A slam dunk

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Where do I begin? I thought about this moment on more than one occasion during the race. Actually, the thought was more about being in a position to describe a successful account, than the detail of its content. Now it is funny to think about and reflect on those long hours wondering through the Wasatch high country because looking back it all feels like it happened so fast. No, I’m not trying to kid myself that I traversed those hills like a speed demon, it is just that with hindsight while it took 28:43 hours to complete the Wasatch Front 100 it feels little more then the blink of an eye in my memory.

During the three weeks before the race I didn’t cover many miles. My right knee had been bothering me and after a run of just a few miles it would stiffen up making it difficult to even lift it over obstacles on the trail. I alternated between days where I’d walk and days when I’d try and run as race day drew closer. My longest outing during those three weeks was a 13 mile bimble around the loop of the Bluff course. The day after, Guthrie applied Kinesio tape either side of the knee cap, she has been interested in this stuff for a while and looked upon me as the perfect guinea pig – it’s so nice to feel wanted! Miraculously, the tape did the trick and as we walked around Salt lake City last Thursday I couldn’t stop feeling excited at the prospect of heading up into the hills of the Wasatch Range.

We arrived late on Wednesday and quickly found our hotel situated close to the airport. The following morning we slowly roused and ate breakfast. Heading out we drove to the start to the north of the city to ensure we wouldn’t get lost the following morning. We then went back into town for the pre-race brief. Wasatch is renowned for the brevity of its briefing. “We have amongst us several notable athletes”; announced the race director. “Some are former winners of Wasatch, some are running the race for the 20^th time, and we have runners from overseas. But in the finest tradition of the Wasatch 100, we’re not going to acknowledge any of them!” The reasoning is that at Wasatch every competitor is considered worthy. The comment drew laughter from the crowd and when you think about it, it is quite a nice sentiment, a reflection that within trail running there does seem to be a kindred spirit between those taking part be it runner, crew or volunteer. That spirit certainly comes through at this race. At the briefing we met up with Sandy who had flown in to crew her friend Tammy. Tammy and fellow runner John had also been at Vermont in July.

At 5 am the following morning a ten second countdown heralds the start we head off into the darkness. The trail is narrow and very dry. Almost immediately sections of it disappear in clouds of dust kicked up by runners in front. The route ‘gently undulates’ around a hillside before beginning to climb. The going continued to be dusty and rocky underfoot. The climb got steeper until it finally crested a ridge. Peering over the ridge was one of many memorable moments of the race. The last few feet of climb were a real hand over hand scramble. The surface was covered with fine loose rocks that were also strewn with wild thyme which filled the air with a wonderful aroma after being trod on by previous runners. Then as you crested the ridge, a vast panorama over the Great Salt Lake appeared in the early morning light. It was enough to briefly forget the sensation of wearing your lings on the outside of your chest at the end of the climb!

From then on the course just gets better and better. You’re high up traversing a ridge with expansive views to the left or right, sometimes both. It is hard to imagine trail running being any better. The trail continues to be narrow and is frequently covered by over hanging vegetation that conceals rocks or stumps cut during maintenance. To stay upright needs lots of concentration and the occasional quick reaction in order to stop falling. We pass through meadows of wild sage now dried up as the fall approaches, but again the crushing from earlier feet has released its aroma into the air. As the sun rises so does the temperature and by 10 am I’m grateful for the cap I bought at WSER that has a flap to shade my neck. I try to drink plenty and often but my weight has dropped 5 pounds by the first check point. Nothing drastic but enough to be mindful as the miles pass and the temperature continues to rise. Lambs Canyon approaches and runners are showing signs of strain from the heat. I pass one guy lying on the ground and ask if he needs help. He asks for water but all I have is a mouthful of Gatorade and silently pray he doesn’t want it, cause I did! He passes up on the offer and assures me he’ll be OK. I head off and alert the aid station just 15 minutes or so down the trail.

The slog through the heat continues, each fresh climb reminds you that you’ve already done several others! My stomach starts to get tired of the sweet drinks and PB&J I’m eating. I puke a few times, slow my pace and drink smaller amounts but more frequently. The queasy sensation eased but remained throughout the day and into the night. By then though I was on a mission, although this is a beautiful course, I don’t want to HAVE to run it again next year – know what I mean?

