Bending over on the side of the trail I inspect what seems to be a leaking hydration bladder. Hoping I merely failed to secure the top of the bladder in its closed and locked postion I pull it out of my Ultraspire hydration pack. The bottom of the pack is drenched in a sticky water/Tailwind solution. But a sticky backside is the least of my concerns. I'm at mile 35 with no other options for carrying water. If my bladder has a hole in it how do I finish the race? Aid stations can be as much as 8 miles apart, a good 2 hours of running and hiking over rough terrain. Not only would it be highly uncomfortable to try and run without water and fuel for that long, it could be downright dangerous in the warm and dry desert environment. My worst fears are then realized. Somehow, somewhere, near the bottom of the bladder, one or more leaks have sprung allowing water to escape at what seems like a torrent. What am I going to do?
Race day initially started better than I could have even hoped. I had one of my best night's sleep in months. Certainly unanticipated. It's not uncommon for a racer to have a restless, even sleepless night before a race. But I woke up on time at 4 am feeling well rested. Most of my supplies and clothes were already in a pile by the door ready to be put on or put in the car for the short 20 minute drive to the starting line at a park in Virgin Utah. I brew some horrible hotel coffee to get my system started, waiting for the necessary bodily functions to hopefully kick in. (TMI for some of you, but if you run races you understand the importance of this morning event, especially pre-race.) I suppose gross but also apropos that the coffee maker is located in the bathroom. But I digress...
Things seem to be going swimmingly until I go to fill up one of two hydration bladders. I like doing long runs and races with two bladders. One for my liquid fuel, a strong concentration of Tailwind, and the other for clear water. While I love TW, the flavor over the course of 12, 14 or 16 hours can get mentally taxing. Clear water keeps me feeling clean and hydrated and can be handy for rinsing hands or putting on a bandanna then at the base of the neck for a refreshing cool down on a hot day. But for some reason as I fill one of my bladders I find it's letting the water gush out of the bottom. Upon inspection I find that a small rubber gasket at the bottom of the removable suction tube has where it connects to the bladder has gone missing. Hmmmm... Well, I guess I'm fortunate to have two bladders. I'll have to forego the luxury of having clear water. I'll just drink clear water at aid stations. At least I'll have adequate fuel and hydration. Merely a mental challenge I'll deal with successfully. I couldn't have predicted that this seemingly minor event proved to be my potential undoing at mile 35. One bladder meant no backup when needed...
The race began promptly at 6 am. A cool 45 degrees and the light of a half moon. Conditions were going to be perfect for a desert race. Temperatures would top out around 75 degrees with no wind or storms on the horizon. Perfection! A short run on the asphalt lead to a dirt road. It's always a fun sight to see hundreds of headlamps shining and bouncing off the rocks and course marking's reflective flags. Crowed together, jockeying for position is something us mid-pack runners are used to. The lead runners go out fast and are quickly separated from the bunches of slower, 'I'm just here to finish' minded racers. As we approach the first real climb, a 1000 foot ascent up a narrow single track trail that climbs just a mile to the top of a mesa, the run slows to a power hike then to what feels like a crawl as the conga line of runners attempts to navigate slippery, rocky, borderline treacherous trail conditions. Some slower runners graciously pull off the trail where able so as to not hold up those more able and eager to get to the top and hopefully start truly running. But there's always others that seem either oblivious or uncaring that they are holding up everyone else's progress. Does the lineup of 20 runners behind them but none in front not clue them into the fact they're holding up the line? This has always perplexed me. But alas, most of us we'll be out here for the better part of the day so we keep telling ourselves that we'll make up time when things open up later in the race. Ultra running is equal parts persistence, patience and positivity. Exercise patience early on and hope it pays off later in the race.
