Western States Weekend 2013

Heat. Bloody, ridiculous heat. The Thursday before this year’s Western States weekend, that was my biggest concern. Now, two weeks later, I just remember it all as incredibly fun, and the heat-factor as simply adding to the excitement and challenge. Easy to say, since I didn’t have to run the entire 100 miles, but still. It’s funny how that works.

As with most years, this year I did a combination of volunteering at the race, and pacing for Jamie. An awesome combination of activities for those who didn’t get a slot on the starting line.

Working the check-in table with Stan. (Photo by Chipping Fu)

Friday morning, Stan Jensen and I gave out wristbands at the check-in at Squaw Valley, allowing me to greet each of the runners and wish them luck. It was great fun because I got to chat with many friends, foreign runners, and elites alike, all of whom were excited to be there. There’s an electrical energy coursing through the runners at Western States check-in, and it’s quite contagious.

Checking in Tim.

Jenelle checks in with her crew.

By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, and it was too hot even in Tahoe, I started to worry about the heat. Jamie, with four silver buckles in four years, has been an incredibly consist runner at Western States. She’s also good in the heat, so I knew she’d do well, but triple-digit temps are going to be a huge challenge for anyone. Like me, for example. I even started to worry about my task of pacing 40 miles in the 80-90 degree temps I’d face overnight. Unlike Jamie, I tend to wilt when the mercury rises above 80.

In preparation for my pacing gig, I skipped the start and slept late Saturday morning. By the time I met up with Jamie’s crew (her husband, Jim, and friend, Nicki) in Auburn at 3:00, I felt excited and ready in spite of the heat.

Team Jamie: Nicki, Jim, and me.

Calvin cheers on his mom with his uber cool shades. "Go Mom!"

We headed to Michigan Bluff where we happily absorbed the race drama unfolding all around us. The front of the race had already gone through, but we witnessed some of our speedier friends looking strong, as well as a few elites whose races were already coming apart. We squeezed into the shade with hordes of other crews, discussing strategy for how to help Jamie when she arrived, depending on how she was feeling. I sucked down coconut water, and generally felt that there is no better way to spend an afternoon.

Waiting patiently at Michigan Bluff.

Most brilliant aid station poster ever!

Jamie’s spirits were high, which made us all happy, but she kept apologizing for being slow. Ha! We just rolled our eyes at her and assured her she was not slow. Slow is all relative, I guess. She was about 30 minutes behind her splits from previous years, but I was actually pleased with that. It meant she was wisely dialing things back a bit in the heat.

Walking Jamie out of Michigan.

By the time she arrived at the circus that is the Foresthill aid station, she was charging. She’s a master at getting in and out of aid stations quickly, and soon we were heading down toward the river together.

Leaving Foresthill

Most of the time as a pacer, I think of my job as keeping my runner company, monitoring her nutrition and hydration, and assisting with staying on-course. None of these things is very challenging with Jamie at States, so I don’t usually find pacing too stressful. This year, however, I was also paying a little more attention to her pace because I knew sub-24 in the extreme heat would be a tall order. I also had pacing duties from Foresthill to the finish, instead of just Foresthill to Green Gate, which is my usual gig. Somehow, I felt this meant I had to take things more seriously.

She made great time to the river, and the water as we crossed felt wonderful. I even wished it had been colder since, even though it was 11:30 at night, it was still painfully warm out. I would have dunked myself completely under if not for the cell phone in the top of my hydration pack.

At the far side of the river, I calculated that we had made up 15 minutes on 24-hour pace since Foresthill. I was excited! I knew if she could make up another 15 minutes by Highway 49, she still had a chance at sub-24. Although she was still passing people and moving up in the race, I could see by ALT at mile 85 that we were unlikely to make that goal. I felt like she was moving strong, but the watch is always so damn honest.

I didn’t mention the unlikelihood of sub-24 to her at this point, for fear it would take some of the wind out of her sails. I figured my job was still to keep her positive and focused on moving forward. By the time we reached No Hands, I know it had to be obvious to her, but it wasn’t until our watches actually hit 5:00, on the climb up to Robie, that she acknowledged it. And in the predawn light above the glow of the river, we kissed her sub-24 streak goodbye with a few philosophical words. Sad, but in its own way, kind of beautiful. I couldn’t criticize her for feeling a little disappointed in spite of an incredibly impressive race because I totally understood it. I would have felt the same way. But every race is different and can’t really be held to the same expectations as its predecessors. And thank God for that, or running a hundred miles might start to get boring.

