The San Diego 100
goes through the mountains east of San Diego — including trails
around Lake Cuyamaca, Mt. Laguna Recreation Area and a section of the
Pacific Crest Trail. The course has been altered several times, so coming
up with my predicted finishing time (20 hours) was a bit of a
guessing game. I used a modified version of some splits that Ken Ward had
come up with as a guide.
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| With Ken Sinclair at the start |
The race begins with a gentle climb over some
double-track trails and fire roads. I started my SD100 off by getting
lost. While rounding a turn near mile 4, I failed to follow the course
ribbons to the left and kept climbing. How I didn’t see the runners around me
taking the correct path, I do not know. My misstep cost me an extra
1.5 miles in total and I lost about 15 minutes. I tried not to dwell
on it. Better that it happened here than 50 miles into the race,
I told myself.
I’ve learned to start slow in 100 milers. It
takes some restraint, but it’s usually worth it. I’d rather be passing runners
later in the race than getting passed. Going off course early,
just reinforced my strategy. It meant I’d have more opportunity
to pass people later on.
I did my best to fight my way back into
the group where I had been running. I joined up with a pack of
runners descending through a rutted out, shady section with lots
of twists and turns. I managed to pass a few people but I was in
84th place when I rolled through the Paso Pichacho Aid
Station.
As we began a steady climb up Stonewall
Peak, I saw Ken Ward. We ran together for a bit, talking about his
next hundred (at Hard Rock no less!). He urged me to go on ahead, reminding me
to have fun. The course winds around switchbacks and boulders, then before you
know it, you’re going back down again, connecting with a series of trails with
quintessential So Cal names like California Riding
and Hiking Trail, Los Vaqueros and Los Caballos.
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| Feeling "Arrr right!" near Chambers 1 Aid Station. Photo by
Milan Kovacevic
|
Before long, we hit Chambers 1 Aid (12.5
mi.), kind of a strange stop that’s accessed via a lakefront trail,
an out-and-back across a levee and a couple of loops that allow you to see
the other competitors. A guy dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow said I
was doing “Arrr-Right” and a lady pirate cheered us on from the other side
of the levee.
Even though it was 9:30 in the
morning, the sun was so high, it felt like 3 p.m. Everyone
had warned me that this race was “exposed” but I wasn’t quite sure
what that meant or what it would feel like. I’d heard stories of people running
the race in long sleeve white shirts to defend against the glaring sun. I had
chosen to wear a singlet and I would end up getting viciously burned,
which I anticipated (I don’t wear sunscreen and I’m from
Oregon). Ideally, I would have worked more on my base tan in
training, but just getting the miles in is enough of a stretch for me
these days.
The sun at SD100 is deceptive. Generally, it’s
not all that hot, but the lack of shade takes its toll on
you. I’ve run the canyons at Western States, which can
be like running into an inferno, and I’ve run the Grand Canyon, which is a
blistering kind of heat, but this was different. I had
prepared for sunny conditions by doing eight sauna
sessions two weeks before the race. I also wore a
bandana and a white hat that could both be
stuffed with ice. The SD100 aid stations were well-stocked with
ice and the volunteers were happy to resupply me at each stop.
But heat and exposure weren’t really
issues early on, and it wasn’t until I reached the Pacific Crest
Trail shortly before the Sunrise 1 aid station that I began to think about
staying cool. By the time many of us noticed that the heat
was taking a toll, it was already too late. This, I
understand now, is what they mean by “exposure.”
The section leading into the Sunrise Aid Station is
high and dry with lots of low-lying bushes. The
trail snakes around a high desert plateau and you can
almost always look forward or backward and see another runner coming
or going. I was on a liquid-only diet (agave syrup with chia seeds in
water) but I was already getting sick of it. I was carrying one large
handheld bottle, with plans to grab a hydration pack or a
second bottle at the Sunrise Aid Station.
