Bighorn Wild and Scenic Trail 100 - June 16, 2017

[first published as a Facebook note July 8, 2017; minor edits since then] This ultra was more mentally challenging than any I’ve done previously. I am simultaneously disappointed in the effort and more proud of it than any other run I’ve completed. I have never been as low as I was during the middle of this race, and even with crossing the finish line three weeks in the past, knowing what it took to finish has left me questioning the rest of my running plans this year. While I’m fairly certain that my cognitive biases will take over as I consider future plans, minimizing the magnitude of the negative and accentuating the euphoria of finishing, my primary goal in writing this report is to capture this experience as best I can to better inform what I do next.

This report is long (~9,500 words). There are headings to skip to specific parts, and there is a section at the end on specific lessons I took from this race for those that wish to prioritize.

Prologue - written before the race

I'm beginning my race report a week before the race. I'm aiming to capture how I'm feeling for future reflections and preparations. It's a bit silly, but I am really looking forward to coming back and finishing this report with a tale about a finish (as opposed to last year). So, if I'm honest with myself, this is also a blatant tactic to create an incentive when I'm struggling a week from now [EDIT: it worked].

I'm currently flying back from a two-day business trip across the country to Washington, D.C. and Miami. I returned home from a 10-day trip to New York and Connecticut a week and a half ago, and I have a trip to Austin in two days before flying back to SF to then fly to Montana to then drive to Wyoming for the race. The end of May and the beginning of June have been busy, and my body is not feeling great sitting in this airplane seat, although my luck in snagging an open exit-row seat this morning is giving some welcome extra leg room! I have some nagging pains that seem to be neuromuscular that have not been helped by this travel, but I'm planning to do some running and stretching this weekend to get my body in a good place. I've tapered significantly this week, and in the next few days will focus on sleep, quality eating, and hydration.

My training has been some of the best I've done in preparation for any race. It's been different from the past in that it's had less mileage, but has been focused on time and executing specific, energy-system-focused workouts. I've run 1,201 miles so far this year with a focused plan for this race over the last 5+ months. My faster sessions have contributed to my aches, but I think they have been net positive. I also dropped some pounds I put on during the first couple of months after my son’s birth with adjustments to my diet.

Top chart is weight loss (11 lbs between gray axes), bottom is fat mass loss (5 lbs between gray axes)

Doing this training while balancing work (I was on a 5-week sabbatical during this time last year), figuring out how to be a parent to a cute little baby and husband to a wife who is kicking ass at being a new mom has been challenging, but overall, it’s all gone well.

That said, I had one hiccup, which will go down as another medical edge case on my considerably long lifetime list. About three weeks ago, I was diagnosed with an inguinal hernia. When I went for surgical consultation, the surgeon remarked that my swelling looked to be a bit above where a hernia would normally be found. He sent me for an ultrasound, and after 10ish minutes in a dark hospital room with my mind wandering through worse-case scenarios as the ultrasound technician silently executed her task, the conclusion was that I had a very angry lymph node but nothing else. My alternative hypothesis all along was that the 9 mosquito bites I had managed to get on my left hip earlier in the week made my lymph node work overtime. There were no further tests so I guess we’ll never know, but the swelling reduced over the next few days and training resumed.

This race will be my first of a distance over 50km without a crew, since my first 50 miler when I didn't know that crews were a thing. The aid stations at Bighorn are fantastic, and I'm not worried about being able to get my gear, but going 24+ hours without seeing family and friends will be new experience. I anticipate benefits and drawbacks. And with that, I’ll wait to come back to this note in a week or so!

Pre-race

I attempted Bighorn last year, and as noted above, did not finish. As a result, I made quite a few adjustments to my approach this year, beginning with travel and accommodations. After flying into Bozeman two days before the race (we did a road trip from SF last year), I drove by myself to Sheridan, WY, staying alone for the two nights before the race. Jamie, William, Jane, Bill, Mandi, and Carey would make their way to Sheridan on race day, arriving a few hours after the start with a plan to meet me at the finish in Dayton the next day. As I mentioned above, this race would be done with no crew, which I’ll elaborate on later.