Two days later, she said this Western States was her favorite. With the exception of my one time as a racer, I think it was mine, too.

At the finishline with my badass best friend.

The finish line at Placer High was its usual, emotional site of joy. I witnessed many friends make their lap around the track, and I cried every single time, starting with Jamie.

Clare, Scott, and Jamie after Scott's finish.

Was it hot? I barely remember. I just know that Jamie kicked ass and never gave up. I was lucky to be there. One of the beauties of Western States is that, even though it’s hard to get into the race, it’s so easy to be a part of it.

Western States Weekend 2012

This year, I was once again lucky enough to be a part of the magic that is the Western States Endurance Run. After a stint of volunteering in the morning with communications at Robinson Flat, I was excited to be crewing and pacing for my good friend, Jamie.

The aid station crew at Robinson, trying to stay dry before the runners arrive.

 I think the weather took everyone a bit by surprise, and we spent time wrapped in down jackets and rain coats, huddled under the shade structures before things really got rolling.

The radio crew.

Volunteering with my dad at Robinson. We don't look cold, do we?

As the runners came through, they were in a variety of states. Many looked great, but you could tell the cold and wet conditions caused some to suffer.  The predicted 30% chance of showers overnight had let loose with a full-blown, cold spring storm throughout the morning. It's simply not what you prepare yourself for at Western States!

When Jamie came through, it was clear the weather had taken a toll on her. She hates the cold, and she was not happy.

Crewing with Jim at Robinson Flat.

Nonetheless, she showed the true spirit of an ultrarunner. She got what she needed, and headed out, hoping things would get better. When you're fairly miserable at mile 30, it makes 70 miles seem even farther than it normally would. It was tough to see her in such a low spot because she's always been so positive at this race, but it happens to everyone at some point, and I knew she could handle it.

Some hours later, Jim and I were at Michigan Bluff to see how the canyons were treating her.

John Trent, arriving at Michigan Bluff. He looked so great with that smile coming into Michigan, I had no idea the canyons had been rough for him. John is one of the kindest most gracious people you will ever meet, and he achieved his 1000 mile buckle with this sub-24 finish. Way to go, John! 

Jamie, coming into Michigan Bluff at mile 56.

Her resident Western States smile was only half evident, but I could tell by her strong running pace as she came into the aid station that she was much improved from how she'd been feeling at mile 30. Whew!

Going strong at Michigan Bluff.

The next stop was Foresthill which was, as usual, abuzz with activity. Runners everywhere, and friendly, familiar faces. No time for socializing though, as I geared-up to run Jamie from there to Green Gate.

Ready to pace!

Have you ever seen anyone so overdressed to leave Foresthill during daylight? I also had gloves and arm warmers in my pack. After the frigid morning, I was afraid of getting cold! Also, I lost my running shades, so I had to wear a ridiculous pair of sunglasses that were floating around in my car. Sexy, no? They actually worked great.

Coming into Foresthill

Jamie came flying into Foresthill, and I knew it was game-on. The smile was there, but it was also tempered by a look of serious determination. She had come back from a slow start and was now under 24-hour pace. She barely stopped at the aid station long enough for them to weigh her, clearly set on making up for lost time. There would be no messing around now on the way to the finish!

Jamie gets props from Kirk on our way out of Foresthill.

We headed off toward the Middle Fork and I suddenly remembered how much I love this trail. I'd done much less training on it this year, as compared to the previous two years, and it was so much fun to be out there on race day!

Jamie was in good spirits, and we chatted continuously for the first 5 or 6 miles. The pace was solid, and I reveled in the simple joy of being out there with a friend, moving my legs on the trail.

Shortly after the first aid station, she began to pick up the pace even more. I was loving it! Her pace from Foresthill to the river was her fastest of the entire day. I wish I could take some kind of credit for this, but it was all her.

Here she is at Rucky Chucky where they momentarily discussed holding her because her weight was up.

Weighing in at Rucky Chuck

According to the scale she was up 9 lbs from Foresthill, which is a lot for a small person. She and I were both incredulous. There's no way that was accurate! I'd kept tabs on her nutrition and hydration, which were both solid, and she was clearly feeling great. I think her strong state was also apparent to the medical staff, because they decided to let her continue.

And last but not least, the river crossing. This was pretty fun for me because in both of my previous experiences at Western States (pacing Jamie in 2010 and racing in 2011) we crossed in rafts.

The water was about waist deep, and not too cold. There were a ton of people there to help keep you safe, and it was pretty fun.

