’t have been so aggressive running the downhills.  Especially when it didn’t feel quite right, like on Day 3.  If I could have preserved the knee for another couple of days, I should have been able to finish.  I don’t know if this means I should have walked the whole time or should have run more selectively while paying closer attention to how my knees were feeling.
• I would have been more efficient at the aid stations and life bases.  If I had more time in the bank for a long rest at Gressoney, maybe my knee would have gotten good enough to continue.  I say this because it felt MUCH better the day after I dropped, after 10 hours of sleep.

But I don’t know if this would have been enough without more training for the sort of terrain that I encountered.  Specifically, steep technical downhills with lots of discrete steps.

I would like to think that with more appropriate training, my legs would have been better prepared for the sort of punishment that the Tor doles out.  And my technique would have bee better too.  And I wouldn’t have had the knee issues that I did.  Hopefully.

The only places in the Bay Area that I think may be remotely appropriate Tor training are the steep staircase trails in the Marine, such as the Dipsea and Matt Davis trails.  They’re not nearly technical enough, but they’re steep with discrete steps.  That, and running up and down the stairs. 

If I do this again – and I hope that I do – I will put in a lot of training to strengthen my legs and knees for these crazy descents.  In fact, I will probably do it anyway because it sounds like fun :)