I made my home base at the Historic Sheridan Inn, once home to Buffalo Bill Cody, which was substantially closer to the race start and other amenities (e.g., 3rd wave coffee) than our VRBO last year.

Giddy up!

This made for a low-key couple of days to do final preparations and participate in work conference calls (not a best practice), while checking out Sheridan, which reminded me a bit of my hometown of Stanwood, WA. My meals prior to race day included a Bison ribeye (dinner) and a burger (lunch) at Open Range Bar and Grill, chicken enchiladas at Oliva's Kitchen (pre-race dinner), and cinnamon rolls and lattes (breakfasts) at Andi's Coffee and Bakery. I did a short shake-out run through the streets of Sheridan before doing race check in at the Black Tooth Brewing - Taproom.

Check in was uneventful; I noticed Andy Jones-Wilkins hanging around but wasn’t in a mood to strike up a conversation about Mountain Outpost or any of his writing. I did, however, ask Wendall, the course expert about what he though the weather would be like on the trip up to Jaws at night. He said to expect precipitation from 2a until sunrise and that it might be rain, but it might also be snow. I made a mental note that I should make sure to take my warmest gear from my Footbridge drop bag on the way out.

The only challenge I faced in the days before the race was the Sheridan Inn’s proximity to the train tracks. The train was a bit noisy Wednesday night, but it didn’t bother me on Thursday, the night before the race.

Race Day

pre-race

I got decent sleep the night before the race, something around 6.5 hours (that’s pretty good for me). I tend to sleep fairly well before 100 milers in part I think because they aren’t the kind of endeavor that is aided by the flight instinct (in contrast to shorter races) and because there is no more prep that needs to be done. It’s a pretty straightforward day, and getting keyed up and taking off too fast is a good way to secure a DNF.

After making sure that all my gear was in order, I slowly walked over to Andi’s for coffee and a cinnamon roll. There was a different barista behind the bar, and the young man was clearly new to the job and a bit behind on a larger order placed by a woman who appeared to be embarking on a long road trip. This made for a longer wait than I had anticipated, and I began to get nervous about getting a parking spot at the start.

While I was waiting, ultra celeb Jason Koop walked in. He coaches a few famous elite runners, and all of my training this cycle was based on his book, Training Essentials for Ultrarunning. I met him last year when he was on tour promoting the book and was impressed with his talk and general approach to ultras. He even signed the inside cover of my copy, wishing me luck at Bighorn (apparently it was for this year!). Nevertheless, I wasn’t interested in conversation and passed on the opportunity to strike one up. I should probably stop doing that.

After 15 agonizing minutes, my coffee and cinnamon roll were in my hands, and I slowly walked back to the Inn and to my borrowed Subaru to head to Dayton for the pre-race meeting.

When I arrived in Dayton, I made my way toward the overnight parking lot. Despite only participating in this race once, everything was very familiar. I wasn’t too concerned about being late to the pre-race meeting as I didn’t learn any new information when I attended last year. I was able to secure the last spot in the overnight lot, albeit with a somewhat questionable parking space.

After parking, I left my pack and shoes in the car and walked to the meeting in my flip flops. There was an ever-so-slight drizzle, which prompted me to check the weather forecast one more time. I noted a greater chance for precipitation during the day than I had anticipated; I had likely over-planned for heat given my experience last year and had no rain protection for the first 30 miles. This resulted in a slight panic. Dayton is a small town that likely has no place that sells rain jackets, let alone one you’d want to run 30 miles in. Dayton does, however, have a gas station with a decent-sized convenience store, and given the proximity to the Bighorns, I hypothesized that I could find a plastic emergency poncho there (I had one in my drop bag at mile 48).