Once on the mesa the sun begins to rise and spectacular views of the Virgin river valley gradually appear. One reason I choose to run trails is for the beauty. And the vistas throughout the entire Zion 100k course do not fail to amaze. So far, up to and across the first mesa, I'm able to maintain an average speed under a 12 minute mile. On track for a sub 12 hour finish. Yay! My projected finish time is 14 hours but I am shooting for an optimistic 12. Doesn't hurt to dream, right? After circumnavigating the first 'lollipop' loop and back down the initial treacherous climb (which even included repelling a short section with a rope) we run a few miles on rolling, sandy single track then dirt road. It's on this dirt road, ascending mesa number two, that I make my first friend of the race. It seems that in every ultra race I meet up with someone that runs the same pace as me and wants to talk. I thoroughly enjoy these interactions. This friend was Glen, a middle aged man maybe 50-55 from North Carolina. His easy southern accent was relaxing and he was a genuinely nice man. I learn that he ran the Bear 100 mile ultra in Northern Utah last year, a grueling test of will and strength, and that his son was in the middle of riding a bicycle across the US from Florida to Alaska. We talked family, running and life. And we imperceptibly pushed each other’s pace up a steady grade. We stayed together from about mile 16 to the mile 19 aid station. There we separated but played leap frog, encountering each other occasionally for the next few hours. (I've since looked for his finishing time on Ultrasignup.com but haven’t found it. Sadly I think he may have DNF’d.)
Mesa number two, interestingly named Guacamole, were miles 19 to 26 and where things first get difficult. This lollipop has a lot of sandstone 'slickrock'. Slickrock has become a famous surface for mountain bikers and for good reason. Despite its name it’s not at all slippery when dry. It is uneven, has dramatic ups and downs, quick dips and fast rises. Fun on a bike. Miserable as a runner. The biggest problem with running on this surface and one that I heard from multiple runners that were also new to this course is that it’s impossible to get in any kind of rhythm. The dips and rises and undulate surface prevent any consistent speed or cadence. And it’s as hard as concrete. The hips, knees and feet quickly provided negative feedback. By the time we looped back around to the aid station at mile 26 many of us were feeling the effects of this damn running surface. But we had a lot of miles yet to run. No time to complain. Just keep pushing.
Going down the dirt road we had ascended earlier was nice for a while. At least a consistent rhythm was attainable and I felt I was going to be able to make up some time I had lost on Guacamole. Once down to the Dalton Wash aid station (miles 15 and 30.5) it was time to travel to the other side of the valley. 4 miles of rolling dirt road would take us to the base of the gnarliest, meanest, most sadistic climb I have ever faced. From miles 34 to 35 we would ascend another 1000 feet. But right in the middle of the climb came a grade that was barely hikeable, let alone runnable. On tired legs in the mid afternoon heat this mother was a grind. One foot in front of the other. That was all you could do. I past another runner that had to keep sitting down on the side of the trail. I asked him if he was alright. He quietly replied that he would be fine. I assume he made it to the top. I hope he did. Because at the top is where the Goosebump aid station was. And where my journey would quickly turn for the worse.
After grabbing supplies from my drop bag, chugging a few cups of clear water and refilling my hydration bladder with Tailwind and water, I leave the aid station and head out on some decent single track. I’m tired but feel victorious after the big climb knowing that the worst climbing is over for the day. I’m over half way done and my pace is on track for a 14 hour finish. 12 hours now seems out of the picture but I’m content with 14. But about 100 yards down the trail is when I notice the moisture on my lower back. Where I find myself in a predicament without an easy solution. But here is where the Ultra running community once again set itself apart from most other groups in friendliness, charity and support. A female running I had been playing leap frog with much of the day sees me distraught on the side of the trail. She asks me if I'm all right. I tell her what seems to have happened and that I have no backup for carrying water. Without hesitation she offers me her second handheld water bottle.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"Absolutely!" She responds. "When you get back to the aid station just leave it there for me."
"Thank you SO MUCH! You've saved my life."
"Of course! I'm glad I can help."
With that, after turning my hydration bladder upside down so it doesn't continue leaking, I continue down the trail, bolstered with a new hope of finishing this race.