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My meetings with Guthrie total just 5 in over 28 hours of running. It always amazes me that someone is willing to give up their day to crew especially for so many hours, but seeing a friendly face now and again is a great boost. At Millcreek I arrived and initially didn’t see her. A volunteer asked if I had a drop bag and I frantically scanned the faces around. Dusk was descending as well as the temperature; I needed a jacket and headlamp for the next section. Then from beneath a fleece blanket out popped her head, thank goodness! Besides having to overcome the chill and darkness without my main lamp, I didn’t relish the prospect of heading off worrying if everything was OK.

My stomach was still feeling temperamental and I accepted a cup of noodles in the hope of a warm and salty brew to settle it. Instead I got Ramon noodles in a bland liquid that conjured images of dish water and I promptly went behind the aid station tent and relieved myself of my stomach contents once more. Time was ticking by, staying wasn’t going to help so armed with yet another PB&J and a few pretzels in a baggy I set out into the night.

For some strange reason, maybe lack of calories, I found staying awake to be a problem. On more than one occasion I noticeably dozed or briefly lost track of where I was and came to in a panic that I might have missed course markers. A couple of times I stepped off the trail and woke with a start. The shock was enough to focus my attention briefly before the sleepy sensation returned. To counter the problem I developed a taste for espresso hammer gels and coffee at every aid station that offered it. You’d think that with the amount of caffeine I consumed I’d be able to remain awake for days, but the buzz lasted about 30 minutes after each ‘shot’.

At the aid station before Brighton, there was a runner fast asleep on a cot. Apparently he had been there about 15 minutes and the volunteers were going to give him 10 more before waking him up. He was fast asleep and looked completely relaxed while outside the tent a chilly breeze blew. I reflected how cozy he looked but thought that perhaps we didn’t know each other well enough and I really should keep going!

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Brighton is where many runners unravel. The aid station is inside a building that greets you with a blast of warm air and the smell of cooked food as you enter. There are bathrooms with warm face cloths and toothbrushes already impregnated with tooth paste – go figure! As if the test to keep going for 100 miles isn’t enough! From Brighton, there is yet another mother of a hill. It starts reasonably enough but then gets steeper and strewn with huge boulders. The chem lights marking to course seem sporadic and each trail junction appears to have too many options to choose from. The next aid station was yet another test of resolve. Each stop was manned by smiling volunteers who couldn’t seem to do enough for you. Bottles would get filled, drinks would appear on request and if necessary snacks would be made to order. I entered the aid station after a long dark section and wanted something hot and uplifting to drink. “We have coffee, broth and fresh pancakes.” Ooh pancakes, something savory. “I take one of each I replied” “Would you like to sit down while I get that for you?” came the reply. Normally sitting down is a mistake but the inside of my stomach felt like it was digesting itself and my heels were starting to feel really sore. “Sure” I replied. Big mistake! I looked around and noticed about 6 other sad saps sitting in a line by the food table. The only spare chair was next to a blazing log fire a few paces away and before I could protest I was plonked into it. The refreshments though quickly arrived and I tried to start packing them down as quickly as I could – man that pancake was good! One of the volunteers asked where I was from. “Connecticut” I replied. “How does someone from the flatlands train for altitude?” “I don’t, I just wing it” and with that I downed my last mouthful and slipped back out into the night, smiling at the thought the guy probably thought I was completely nuts!

The last 25 miles of Wasatch contain some of the nastiest down hills on the course. Steep, dusty descents with little grip sprinkled with roots that stick up and seem to draw your feet towards them like magnets, making it particularly tough going on tired legs.  These conditions continue for several miles, but because I remembered this section from last year, I stayed relaxed, rolled with it (it is what it is, after all) and passed several runners clearly agitated by the experience. Pot Bottom, the aid station, not an affliction affecting delicate parts of your anatomy finally appeared and more pancakes.

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My time was progressing well, my focus was still to finish but if at all possible I want to get home in less than 30 hours and even better if I could, beat last year’s time. Leaving the final aid station I realized that an improved time was a distinct possibility. My stomach started to cooperate and I picked up my pace. There was one last long climb and a sweeping descent down through trees before popping out on the final mile on a paved road. I settled into a steady pace and the road slipped by. Before me was the finish, the end of my tenth 100 and a Grand Slam. It felt almost as good as finishing the first one.

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