I left the meeting a bit early to avoid standing in a restroom line before walking back to grab my pack and lace up my shoes. Before getting my gear, I ventured to the gas station, and sure enough, they sold a variety of emergency ponchos. I opted against the two-pack to save space in my pack, and while I ended up with a slightly higher cost per unit than I could have achieved, I was happy.

Back at the car, I took off my warm-up outerlayer and laced up my shoes. With my pack in hand, I locked the car and headed back to Scott Park to hop in the school bus that would serve as our shuttle to the race start.

On the shuttle, I met a guy named Rob, who lives outside of Denver. As we talked, he asked the most common second question that anyone asks when they learn that I live in San Francisco, “Do you work in the tech industry?” I confirmed that I do, and it turns out that he has worked for Google in Boulder for the last decade, which means that we overlapped when I worked there. He asked about my goal time, and I said 27.5 hours. His eyes got big. His goal was something in the 30s. This concerned me because to look at the two of us, you would definitely predict that he would cover 100 miles much faster than I.

The bus dropped us off about half a mile from the starting line, and we walked down the dirt road to check in. After showing my bib to the race official, I wandered over to a wooden bridge that crosses the Tongue River, along which the race begins, to sit and wait for the call to start. I took a moment to send a few messages, most importantly to note to Jamie the location of the Subaru. Soon enough it was time to line up.

start to dry fork (mile 13)

After a short rendition of the “Star-Spangled Banner” over some questionable portable speakers, we were off. I maintained a very easy pace down the dirt road to the canyon trail, being passed by dozens of runners. Once on the single-track trail, we got bunched up, and settled into a pretty slow jog.

The jog eventually picked up a bit but then gave way to a power hike once we were through the first two aid stations and ascending the 3,000 feet up Horse Creek Ridge. The weather was excellent, if a bit cold once we got to the upper reaches of the ridge. I maintained an easy pace, perhaps too easy for the conditions. I was playing it safe as I thought I pushed this section a bit harder than necessary last year. I also wanted to focus on closing well and was constantly reminding myself to save up reserves for the end.

After the initial descent into the Sheep Creek drainage and the aid station at mile 8, I paid close attention to my pacing on the single track. During this section last year I tripped multiple times, though never fell, and felt exceedingly tired, having the sense that I wanted to lie down and nap. This portion of the race is above 7,000 feet, and much of my lethargy last year was probably due to the altitude. However, this year I felt good, and my feet were nimble as I made my way towards the Dry Fork aid station.

Dry Fork is about 13 miles into the race and is the first aid station where you have a drop bag and can see crew. This was the first moment that I confronted the idea that I would not have any crew during this race. I remembered meeting a 6-months pregnant Jamie here last year and telling her that it was going to be a hard day. I was sad not to see her there this year, but the day was unfolding much better. I was at peace with my choice to go without a crew.

I cruised into the aid station in 220th place of 328 starters, 12 minutes later than last year. I quickly grabbed my drop bag to load up on more gels. This was also the point at which my nutrition plan would begin to be tested. Rather than carry all of my own food this year, I had planned to rely on the “real food” at the aid stations for about half of my calories. I had practiced this in training runs, testing my stomach on Cheez-Its, Goldfish crackers, PB&J sandwiches, and Oreos in addition to the usual maltodextrin- and fructose-based gels I use. I loaded up with some of the aid station’s finest junk food and after only a 7-minute stop, began the 17-mile, mostly gradual, descent to Footbridge aid station.

dry fork (mile 13) to sally’s footbridge (mile 30)

The miles from Dry Fork to Footbridge passed pretty smoothly. There wasn’t much of note, save for a 4-wheel drive truck coming at us at one point, and my eating and drinking went well. The trail was beautiful. I forewent the bacon at Cow Camp and focused on moving easily. I passed a few people on the trail and several more in moving through the aid stations quickly.

The last 3 miles of the descent into Footbridge are breathtaking, and I had been looking forward to seeing them for a year. The wildflowers were fully blooming and the canyon looked majestic in the late afternoon light. The only negative thought during this descent comes when you remember that you have to come back up what you’re going down.