Right at the end, my camera came out of my pack when I was putting it back on, and I couldn't find it. I didn't have much time to look, as I had to chase Jamie up the hill. I let it go without too much emotion. It's just a camera. A few minutes later however, a volunteer came running up behind me with my camera in hand. Oh thankyouthankyou kind and wonderful volunteer!!! I was stoked.

After the climb out, I handed Jamie off to her second pacer and wished them well. I knew she would continue her strong finish. (She did, running a 23:21!)

I really wanted to head to the finish line myself to see Jamie and other friends cross the line. I wasn't feeling well though, and by the time I got back to my car I was shivering. I knew I needed to get home and sleep, so that's what I did. (The responsible choice is always kind of a drag, isn't it?)

Western States is always fun. This year I was reminded that we should be prepared for any kind of weather at any race. I got further glimpses at the complex logistics of putting this thing on. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing a friend come back from a tough place in her race to run stronger than ever. I bonded with so many other crews, people I just met, during numerous shuttle rides in and out of aid stations. And, I determined that Metallica's S&M is the perfect soundtrack to keep you awake on a 2:00 A.M. drive home.

Western States, I'll see you next year!

Tahoe Rim Trail Endurance Run 2011

Sunrise over Spooner Lake

I stood in the early morning darkness wrapped in a down jacket and smiling at friends. A small crowd sporting running shorts and arm warmers, accessorized with a variety of hydration packs and the occasional pair of trekking poles, gathered under the pines. The casual milling-about of the runners belied the enormity of the task they were about to begin. In what has become something of a tradition for mid-July, I stood at the start line of the Tahoe Rim Trail Endurance Runs. In contrast to the previous four years, however, I would not race this day.

It is no understatement to say that this race holds a special place in my heart, having been the setting for my first ultra, my first 100, and countless training miles.  And although I’d already had my own big race weighing on my mind when TRT registration opened back in January, it still felt strange not to sign up for this race. It felt just a teeny, tiny bit sad.

Now, at the start of the 100 Mile, I felt anything but sad. Later in the day I would be at this exact spot to pace my good friend Donald through the second half of his race. Standing next to me, chatting with fellow racers, he looked perfectly at ease. I was excited for him!

Pre-race with Donald. Read his race report here!

Being present at the start was a bit of indulgence on my part: Donald didn’t need me here, and I’d already been offered a ride later in the day so I could have chosen to sleep in. Considering that I would be up all night pacing, it would have been the prudent choice. No one has ever really called me practical though, and I just couldn’t resist being a part of the magic on the start line.

The runners headed off into the darkness, kicking up a small dust storm in their wake. I cheered them on, mentally wished them well, and immediately turned to welcome friends who had already arrived to race the 50 Mile and 50K races that started an hour later.

Clare and Scott, ready to take on the 50M!

Tim, John, Annie and Katie show the joy and dedication of the TRT family by taking on a day full of various racing, pacing, and volunteer duties.

Julie and Betsy stay warm before the 50K.

After a relaxing morning, I spent time socializing at the Diamond Peak aid station. Familiar faces presided, both as spectators and racers, and I cheered friends through the aid station.

A woman on a mission: Jen Benna shows how it's done, leaving Diamond Peak. Read her beautiful and inspiring race report here.

50 mile runner Paul Sweeny.

Jenny Capel is relaxed and casual in the 50 mile race.

Donald came through in good spirits, stating that he felt good and thought he had started conservatively – both good things at mile 30!

Amy is all smiles with only 20 miles to go.

Jamie Frink heads off to the nasty hill at Diamond Peak.

Jack, Chet, and Steve, fueling up and swapping stories at Diamond Peak.

I returned to the start/finish area in plenty of time to see finishers in the 50K and 50 mile events while I waited for Donald to show up. The standard ultra fare had me smiling: Some folks looked great, while others were puking repeatedly. Some 100 milers were hanging out at the aid station hoping to settle unhappy stomachs while 50K finishers sat nearby draining the keg of Sierra. I only had a teeny tiny beer with Betsy while I waited for Donald. I promise!

Sarah and Tom, ready to head out for Tom's second lap.

Mark Tanaka assured me that since he is a doctor, it was okay for him to pop some ibuprofen at mile 50.

Hanging out with Tina while we wait for our pacing duties to begin.

Badass 50M finishers Jenny and Jamie.

When you’re waiting to start pacing someone in a 100 miler there is always a certain amount of anxiety: Did I get here in time? Did my runner come through already? Did I miss him while I was in the outhouse?