Some of you may know that I listen to audio books rather than music on most of my long runs. Although I'm a big fan of music in general and will run with it from time to time especially when I need a boost, I've found that audio books, especially ones dealing with running long distances, mountain climbing, triathlon and other sports related topics, keep my mind occupied and make my own pain and discomfort seem not as bad. Reading about Scott Jurek, Dean Karnasez or Pam Reed run through Death Valley for 135 miles in the dead of summer makes what I'm doing seem like small potatoes. But for some reason I don't listen to much of anything during races. I have my headphones in and will occasionally turn on a book or even some comedy (I played some Jim Gaffigan routines at about mile 45 but his non-stop jokes about food just made me hungry for real food so I turned it off) but usually end up running in silence. People understandably ask 'What do you think about for that long?' I tell them I stay occupied thinking about what adjustment to make in my foot placement to make the hot-spot on my foot go away. When was the last time I took in water and fuel? Is the knee pain just discomfort or injury? How long was it since I last looked at my watch? Have I seen that runner before or is it just someone that looks similar? What's my pace? Can I make up time on the next downhill? Why is this race director such a bastard? Why did I decide to do this? I'm going to finish this and not do any other races this year. Where's the next trail marker? Did I miss it? What if I missed it?? Oh, there it is... And so on.
After looping the Gooseberry mesa I arrive back at the Goosebump aid station where I had arranged to leave the water bottle so graciously lent to me. I have no other way to carry water but I'm hoping someone at the aid station will have a solution for me. Just then my angel runner that lent me the bottle arrives.
"Do you have another bottle you can use?" She asks
"No. I'm going to ask around and see if anyone else has one." I reply
"Just keep mine" she says. "Leave it at the finish line. I'll be fine with what I have."
"I can't thank you enough. You've truly saved me."
"It's no problem. Have a great race!"
"You too."
And off she goes. She was a hundred mile racer meaning at this point she went on a different loop than I would. It would be highly unlikely for me to ever see her again. I fill up the bottle and slowly head down the steep climb I had ascended a few hours earlier. I text my wife that I'm in the home stretch, with about 14 miles to go I anticipate crossing the finish line in about 3 more hours. That was optimistic...
In my two previous ultras, both 50 mile trail races, I had hit low points. I'm certain that most ultra runners do. But I believe the low I hit during this race was worse than any I had experienced before. It wasn't so much the pain and discomfort. Sure, there was plenty of that. But you hit a point where the pain doesn't get any worse and you just kind of accept it. You just keep moving. Sometimes running, sometimes hiking. But always moving. Not once, for even a moment, did I sit down. Sitting down scares me. I prefer to keep upright. If I'm up I can keep moving forward.
The low that I experienced came in the form of anger. I started really hating the race director. Around mile 52 the course turned the opposite direction that I had anticipated. Rather than turning right towards the road that would lead to the finish it veered left. It's funny now to look back and think about how irrational my feelings were. Regardless of the direction the trail went the race was still going to be 63 miles long. But after 9 or 10 hours on the trail a runner's thoughts have a tendency to become less rational. The 55 mile aid station seemed to never come. It was like a mirage oasis. I started, for the first time in any race, having thoughts of a DNF. Again it wasn't that I was hurting too bad to finish. Instead I think I was just mentally done. For a while I wondered if I had missed a flag telling me to take a turn. I thought 'If I missed a turn, there's no way in hell I'm finishing this race.' I also started thinking about how nice it would be to fall and injure myself. Then I'd have an excuse to DNF, and have a nice story to go along with it. Mind you, I was ALONE for all but about 3 miles of the last 14. Alone with my thoughts, negativity has a way of creeping in. But alas, up ahead I saw a ribbon marking the trail, telling me I was on the right track. And I never fell and injured myself. I guess I'll be finishing this damn race.
I came into the mile 55 aid station as the sun was about to set. The gracious aid workers asked me all the right questions to make sure I was in good enough shape to finish. "Do you need any food?" "Do you want ice in your water?" "Do you have a jacket?" "Do you know where your flashlight is?" With each coherent answer, they knew I had the wherewithal to keep going. "You look great!" they said and sent me on my way. I hit the single track as the sun dropped and the desert sky turned shades of orange and red.