While substantially muddier this year with the famed shoe-sucking mud created by elk herds in full effect, my body found this section much easier this year. I had no lower abdominal pain and managed to descend with minimal impact. As I arrived at Footbridge, my watch told the same story; I was 45 minutes faster over the 17 miles from Dry Fork to Footbridge than last year and at this point well under my goal of 27.5 hours.

I arrived at Footbridge in 165th place of 322 people still running. This was an important stop because I needed to gear up for the night and the potential weather ahead. I changed my top to a hooded long-sleeve and added all of my cold-weather and rain gear to my pack, along with gels. I elected not to change my socks or shoes as my feet felt fine, and I wanted to save the time. I decided not to put on any of my warmer gear just yet as the nadir of the canyon was feeling pretty hot, and the rain was nowhere in sight. I was quick in getting organized, but as I headed out of the aid station, I remembered that I had left my bib on my other shirt, which was now in my drop bag. I hustled back to the drop bag area, found my bag, and transferred my bib before checking out of the aid station, clocking out with a 15-minute stop. Not great in NASCAR but pretty good for a 100-miler and 13 minutes better than last year. I credit not sitting, feeling better overall, and excellent drop-bag organization, which I’ll discuss later.

footbridge (mile 30) to jaws (mile 48)

The first couple of miles of the 18-mile, 4,500-foot ascent to the Jaws aid station and the turnaround were pretty uneventful as they are along the river. I met up with a runner named Colton, who I had been back and forth with during the recent miles. We fell into a good hiking pace together as the ascent became steeper and decided to stick together for a while as we arrived at the Cathedral Rock aid station. The conversation about shared races (he works for Rainshadow Running and was the MC at the The Trail Running Film Fest in SF last year) made the distance pass easily and before we knew it, we were crossing over the Little Bighorn River on the log footbridge. The rain had begun to fall a bit earlier than anticipated, around 9pm, and we both noted that the mud on our shoes was the most treacherous aspect of crossing the bridge.

I was beginning to struggle a bit with the mud being created by the rain. Colton had trekking poles and was getting on much better, but I was able to keep up with him for the most part. We eventually arrived at Spring Marsh, although not after I had fallen a couple of times in the mud (going uphill!). We loaded up with food and water and continued on to what would hopefully be a short 3.5 miles to Elk Camp.

On the way up to Elk Camp, the rain started to come down more heavily and the temperature dropped as the twilight faded. We stopped on the trail to put on rain gear and head lamps. I put on my jacket but not my pants as I was hoping to make it to Jaws, where I could clean the mud of my legs, before putting them on. As we continued up the trail, conditions further deteriorated. The mud became slicker and more sucking, and I fell a couple more times. Colton picked up the pace a bit and I wasn’t able to keep up just before arriving at the Elk Camp aid station.

At Elk Camp, I had a very difficult time filling my water bottles. My hands had become ice cold after being in wet gloves for the hour and twenty minutes the 3.5 mile climb from Spring Marsh had taken us, and I could not unscrew the caps. As I struggled to fill my water bottles, I realized I was taking too long in the aid station, and I was getting cold, to the point that I had a slight shiver. Colton was ready to go so I waved him on and went over to the campfire to warm up. While warming up, I decided that the best course of action was to put on my rain tights. This was the right call, but my still chilly hands were barely able to untie my muddy, soaked shoelaces. Removing my shoes was an additional challenge, but fortunately putting on the tights was easy as they are loose fitting on the upper thighs to accommodate being slipped on over shorts. Once the tights were on, getting my shoes back on my feet felt like a Herculean effort, and success involved several grunts and body contortions.