None of those things happened of course, but even though I was there early, I immediately checked with the aid station to make sure he hadn’t already been through.

Then when your runner’s expected arrival time comes and goes, there’s further anxiety: What happened? Is he okay? Did he get hurt or lost? Did he come through and I didn't see him?

I knew this was all paranoia on my part, especially since his “expected arrival time” was my own ball-park estimate. Sure enough, he showed up shortly, intact and ready to hammer out the remaining 50 miles.

It occurred to me at some point during my waiting that I was not the least bit worried about running 50 miles through the dark on rugged mountain trails. Considering that 30 miles at Hardrock had completely kicked my butt the week before, this seemed a bit surprising. However, I recognized that I had several things going for me on this particular evening, such as: A) I had an additional week of recovery from Western States, B) I would be running on terrain I was comfortable with and knew very well, and C) … Well, see point “B” again. I love this course!

Truthfully, I couldn’t have asked for a better pacing experience. The night was filled with friends at aid stations, perfume from wildflowers, moonlight on snow, sunrise views over Lake Tahoe, chilly winds, and warm fires. Donald handled himself beautifully over a beast of a course, and I felt like I just got to sit back and smile at the whole experience.

I had geared up with arm sleeves, my Icebreaker wool top, Houdini windbreaker, hat and gloves, but the night air still felt frigid – much colder than it had been at either of my own races at the TRT 100. At one point I saw a runner heading towards us dressed in a down jacket, and I did not think it totally unreasonable! I was glad I had dressed warmly, but I would have been even happier with a pair of tights instead of my shorts. I worried about Donald at first, with only a light windbreaker and gloves to add to his shorts and t-shirt, but he seemed to manage just fine, as he did with everything that night.

We both had just a bit of trouble tearing ourselves away from the fire at Diamond Peak, especially knowing what we were about to face. Two miles straight up the ski run, and Donald kept a pace I could barely hang on to. The only reason I managed to keep up was pure pride: I couldn’t let a guy with 80 miles on his legs kick my butt!

Darkness gave way to morning on the return trip, transforming the surrounding landscape. From moonglow, to first light, to full sun, the ever changing palette of colors captivated me.

Watching Donald come across the finish line, and spending a few minutes afterward with other racers and volunteers, was more gratifying than I would have expected. I hadn't run a hundred miles, but I'd been there to witness a good friend accomplish something pretty tough. Maybe it's because I have run this 100 twice before that I felt a taste of that mix of emotions that comes with finishing it. That, along with the immense pride I felt for my friend, had me glowing almost as much as if I'd run the race myself.

Following up my goal race at Western States with two wonderful pacing experiences was a great way to head into summer. In fact, I realized pacing is something I’d like to do more of, especially when I’m not feeling the itch to race myself. I didn’t experience any post-race depression after States, even though there had been a huge mental buildup, and I think that’s largely due to the fact that I had support roles at Hardrock and TRT on the calendar. It wasn’t until after TRT was over that I began to wonder what to do with myself for the rest of the summer.

Every time I pace someone I come away with new lessons. From Paige I learned about pacing, from Jamie about speed, and from Betsy about pure grit and toughness. Donald, he taught me about focus. There were times when he wasn’t feeling well. His stomach bothered him. He had a monster hill to climb. It was freezing cold and windy. He had to negotiate snowy slopes. But he never got down, never stopped moving forward, never lingered at aid stations, never lost focus. Even in the last ten miles, when things were at their very hardest, he seemed only to become more determined.

A brilliant example of what it takes to run a hundred miles.    

Trail running for me is a journey of the heart and mind, even more so than the body, and getting to share in someone else’s 100 mile experience is a joy and a privilege. Adding pacing to my list of experiences at TRT was an excellent decision! I feel certain I'll always come back to this race in some form or another. (Next year I'm thinking about running the 50M.) Whether I'm pushing myself, or supporting others to do the same, TRT is one of the best, friendliest, and most beautiful places to do it.

Beauty and Fear at the Hardrock 100 (A Pacer's Report)

People think running 100 miles is hard. 

Well, yes. It is.

Imagine, then, during your 100 mile journey enduring multiple lightning storms at the top of 13,000 foot passes, constant rain, dangerous river crossings, steep, icy passes requiring fixed ropes, nearly 34,000 feet of elevation gain and loss, tricky route-finding, and an average elevation of over 11,000 feet.

That is the adventure faced by runners in the Hardrock 100.