I don't mind running in the dark. I intentionally ran after the sun set a number of times during the winter and spring leading up to Zion 100k. The first few times it's a little spooky and occasionally I'd see a tree that looked way too much like a person and get a good dose of adrenaline and chills down the spine. But with a good headlamp it can be exhilarating. With a good headlamp...Did I mention I didn't put fresh batteries in my headlamp? Rookie move. I could tell the light was fading so I went as long as I could without supplemental light. But soon it was completely dark. And I mean COMPLETELY dark! No moon. No city lights. Nothing. Turn off the light and I could barely see my hand in front of my face let alone technical single track. And as my headlamp faded away, dimmer and dimmer, I wondered what I could do. Ah ha! My iPhone! With about 50% battery life remaining (good thing I didn't listen to music or much in the way of books or comedy) I was hopeful it would get me to the end. I had about 2 hours to go. I can do this!
My original goal time was 14 hours, 12 hours if everything went right. 16 hours later I crossed the finish line to the hug of my wife and weary smiles of my kids. I felt remarkable good. Completely coherent with no immediate desire to sit, eat or sleep. I've never been one to get emotional at the end of a race and this race was no different. No tears. No overwhelming feeling of accomplishment. Just a 'Thank God that's over with' and 'Where's the chocolate milk?'. Sometimes I wish I could experience that rush of emotion that many runners feel when they cross the finish line of an important race. But it's not me. I'll tear up watching a TV commercial that has a touching father-daughter moment. But months of training, 16 hours of running and completing a challenging race leaves me analyzing my race, not welling up with tears. Such is life.
The next day my wife and I drove back to the starting line to retrieve my drop bag, the one I had at the Goosebump aid station. After searching high and low in the drop bag return area we concluded it hadn't yet made its way back and we'd need to come later that afternoon or the next day. As we were about to leave I see a weary runner coming through the finish line. The runner looked awfully familiar. And indeed, she was familiar. It was the kindly saint that 20 hours earlier had lent me her water bottle. After 30 hours on the course she finished her race. 100 miles of discomfort, grit and commitment. And serendipity let me see her cross under the finish-line banner. I hugged her, congratulated her on her finish and said one last 'thank you' to her for saving my race. I'm pretty sure I'll never see my ultra-running angel again. But it was nice to see her one last time.
Once on the mesa the sun begins to rise and spectacular views of the Virgin river valley gradually appear. One reason I choose to run trails is for the beauty. And the vistas throughout the entire Zion 100k course do not fail to amaze. So far, up to and across the first mesa, I'm able to maintain an average speed under a 12 minute mile. On track for a sub 12 hour finish. Yay! My projected finish time is 14 hours but I am shooting for an optimistic 12. Doesn't hurt to dream, right? After circumnavigating the first 'lollipop' loop and back down the initial treacherous climb (which even included repelling a short section with a rope) we run a few miles on rolling, sandy single track then dirt road. It's on this dirt road, ascending mesa number two, that I make my first friend of the race. It seems that in every ultra race I meet up with someone that runs the same pace as me and wants to talk. I thoroughly enjoy these interactions. This friend was Glen, a middle aged man maybe 50-55 from North Carolina. His easy southern accent was relaxing and he was a genuinely nice man. I learn that he ran the Bear 100 mile ultra in Northern Utah last year, a grueling test of will and strength, and that his son was in the middle of riding a bicycle across the US from Florida to Alaska. We talked family, running and life. And we imperceptibly pushed each other’s pace up a steady grade. We stayed together from about mile 16 to the mile 19 aid station. There we separated but played leap frog, encountering each other occasionally for the next few hours. (I've since looked for his finishing time on Ultrasignup.com but haven’t found it. Sadly I think he may have DNF’d.)