With shoes back on and tights covering my legs, I was still not warm, but had warmed up enough that the final 4.5 miles to the Jaws aid station would do the rest. I had taken 25 more minutes than intended here and needed to get going. The initial 2 miles were some of the worst conditions, requiring an army crawl at more than one point. As the grade diminished in the last 2 miles of the climb I took stock of how I was feeling heading into Jaws. At this point last year I had been debating whether I’d be able to continue at Jaws for hours. This year, I had no worry that I would make the return trip, despite one of the more challenging climbs I’ve encountered.

I arrived at Jaws in 170th place of 295 runners, having been passed by a few trekking-pole wielding folks during the section from Footbridge. I arrived just after midnight, a couple hours earlier than last year, and at this time of night, Jaws was hopping. Runners were wedged in every which way, most sitting on metal folding chairs with crew hovering above and around them. Several runners were on cots, but the whole tent was filled with energy. And it was warm. I was aided by a volunteer who looked at me with some concern when I told her that I was doing well but a bit cold. I was amused at her concern given the difference in the state I was in this year compared to last, when I had an uncontrollable heavy shiver. She found me a place squeezed in the back corner near one of the gas heaters and fetched my drop bag and brought me some soup. The Jaws aid station is very cozy and there are many people there ready to take care of you. It’s also the easiest drive back to Dayton for the next 34 miles. I did not want to get sucked into being there too long, but I needed to get warm and geared up for the rest of the night. I again opted not to sit in the chair and plowed through my drop bag, focused on getting my warmest gear on.

I decided that while I had a fresh pair, I would keep my tights on. They had been muddied by a couple of falls but were not wet. Keeping them would save me time. I also opted against changing my socks as I knew a clean pair would be just as wet and dirty as my current pair within 5 minutes of departure, and I was worried that removing them could damage the water-logged skin on the soles of my feet. I did change shirts, remembering to transfer my bib this time. I also put on my Patagonia “mullet” jacket (thanks to Nathan for letting me know this was a thing), a fresh pair of gloves, and a new buff on my head. I topped it all with my recently procured emergency poncho, which was the last layer before strapping my pack back on. I attempted to use some hand warmers I had included in my drop bags, but they proved useless (note to self: learn to use those or get rid of them for future races).

I saw Rob from the morning bus ride in the tent. I’d seen him at various points on the trail, and he was doing very well relative to his expectations. He was surrounded by his crew and didn’t seem in great shape so I didn’t interrupt. I did, however, pause mentally and ponder not having a crew again. The tent was definitely too crowded, and extra people would not have helped me move faster and might have slowed me down. And, given the tough conditions, I’m not sure how happy I would have been to leave familiar faces; crew at Jaws definitely need to have a tough love mentality. Without anyone fussing over me, I got my tasks accomplished and handed my drop bag back to a volunteer. I then stopped at the food table to stock up for the descent back to Footbridge.

As I was leaving the tent after my 30-minute stop, longer than I would have liked, I did think that it would have been a nice time to have a pacer. But, then I also thought about what a bad pacing gig this was for all the people heading out with their runners, to slip and slide down the mountain rather than enjoy a nice descent down to Footbridge. I took some small solace that I was at least not going to incur a massive pacing debt.

jaws (mile 48) to footbridge (mile 66)

As I stepped out of the tent and began to run, I was disappointed that despite my new dry, well-insulated layers on top, I did not feel warmer. I remembered that I was at about 9,000 ft and told myself that I’d warm up as I ran more and as I got to lower elevations. The rain was significantly lighter, although there was the occasional small snowflake. I fell into a steady jog for the first couple of miles, trying to avoid as much slippery mud as possible over the relatively flat terrain.

After a couple of miles, the descent began in earnest. The trail was worse than when I had come up it an hour earlier, a soupy, pasty mixture of mud that was incredibly slippery at one moment and then viscous and shoe-sucking at another. I continued to have several near falls and a few cartoon-like collapses in which my feet simply went out from under me with my upper body smacking down in the mud with a thud. The soup at least provided some cushion and no injuries were sustained. When the rain was thicker, my headlamp made it difficult to see as it reflected on the rain in my face. I made good use of my Fenix handheld flashlight to light up the trail without creating a cloud around my head, and I’m also sure that the flashlight in my periodically flailing arms was quite an amusing sight for the runners still coming uphill as well as those behind me.