The town of Silverton, where the race starts and finishes, sits nestled at 9,305 feet in the heart of the San Juan Mountains of Colorado. A remnant of early mining industries, it seems a wonder to me that roads and towns even exist in such rugged terrain. Peaks still carrying their white winter coats jut up everywhere, questioning our right to be there. Will they let us travel through, and explore their vastness? The desire to throw myself into such rugged beauty is overwhelming, and the fear makes my heart pound.

Betsy, her seven-year-old daughter Lizzie, and I made the two day drive out from Truckee in Betsy’s white Tacoma, “Betty White” – a group of tough chicks, headed for some tough mountains. We picked up Betsy’s step-dad, Dave, in Salt Lake City, and the crew was assembled. Betsy was ready to run her 11^th Hardrock with Dave and Lizzie crewing, while I was stoked to be pacing her from mile 40 to mile 70.

The Crew: Dave, Jay, Lizzie, Betsy, Me

Pre-race activities at the Kendall Mt. ski area were filled with the usual excitement and jitters that precede a 100 mile race. Still in the afterglow from my own 100 miler, I felt relieved not to be racing myself. This was my first time in these mountains. I knew the course was a beast, and I felt nervous enough just going out there for 30 miles.

The pre-race briefing did little to calm my nerves. Talk of heavy snow still on the course and steep, icy passes made me wonder just what I was getting into. I’m no stranger to such terrain, but I generally cover it with an ice axe in hand. Warnings about staying off high ridges during lightening storms made me think twice about the wisdom of carrying such tools. I was seriously considering carrying my tent stakes as self-arrest tools, and to my dismay, several race veterans said that wasn’t a bad idea.

Oh my God. Thank God I am not running this race! These people are crazy! I mean, this is a whole new level of crazy. I am so never going to run this race!

I figured Betsy would reassure me after the meeting that it was always like this. No big deal. Unfortunately she seemed to be a bit freaked-out as well, and we ran off to the sports store in search of YakTracks. (All they had were Stable-icers, which suck in anything except complete ice, but we bought them anyway, just in case.)

I confess to feeling rather foolish about being so nervous when I was only running 30 miles. I worried that Betsy would have to take care of me instead of the other way around. I also worried that my obvious fears were not inspiring the appropriate level of confidence in my runner. When, while socializing with other runners, I suddenly realized Darcy Africa was reassuring me about the course conditions, I knew it was time to shut up, quit acting like such a wimp, and pretend I could do this thing.

We were on our way to dinner the night before the race when Lizzie, who had been sporting one adorable sundress after another on the entire trip, denied the offer of a coat with a shake of her head and the simple truth, “I’m from Truckee!”

I threw my head back in laughter! How many times had I scoffed at someone and thrown out those exact words? Translation: “I’m not worried, I’m tough.”

Usually though, this phrase has a way of coming back to bite me in the ass. For example, someone at work (in Reno) warns me about a patch of ice on the walkway. I respond with a wave of the hand and an “I’m from Truckee.” Then I promptly slip on the ice, barely saving myself from certain broken bones.

Yeah. So I try not to be so arrogant anymore, and I was already sure the phrase “I’m from Silverton” would carry a lot more weight. But I still love that Lizzie doesn’t need a jacket in the chilly mountain air because she is from Truckee.

After 130 men and 15 women set off on their trek through the mountains, Dave, Lizzie, and I grabbed breakfast and headed to the first aid station at mile 8.4 to crew. After 15 minutes, my neck hurt from gawking up at the steep terrain. Waterfalls poured off sheer, green hill sides, fed by the plentiful snowpack above. Crowds of supporters cheered their friends and family members. As runners made their way through the aid station, I finally felt the first pangs of sorrow at not racing.

God this is awesome! I love ultras. I need to get another race on the calendar. Not this one though. This is way too much for me. These people are crazy. But they’re still completely awesome!

Betsy makes her way down into Grouse Gulch.

Late in the day, I stood at the Grouse Gulch aid Station, about mile 40, still making gear selections while I waited for Betsy to arrive. From here I would join her for 30 miles, running up over Engineer’s Pass, down into Ouray, up over Virginius Pass, and down into Telluride. I scanned the sky and decided to bring my windbreaker instead of a full-on rain jacket since it didn’t look like it was going to rain.

A weather forecaster, I am not.

I ended up wearing tights and short sleeves with arm warmers. In my pack I brought my Icebreaker wool top, windbreaker, warm hat, and gloves. I didn’t bust out the Icebreaker until the top of Virginius, but otherwise, I was wearing all of that for most of the 13 hours of pacing.