Sunrise (mile 23.2) is accessible via a short out-and-back that
comes off the PCT. I stumbled in for my first meeting of the day with my crew
(my wife, Rebecca, and my daughter, Alice). Alice, is 7 and has been
to lots of other races, but this was the first time I can remember
her being fully aware of what was going on. She seemed concerned for
my well-being so I tried to downplay my issues. My stomach was starting to sour
(pretty much par for the course for me). I struggled to eat a
Twinkie, slugged a ton of ice water and spent too much time in the
aid station. I left and promptly puked before I had even made it back
to the PCT.
Others who had run this race before promised great
views in this section and the course did not disappoint. To
the east was a small range of dusty mountains rising above a flat
desert floor. Beyond was a dry wasteland so inhospitable that I didn’t
want to look at it for too long -- I feared that it would bring me down
mentally.
One aspect of SD100 that makes it challenging is
the long distance between aid stations. The 7.2-mile section
between Sunrise and Pioneer Mail (30.4) was
a particularly dry stretch, that seemed to inflict its damage on
a lot of runners, myself included. Luckily, all that ice water
seemed to have helped and I rolled into Pioneer Mail feeling parched but
not in any sort of serious trouble. At the aid station, Rob Cain and Denise Bourassa helped
me out. Rob was there to pace John Price and
Denise Bourassa was pacing her husband Ken Sinclair.
Denise offered me Orange Crush, which hit the spot and Rob convinced me
that yes indeed it was a good time to start putting ice in my hat and
bandana. John Price was dropping due to injury and he too helped me out,
expertly soaking the ice I was wearing to ensure that it began
melting immediately.
Having opted not to use a
pacer and seeing the error of my ways, I asked Rob if he
wanted to pace me. He had already signed on to pace Justin Walker,
a fast, young runner from Ashland who work for National
Geographic as a storm chaser, but Justin was suffering from a first-time bout
of exercise-induced asthma and his race was looking more and more questionable.
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| The helping hands of my crew |
I left the aid station carrying a second
bottle, renewed and ready to conquer the dry switchbacks of
the PCT. I felt fortunate to have bumped into the Oregon contingent,
which had taken such good care of me. The next section went
quickly. I spotted Ken Sinclair at the Penny Pines Aid station. He
had run out of water during the 7.2-mile stretch from Sunrise to
Pioneer Mail, and had since been struggling with muscle cramps.
I ran with him for a bit, and he urged me to pass him. He said
we’d be going through some burned out sections that might offer a little more
shade, but they proved to be about the same in terms of exposure. It was here
where I first started to see strange shapes in the burned out
stumps — the profile of an elephant, a couple of giraffes, brown
bears all around. It was the first time that I’ve ever hallucinated
in the middle of the day during a race.
It was the hottest part of the day and
the relatively high altitude (5,500-ish feet) was probably
getting to me, too. Altitude sickness and stomach upset, are the
two factors that melt me the quickest in 100 milers. I’ve never gotten a handle
on the altitude (my lone DNF came at
the high-elevation Leadville 100 in 2008) and I’ve had
limited success solving my stomach issues. I typically stop
processing solid foods after running anything 50k or longer. This
year, I had been experimenting with my strange agave syrup mix.
It had worked for me at the Sonoma 50 miler in April where I ran the
distance without taking any gels and without vomiting at all. In advance
of the SD100, I knew I couldn’t go 100 miles on cactus syrup
alone, but it was becoming harder and harder for me to stomach the concoction,
let alone the solid foods I had imagined I would somehow be supplementing
with.
On our way to Red Tail Roost Aid
Station (44.7 mi.), we ran into a race volunteer who advised us that there
had been some course sabotage (basically some dickheads had
moved the course markings and re-routed all the runners down the
wrong path). The course had to be altered, so we were directed onto a
roughly paved road where we ran for approximately two miles before
encountering the aid station. I met my crew for the second time, did my
best to eat some canned ravioli that had once sounded like a good
idea but now seemed designed only to make me puke. I drank some soda, popped
some prescription anti-nausea medication and reassured Alice that I was
going to be okay.