Through the downhill miles back to Elk Camp and then on to Spring Marsh and then to Cathedral Rock, I was not running in really any sense of the word. I would take a few strides if there was vegetation that would ensure footing and tried to run on the edge of the trail as much as possible. For the most part my locomotion was a combination of tip-toeing and sliding my feet through the mud as though I were on cross-country skis. It was slow going and all of the extra effort to remain upright sapped my energy. In addition to not having trekking poles, my shoes were pretty useless for grip. I had been training in low-cushion Altras that allow me to be lighter on my feet, as last year I felt heavier shoes were a liability. However, the lugs on my Superior 3.0 soles were too small to be of any help in the Bighorn mud.

The descent was incredibly slow. The 3.5 miles from Elk Camp to Spring Marsh took me an hour and fifteen minutes. Even at that point in a 100-mile race, I would expect that kind of downhill to take no more than 45 minutes. Despite this slow going, I did pass more people than passed me, although the net difference was small. Most of the people who passed me came in twos (runner + pacer) and had trekking poles. About halfway to the Cathedral Rock aid station my mental state began to get very low. My body was spent from the balancing act of the descent, and my pace was so slow that my estimated arrival at Footbridge had become at least an hour later that the latest I thought I’d get there in my pre-race planning. I was still safe from missing the cutoff at Footbridge, but given my pace, I began to seriously worry that I would come close to missing the cutoff at Dry Fork, and even if I made that, finishing the race in the 34-hour time limit seemed in serious jeopardy.

The mental low continued as I reached Cathedral Rock (62.5 miles) and headed to Footbridge. I’d like to say that I brushed off the concerns and turned my thoughts around. I didn’t. I sank lower and lower. I decided that this was my last 100-mile race, that 100-mile races just bring disappointment, that I had taken PTO from work for no reason, that I should have spent all the time training doing better at work and at home, that I had dragged my family to the middle of Wyoming for another failure, that ultras were stupid, that I was just done running altogether. My watch also unexpectedly died after about 21 hours of continuous tracking. This was particularly annoying as there was no low battery alert, and it was supposed to last 24 hours. I also had been carrying a charger, which I could have engaged at any time. The sun had started to rise, which should have made me feel a little better, but it did not. One of the leaders of the 52-miler, which started at 5am at Jaws, passed me and innocuously asked how I was doing. I said two words, “Pretty shitty.” He said something like “Stay positive, man!”, and as he bounded easily down the trail, I had some disparaging thoughts for him that I’ll spare from this report.

As I was doing my distance and time calculations repeatedly in my head, I briefly thought about what dropping at Footbridge would be like if I didn’t really think I could make it to Dry Fork in time. I decided that that would suck and that it would suck a lot. I’d have to wait for someone to drive back to Dayton, as none of my family had a car that could make it through the water crossings on the road to Footbridge. Plus, asking them to do the 2.5-hour drive back north into Montana and back into Wyoming and then returning sounded dreadful. The dropping contemplation was brief, and while I was still feeling pretty negative, I banished the idea of not continuing quickly and completely. Instead, I thought through what my plan was for arriving at Footbridge so that I could maximize the chance of not missing the cutoff at Dry Fork. I’d deal with potentially not making the overall race cutoff later.

Six hours and thirty-nine minutes after leaving Jaws, I arrived at Footbridge aid station, a little ahead of my most recent worst-case calculations. The ascent the day before had taken me six hours and forty-four minutes, only 5 minutes longer and putting an objective description on just how rough the night was. For comparison, on a training run 4 weeks before the race, my time up an 8-mile, 2,500 foot ascent during which I ran two 20-minute high-end aerobic intervals and thus significantly pushed the uphill pace was still 17 minutes slower than the descent, which was done at my easy aerobic “forever” pace.