Betsy arrived looking strong, but feeling a bit worked from her ascent of 14,048 foot Handies Peak. Together, we began the long grind to the top of Engineer’s Pass.

Tangible reminders of the miners to whom the race is a salute.

As we steadily gained altitude, I noticed dark clouds moving in. I refrained from comment, as Betsy seemed pretty focused, and I knew we would simply have to deal with whatever weather Mother Nature decided to throw our way.

As the day faded to night, I looked up and down the mountain and saw us in the middle of a cheerful string of headlamps– runners and pacers paired up, making their way toward the mountain pass.

A bank of fog swooped in to surround us, cutting the visibility to near zero. Our headlamps barely penetrated the thick cloud. There was nothing to do but keep climbing.

Soon thunder and lightning commenced their frightening dance on nearby peaks. The worse things got, the less we spoke, and stress filled the air like the surrounding electricity. I counted the seconds between flashes and booms. 12 seconds. 7 seconds. 4 seconds. By the time I got to two seconds, I quit counting. The clouds let loose and soaked us through.

It suddenly occurred to me that we weren’t really in a fog bank. We were near the top of a 13,000 foot pass in the belly of a thunder cloud. And we just kept climbing.

At the top, Betsy knew we needed to look for a turn off to the right. It’s a good thing she knew, because I’m not sure I would have realized we had to take a dive off the fire road, cross country, down the side of the mountain. Betsy took the lead as we wiped the rain from our eyes, and sloshed down an expanse of alpine tundra that was a soggy as we were.

And then I learned about Hardrock.

The fog lifted and the thunder and lightning abated, though sadly not the rain. The course was marked with metal stakes with reflective tags, and it now became a game of going marker-to-marker down the mountain. In the same way that mountaineers follow wands to navigate safely back down a mountain, we ran to a marker, and immediately had to sight for the next one in order to know where to go. This constant stress of navigation is one of the many challenges of this course, and I took the lead to give Betsy a break.

Where’s the next marker? Okay, found it. Now where’s the next one?

And on it went, just like that.

The Engineer’s aid station is a small affair where the volunteers hike in and bring supplies via horses. They had a roaring fire going, but it still didn’t feel too enticing to stand around when it was raining so hard. Betsy is a master at not wasting time in aid stations. She refilled her hydration pack, I grabbed a PBJ square, and we were outta there. Back to following the markers.

The downhill continued, and the next big challenge was a series of creek crossings. First we had to cross Bear Creek. It was deep and swift, but fortunately the surrounding terrain wasn’t steep, so it didn’t look like it would sweep you away to an icy death if you fell. Betsy crossed with her trekking poles and then handed them back across to me. The water was about knee deep, splashing to mid-thigh, but the force of the current made me grateful for the stability of the trekking poles. Without them, the creeks may have thwarted Betsy’s race.

We crossed Bear Creek one more time, and then proceeded to parallel it down into a steep gorge. The markers finally led us onto a trail which was cut into the side wall of the gorge, and took us across several drainage creeks that led down into Bear Creek. With all the rain, these little creeks were raging, and they provided some of the biggest challenges yet.

“I’m not crossing that!” Betsy declared adamantly as we approached one such drainage. We had already successfully navigated four creek crossings, albeit with a certain amount of terror. This one was on a steeper slope, so it was moving faster, but I knew if we’d crossed the others, we could do this one too.

“I’ll cross it first,” I tried to reassure her. “I’ll see where the footing is good, then come back and help you across.”

I was less than excited about crossing it three times, but I felt pretty confident we could cross it, and I knew it was my job to help get my runner safely across.

“You don’t know what’s down there.” She waved her hand toward the creek cascading over the side of the gorge toward Bear Creek. “I Do!”

It was dark, but it was easy to see that the consequences of a fall could be deadly.  I crossed carefully, against Betsy’s objections, and was pleased to discover the water wasn’t as deep as it first appeared. When I turned around to go back, two runners had come up behind us and were already helping Betsy across. I didn’t have to go back. Sweet!

As we continued down what felt like a never ending descent (the longest on the entire Hardrock course, it turns out), the trail became more technical and I could feel my quads crying out in protest. Perhaps I wasn’t as recovered from Western States as I thought. I focused on careful steps, determined not to hurt myself.

This race is insane. I can’t believe people do this for a hundred miles. I can’t believe I’m only going 30 and it’s still this hard. I have to remember to never sign up for this race!