Mesa number two, interestingly named Guacamole, were miles 19 to 26 and where things first get difficult. This lollipop has a lot of sandstone 'slickrock'. Slickrock has become a famous surface for mountain bikers and for good reason. Despite its name it’s not at all slippery when dry. It is uneven, has dramatic ups and downs, quick dips and fast rises. Fun on a bike. Miserable as a runner. The biggest problem with running on this surface and one that I heard from multiple runners that were also new to this course is that it’s impossible to get in any kind of rhythm. The dips and rises and undulate surface prevent any consistent speed or cadence. And it’s as hard as concrete. The hips, knees and feet quickly provided negative feedback. By the time we looped back around to the aid station at mile 26 many of us were feeling the effects of this damn running surface. But we had a lot of miles yet to run. No time to complain. Just keep pushing. 
After grabbing supplies from my drop bag, chugging a few cups of clear water and refilling my hydration bladder with Tailwind and water, I leave the aid station and head out on some decent single track. I’m tired but feel victorious after the big climb knowing that the worst climbing is over for the day. I’m over half way done and my pace is on track for a 14 hour finish. 12 hours now seems out of the picture but I’m content with 14. But about 100 yards down the trail is when I notice the moisture on my lower back. Where I find myself in a predicament without an easy solution. But here is where the Ultra running community once again set itself apart from most other groups in friendliness, charity and support. A female running I had been playing leap frog with much of the day sees me distraught on the side of the trail. She asks me if I'm all right. I tell her what seems to have happened and that I have no backup for carrying water. Without hesitation she offers me her second handheld water bottle."Are you sure?" I ask.
"Absolutely!" She responds. "When you get back to the aid station just leave it there for me."
"Thank you SO MUCH! You've saved my life."
"Of course! I'm glad I can help."
With that, after turning my hydration bladder upside down so it doesn't continue leaking, I continue down the trail, bolstered with a new hope of finishing this race.
Some of you may know that I listen to audio books rather than music on most of my long runs. Although I'm a big fan of music in general and will run with it from time to time especially when I need a boost, I've found that audio books, especially ones dealing with running long distances, mountain climbing, triathlon and other sports related topics, keep my mind occupied and make my own pain and discomfort seem not as bad. Reading about Scott Jurek, Dean Karnasez or Pam Reed run through Death Valley for 135 miles in the dead of summer makes what I'm doing seem like small potatoes. But for some reason I don't listen to much of anything during races. I have my headphones in and will occasionally turn on a book or even some comedy (I played some Jim Gaffigan routines at about mile 45 but his non-stop jokes about food just made me hungry for real food so I turned it off) but usually end up running in silence. People understandably ask 'What do you think about for that long?' I tell them I stay occupied thinking about what adjustment to make in my foot placement to make the hot-spot on my foot go away. When was the last time I took in water and fuel? Is the knee pain just discomfort or injury? How long was it since I last looked at my watch? Have I seen that runner before or is it just someone that looks similar? What's my pace? Can I make up time on the next downhill? Why is this race director such a bastard? Why did I decide to do this? I'm going to finish this and not do any other races this year. Where's the next trail marker? Did I miss it? What if I missed it?? Oh, there it is... And so on.
After looping the Gooseberry mesa I arrive back at the Goosebump aid station where I had arranged to leave the water bottle so graciously lent to me. I have no other way to carry water but I'm hoping someone at the aid station will have a solution for me. Just then my angel runner that lent me the bottle arrives.
"Do you have another bottle you can use?" She asks
"No. I'm going to ask around and see if anyone else has one." I reply
"Just keep mine" she says. "Leave it at the finish line. I'll be fine with what I have."
"I can't thank you enough. You've truly saved me."
"It's no problem. Have a great race!"
"You too."
And off she goes. She was a hundred mile racer meaning at this point she went on a different loop than I would. It would be highly unlikely for me to ever see her again. I fill up the bottle and slowly head down the steep climb I had ascended a few hours earlier. I text my wife that I'm in the home stretch, with about 14 miles to go I anticipate crossing the finish line in about 3 more hours. That was optimistic...
In my two previous ultras, both 50 mile trail races, I had hit low points. I'm certain that most ultra runners do. But I believe the low I hit during this race was worse than any I had experienced before. It wasn't so much the pain and discomfort. Sure, there was plenty of that. But you hit a point where the pain doesn't get any worse and you just kind of accept it. You just keep moving. Sometimes running, sometimes hiking. But always moving. Not once, for even a moment, did I sit down. Sitting down scares me. I prefer to keep upright. If I'm up I can keep moving forward.