At some point during the next section to
Meadows Aid Station, the high alpine trail gave way to
a series of lightly treed forests. Until this point, I had been passing
runners pretty consistently but suddenly the tables turned. I came upon a
pair of runners, prepared to pass them, and then, before I knew
it, they began to pull away. I turned my head just in time to
see another runner coming up from behind to pass me.
“Dude, I was in a very dark place,” he told
me. “But I feel soooo much better now.”
Those are the kinds of energy highs and lows that
happen in a 100 miler – one minute you’re fighting your way through
molasses like some bad dream, the next you’re floating over the trail
effortlessly. Unfortunately it was now the former for me.
When I reached the Penny Pines Aid
Station (mile 56.3), I received a big mental boost from the
news that Rob Cain had agreed to pace me. This still blows me
away anytime someone volunteers for this duty. What do they get out
of the deal? Ten hours of listening to their runner bitch and moan. A
very slow jog in the dark. A guarantee that they won’t get to bed
until sunrise.
Rob led the way for most of the descent into Noble
Canyon. Having him run in front of me worked well and seemed to
keep me moving forward. He would gap me, then slip away down the trail,
but I could still see him up ahead, and it removed a lot of the
stress of me having to navigate. I didn’t have to wonder how it would
have gone for me without a pacer as I had planned. It would have been a disaster.
Toward the bottom of the canyon we ran into a
woman and her pacer. We slipped by them, since they were taking their
time on the downhill, but I figured we’d see them again. All day long, the
uphills had been a challenge for me. And this is how it usually goes — I can
either run uphill or downhill, but never both.
The stretch from Red Tail to the Pine Creek Aid
Station was another long one. The bottom of the canyon reminded me of
the final Cal Street section at Western States along
the sandy bottom trail that follows the American River. You feel
like you’re running forever but getting nowhere closer to your goal.
Anticipating a long climb out, I took my time at the Aid Station. I sucked down
ice water and sat with a cup of chicken noodle soup. In hindsight, I did
far too much sitting at SD100, but it’s hard to resist a comfortable chair when
it’s offered to you repeatedly.
Luckily Rob had encouraged me to bring a light down
into the canyon (reason # 632 to be grateful he was there for
me). What had seemed like a fairly routine section of the course turned out to
be a nearly four-hour affair and it was well past dark by the time we
crawled out of the canyon. We followed the ladies up a road and I
forced myself to run in small segments while Rob encouraged me. We both
remarked on the fact that something seemed strange about the course
markings and we soon ran into RD Scotty Mills who told us the course had
been vandalized. Again.
Scotty directed us toward a trail that
would take us out of the canyon. By this point, we had passed
the other runner and her pacer and I was starting to become
focused on them not passing us again.
“I just have to run the sections I know they won’t
run,” I kept telling myself.
“I can’t walk the stuff I know they will run.”
“I just have to push the downhills.”
As we moved on, those became my
mantras. We climbed the switchbacks up the mountain toward the Pine
Creek Aid Station, and I could see lights behind us. This kept me
going to Pioneer Mail 2, where I grabbed more chicken noodle
soup and took it with me as I exited the aid station.
The next section was the PCT section that had
seemed so hot and barren, but now it was lit up by moonlight and to the
east we could see the ominous glow of Las Vegas. To distract
myself, I looked to the ground counting backwards from 36,000 (no
significance to that number) until I lost count and had to start over
again. I had the Magnum PI theme song playing in an endless
loop in my head and I kept seeing imaginary bugs and dead fish on the
ground. I stuck with my running mantras and enjoyed the fact that I
was no longer puking. I had settled into a fueling routine of chicken
noodle soup, Lifesavers, Mountain Dew and electrolyte drink.
The section from Sunrise 2 to Chambers 2
was an interminable one for me. The strange bit of trail
approaching Chambers was even weirder at 1:30 a.m. than it had been
in the day. I spotted a runner and his pacer who appeared to be about 12
minutes back. They looked hungry to catch us. Rob pointed out a couple of other
runners that he said we had a shot at catching.