We dropped lower and lower toward the town of Ouray on the Bear Creek trail, and finally the rain stopped. Now the trail was a sheer drop to our left, above what I began to think of as the Raging River of Death. Numerous people had warned me not to fall on this section, and I continued my focus on careful steps.

The rocks underfoot were flat pieces of shale, and they clanked with every step.

“It’s like being at a Greek Wedding,” a runner coming up behind me declared. I waited in confusion for the explanation. “We just keep breaking plates!”

I laughed out loud. This runner didn’t even have a pacer, but he had a great attitude. I think that might be more important than a great pacer.

My feet were beginning to thaw out since we hadn’t crossed a creek for at least 30 minutes. We both hoped we were approaching Ouray, but the Raging River of Death still roared below. I rounded a corner in the trail when a huge gust of wind caught me and knocked me off balance. Don’t fall here! I steadied myself with a wide-eyed sigh. Thunder, lightning, rain, swollen creeks. What else would be thrown at us in this God-forsaken race?

And just like that, it started to rain again.

Eventually we saw the cluster of lights that, like a beacon of hope, signaled the town of Ouray. In the aid station Betsy actually took a few minutes to sit down while Dave refilled her pack. This was confirmation of what I already knew but what Betsy wouldn’t admit – that she wasn’t feeling so hot.

I had been bonking myself in the last several miles of downhill, but with the tricky footing, course navigation, and creek crossings with which to contend, a silly thing like eating had slipped my mind. I made up for it at the aid station, with a large bowl of mac & cheese, a V-8, and a smattering of goodies for desert.

The long hike up from Ouray felt good to me after so much downhill. Betsy was in better spirits, and clearly feeling stronger.

One of the things we had talked about on the drive out to Colorado was Betsy’s plan to run this race in honor of her friend Allison, who had died that spring in a back country skiing accident. Alison was an accomplished outdoor athlete (climber, skier, ultrarunner, etc.) who was dearly loved in the Tahoe community and known for wearing glitter, sparkles, and feathers into the back country. One way Betsy planned to keep Allison’s spirit with her at Hardrock was by wearing glitter and adorning other runners and volunteers as well.

Thus we sparkled our way into the Governor’s aid station and their offer of soup was met with Betsy’s query, “You want some glitter?”

This became my measure of how she was feeling. When she dabbed glitter onto the faces of volunteers and explained about Allison, I knew her mental state was good. We laughed at the various reactions of the startled, and sometimes confused, volunteers, and we added more glitter to our own sweaty faces. I think sharing the spirit of someone like Allison – someone so strong and vibrant – can only help you in an intense race like Hardrock. It helps you maintain a positive perspective and recall just why you’re out there – to live fully by connecting to the beauty of this world and by pushing ourselves to see just what we can do. Although I barely knew Allison, I definitely felt her spirit out there cheering us on through our tough, beautiful, and glittery run through the mountains.

After we left Governor’s, it was time to approach Virginius Pass. With all of the challenges on the stretch from Engineer’s to Ouray, I had forgotten that this was supposed to be the hardest part of my 30 mile pacing stretch. I had forgotten that thoughts of this pass interfered with my sleep the night before. Suddenly, here it was before us.

“Look for markers up to the left,” Betsy instructed. “We go straight up this snow slope.”

I could see headlamps moving way up the pass, telling me that we would be leaving the dirt behind for quite some time. I tried to shine my headlamp up the slope in search of markers, but something was wrong. My headlamp was clearly dying.

“Crap!”

“What?” Betsy asked.

“Oh … I just kicked a rock. I’m fine.” I didn’t think it was such a great idea for me to tell my runner I might need to rely on her light.

God, I’m the worst pacer ever!

Finally we saw the markers leading us up the snow. At the base of the climb, two runners in front of us stopped to put on their micro spikes. I saw that one of them had an ice axe. Envy swelled in my chest.

 Why don’t I have one of those? What happens if I fall? Can I self-arrest with this trekking pole? God I wish I had my YakTrax!

The snow was softer than expected – firm, but with a thin soft layer on top. This meant that A) We would get some traction, but also that B)Our Stable-icers would be worthless. I glanced down the steep slope to see what the consequences of a fall might be and wished I hadn’t. There would be no more looking down allowed!

I started up behind Betsy and slowly we made our way up the slope. As things got steeper and I started getting nervous, I took some time to kick each step a little more firmly into the snow. Running shoes aren’t the best footwear for kicking steps, and each time I slipped a tiny bit I felt a shot of adrenaline spurring me on. When I heard a small whimper escape my throat, I knew I was getting scared.