The low that I experienced came in the form of anger. I started really hating the race director. Around mile 52 the course turned the opposite direction that I had anticipated. Rather than turning right towards the road that would lead to the finish it veered left. It's funny now to look back and think about how irrational my feelings were. Regardless of the direction the trail went the race was still going to be 63 miles long. But after 9 or 10 hours on the trail a runner's thoughts have a tendency to become less rational. The 55 mile aid station seemed to never come. It was like a mirage oasis. I started, for the first time in any race, having thoughts of a DNF. Again it wasn't that I was hurting too bad to finish. Instead I think I was just mentally done. For a while I wondered if I had missed a flag telling me to take a turn. I thought 'If I missed a turn, there's no way in hell I'm finishing this race.' I also started thinking about how nice it would be to fall and injure myself. Then I'd have an excuse to DNF, and have a nice story to go along with it. Mind you, I was ALONE for all but about 3 miles of the last 14. Alone with my thoughts, negativity has a way of creeping in. But alas, up ahead I saw a ribbon marking the trail, telling me I was on the right track. And I never fell and injured myself. I guess I'll be finishing this damn race.
I came into the mile 55 aid station as the sun was about to set. The gracious aid workers asked me all the right questions to make sure I was in good enough shape to finish. "Do you need any food?" "Do you want ice in your water?" "Do you have a jacket?" "Do you know where your flashlight is?" With each coherent answer, they knew I had the wherewithal to keep going. "You look great!" they said and sent me on my way. I hit the single track as the sun dropped and the desert sky turned shades of orange and red.
I don't mind running in the dark. I intentionally ran after the sun set a number of times during the winter and spring leading up to Zion 100k. The first few times it's a little spooky and occasionally I'd see a tree that looked way too much like a person and get a good dose of adrenaline and chills down the spine. But with a good headlamp it can be exhilarating. With a good headlamp...Did I mention I didn't put fresh batteries in my headlamp? Rookie move. I could tell the light was fading so I went as long as I could without supplemental light. But soon it was completely dark. And I mean COMPLETELY dark! No moon. No city lights. Nothing. Turn off the light and I could barely see my hand in front of my face let alone technical single track. And as my headlamp faded away, dimmer and dimmer, I wondered what I could do. Ah ha! My iPhone! With about 50% battery life remaining (good thing I didn't listen to music or much in the way of books or comedy) I was hopeful it would get me to the end. I had about 2 hours to go. I can do this!
My original goal time was 14 hours, 12 hours if everything went right. 16 hours later I crossed the finish line to the hug of my wife and weary smiles of my kids. I felt remarkable good. Completely coherent with no immediate desire to sit, eat or sleep. I've never been one to get emotional at the end of a race and this race was no different. No tears. No overwhelming feeling of accomplishment. Just a 'Thank God that's over with' and 'Where's the chocolate milk?'. Sometimes I wish I could experience that rush of emotion that many runners feel when they cross the finish line of an important race. But it's not me. I'll tear up watching a TV commercial that has a touching father-daughter moment. But months of training, 16 hours of running and completing a challenging race leaves me analyzing my race, not welling up with tears. Such is life.
The next day my wife and I drove back to the starting line to retrieve my drop bag, the one I had at the Goosebump aid station. After searching high and low in the drop bag return area we concluded it hadn't yet made its way back and we'd need to come later that afternoon or the next day. As we were about to leave I see a weary runner coming through the finish line. The runner looked awfully familiar. And indeed, she was familiar. It was the kindly saint that 20 hours earlier had lent me her water bottle. After 30 hours on the course she finished her race. 100 miles of discomfort, grit and commitment. And serendipity let me see her cross under the finish-line banner. I hugged her, congratulated her on her finish and said one last 'thank you' to her for saving my race. I'm pretty sure I'll never see my ultra-running angel again. But it was nice to see her one last time.