I wanted to put my head back in the game and start
racing, but I was feeling lower than ever at this point. We still had two
climbs and 10 miles to go. At one point we veered off course, losing 5
minutes or so, which only added to the sense of doom that was growing
inside of me. I knew I wasn’t going to drop, but it just seemed so far from the
finish as we climbed our way back up and over Stonewall Peak
It’s strange contrasting a route you’ve been over
twice in a 100 miler, especially when it’s a section that’s separated by 80
miles of running. The first time through here, I had fresh legs and
was running under sunny skies, but this time it was dark, I was
exhausted and dirty and I was, once again, losing my mind. I swore I saw a
mouse run across my path. Then another, and another.
“The mice are coming out,” I told
Rob. “Oh my bad. Those are just shadows from my headlamp.”
This wasn’t the hardest 100 miler I’ve
ever done, but I was more wacked out than I’ve ever been. The mild
hallucinations I had experienced during the day had evolved into something more
intense at night. I saw fish scales everywhere and a black shadow that
appeared to be a cow running alongside me. What I thought were police
sirens turned out to be coyotes howling in the distance. None of it was
unpleasant or distracting – just part of the 100-mile experience.
The final miles in a 100 miler are both the
richest, most rewarding challenge you can ever hope to have and the
most dreadful, please-let-it-be-over trial you can imagine. You’re in
all kinds of pain, your body is tired, your mind is exhausted, you’re sick of
eating aid station food, you’re sticky and smelly and each mile seems to bring
you no closer to finishing.
On the other hand, you’re running through the night
under the stars on an adventure you could never replicate on your own. And it
helps to have a pacer who can remind you just how cool the experience is,
as Rob did when he remarked repeatedly on what a nice night it was
or how much fun he was having.
The long distance between aid
stations at the SD100 becomes magnified late in the race. Some of the
8-plus-mile stretches that we went through were the longest that I
can remember in any race. At one point, Rob and I both thought we
heard a race volunteer tell us we were 4.8 miles from the finish. We knew we
were closer, but we believed him because the race had dished out so many long
stretches that anything was possible.
It turns out we were just 1.8 miles from the
finish. At that point, I had just been passed by another runner
and was suddenly running as hard as I could. Just when you think you
can’t go any faster, something like that happens, you find another gear and you
wonder why you haven’t been running like this all along.
I wasn’t able to catch the other runner, but I
did pass another guy on my way to the finish. Sometimes, I try to relish the
final miles of an ultra to make it last longer, but this time I didn’t care. My
slow race was suddenly on fast forward and I was ready to be
done. I followed the ribbons on a weaving course around a grassy field.
Several turns later, I spotted the finish, ran up a small hill, crossed the
line and found myself in the same parking lot I had been
standing in 22 ½ hours earlier.
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| With Alice and recovery stuffed animals at the finish |
Lessons Learned:
#1 Don’t discount the value of a good pacer —
Without Rob Cain pacing me, my race would have been a disaster from start to
finish. Instead it was only a disaster from start to start. Rob helped me
rescue a race that got off to a bad start. He kept me motivated, moving
forward and prevented me from making numerous dumb decisions. Thanks,
Rob!
#2 Just because it worked in training doesn’t mean
it will work on race day — I know this is the opposite of what everybody tells
you and I wouldn’t recommend trying out all new food in your next hundred,
but rules are made to be broken. I’ve had many a secret food that
works great in training, but come race day I’m so sick of it, I can
barely stand the sight of it.
#3 Stay positive and keep things in
perspective — I had hoped to run under 20 hours and finish in the top 10.
Instead, I ran 22:30 and finished 14th. This was not the race I
envisioned, but neither was it the unmitigated disaster it seemed like it
could be at numerous points during the race. It’s also true that sometimes the
races where things go wrong end up being the ones you remember
most. I had a great time out there.
Thanks to Scotty Mills for putting this race on,
and to all the volunteers for making it happen. Thanks to my family, too, for
being there for me through all the training and the race.