I started berating myself.

You’re the pacer. You’re supposed to be supportive, not scared! You’ve done things like this plenty of times before. Mountain girl-Up! For crying out loud, YOU’RE FROM TRUCKEE!

And then I took a breath and remembered how to handle myself when I’m scared in the back country. I pause, even if it’s just for a moment, and appreciate the surrounding beauty. There is something about those fear-filled moments that makes the world around you come alive. Your senses sharpen, and it’s like nothing else exists but you and that beauty, right then. It’s one of the most powerful parts of pushing your limits in the wilderness. You’re scared, yes, but you’ve never appreciated life more than you do at that moment.

And when I did look up from my own feet in the snow, I almost cried. The sky was just barely light with the first hint of dawn – that time of day where things are a dark, gray-blue with just a suggestion of pink, but you can still see the stars.  A vast landscape of rugged mountains stretched before me in a soft, gray outline, their snowy shoulders aglow. I knew there was no place else I’d rather be.

I continued my ascent with a smile. The fear was still there, but it was calm and focused. It made me strong rather than weak.

I have no idea how long we spent on the snowy trek up Virginius. I remember climbing it with two other runners behind who kept thanking me for setting a mellow pace. Their lighthearted humor kept me relaxed as we crossed snow bridges over icy creeks, and came to the final, steepest  pitch which was adorned with a fixed rope.

That last part was actually fun; I’m comfortable when I’ve got a rope from above. I paused several times to look behind me at the landscape as the approaching sun slowly unveiled its beauty. Upon reaching the summit at Kroger’s Canteen, Roch Horton and his boys promptly sat us down, wrapped sleeping bags around our shoulders, and handed us hot soup.

“You want some glitter?” was the inquiry to the crowd at large, and Betsy proceeded to add a little sparkle to the Canteen.

I love this race! This is so freaking awesome! I love where we are right now. Look at how beautiful this is. Love it!

The long descent to Telluride, however,  was something less than loveable. My quads screamed even louder than before, and I had to stay focused in order to keep the pace.

Oh thank God I get to stop in Telluride! My legs are dead. I can’t even imagine how these people run 100 miles through this – I can barely handle 30! I could never do it. Never!

We had a brief conversation wherein Betsy tried to suggest that she should just stop in Telluride, and I pretended like she wasn’t serious. I knew she wasn’t feeling well. I knew her splits were way off all of her previous races at Hardrock. I also knew she was going to finish, even if she didn’t want to at that particular moment. She voiced the thought a few more times, and I simply reviewed what gear she could probably drop at the next aid station and reminded her to get some solid food there before leaving.

For myself, however, I was honestly grateful to be finished running. I changed my clothes and crawled into the back of the truck to sleep while Betsy picked up her next pacer, Jay, and headed off to face another day on the trails. That is one tough woman.

She finished in what she summed up as her “personal worst,” but she still had a smile on her face when she did it.

After the awards breakfast I was honored to hang out with the Hardrockers, who, although I didn’t know most of them before, are at least as wonderful as ultrarunners everywhere.

A number of memorable conversations took place outside the tent by the finishline that morning. Including Betsy’s progressive statements of: “This is my last Hardrock.”; “I’m probably not coming back.”; and “I think I’ll take a year off.”

The same attitude was summed up well by Roch: “I’m like an alcoholic – I tried to quit Hardrock, but I just need one more!”

And ultimately it’s all said best by Betsy’s explanation of her race to Jared: “It’s just so intense every moment. I was falling asleep, then we were heading up Grant’s Swamp and suddenly there was lightning and thunder all around. The rain soaked us, the hail stung our faces, and the thunder was so loud we couldn’t talk, and I was like – Okay! I’m awake now! And it’s just so crazy, but then you look down and see this amazing wildflower and think, God, that is so beautiful! It just forces you to appreciate every single tiny moment.”

And it is a beautiful race. Crazy, crazy beautiful.

The trip home was a bit of an ultra itself, pushing from the San Juans back to Truckee in a single day. Of course there was much conversation of a return to Hardrock. I feel the pull of this race, even though everything about it scares me to death. If running 100 miles is about exploring our limits, then Hardrock is about crossing those limits and finding out just who we are on the other side. I can’t say I’m quite ready to run it myself, but it does stir up my emotions in a way I can’t explain.

I’m so inspired by Betsy, and all the runners. I still have trouble wrapping my brain around the feat of finishing Hardrock. A race like this ignites extraordinary fear. And that’s exactly why it’s so tempting.

Truckee Girls!