The time was 7:21 am, and I had determined that 8am was the latest I should leave Footbridge to be able to finish the race in time. I was basing my calculations on the idea that I would not be able to do better than 20-minute miles for the rest of the race, since the 17-mile section from Footbridge to Dry Fork would be mostly uphill, climbing a net 3,850 feet, and I had struggled to keep that pace going downhill for the previous few miles. This was certainly overly pessimistic given that I was not injured and would have been a good time to remember the sage advice of ultra legend David Horton, “It never always gets worse.” I couldn’t summon that memory but fortunately was able to focus on the immediate task at hand.

In the last few miles into Footbridge, my feet were really uncomfortable. Every step was painful, and when the volunteer brought me my drop bag, I had already decided that I needed to address my feet and so I took a seat in the folding chair for the first time this run. I asked for a tub of water in which I would clean my feet and got to work untying my laces and dislodging my feet from the combination of mud, rubber, and canvas that surrounded them.

Removing my shoes revealed the culprit of my foot pain, a variably thick layer of mud, intermittently laced with tiny rocks caked on the insoles, which had created an uneven series of pressure points for every foot fall. I took off my socks and found an additional layer of mud between the wool and my skin. While I didn’t have WWI trench foot, my feet were completely wrinkled and a whitish color that clearly indicated prolonged exposure to moisture. Blistering was fortunately not too problematic; there were hot spots but nothing overly painful and any sacks of fluid were in tact.

After rinsing my feet in the tub of water, I gave them an easy scrub with a Shower Wipe and then gently put on clean socks and my spare pair of shoes from my drop bag. The shoes were the same, non-mud-gripping model I had been wearing, but they were at least devoid of an insole mud liner. Based on previous race reports, I had expected the first descent into Footbridge to be the most muddy part of the race, rather than the return, and I was fortunate to have the shoes available since I had opted against changing them earlier. To facilitate a quick stop, I did not change my top, nor did I remove my tights, despite their warming properties being unnecessary. They were providing some stability and protection from the mud and could be removed later on if I got too hot.

During the descent the periodic shooting pain on the outside of my right knee had returned a few times, in the most recent instances forcing me to stop and engage in what can best be called Lamaze breathing. Facing 34 more miles, I decided that popping some vitamin I (aka Advil) was the prudent thing to do. I don’t take ibuprofen with any regularity, and the last painkillers I had taken were probably the Tylenol I took after whacking my ankle in Cascade Crest last August. I know there are risks to taking NSAIDS during long endurance events, but I was confident my solid hydration status throughout the run meant my kidneys weren’t struggling and that my body would handle the low dosage (400 mg).

I was runner 129 of 200 into Footbridge and headed out after a relatively speedy 18 minutes. I put my watch on a charger and started my tracking anew. The 20 minute buffer I had on my dropdead 8am time reduced some of the negativity and anxiety, but I still wasn’t sure whether a finish was possible. I wished a runner from Wenatchee, who I had been back and forth with during the descent, good luck and that he’d probably catch me soon enough, and then I headed across the Little Bighorn River on the footbridge for the journey back to Dry Fork.

footbridge (mile 66) to dry fork (mile 82)

The 3.5 miles immediately leaving Footbridge is the steepest part of the course and appropriately called The Wall.

With my feet hurting less and the first uphill in several hours, I focused on climbing, figuring that the section would take me 90 minutes between the mud and the 2,000 foot climb. With my watch charging in my pack, I decided not to do any more time calculations until I reached the Bear Camp aid station at the top of The Wall. The climbing was tough but steady. A couple of 52-mile runners passed me, but they were less cheery and had an air of respect in their well wishes, perhaps more directly contemplating the difficulty that now lay ahead of them.

Upon arriving at Bear Camp, I was glad to be done with The Wall. My 90-minute estimate was on the mark, but the negative thoughts about making the finish remained. I had yet to demonstrate to myself that a pace better than 20 minutes per mile was possible. I didn’t dwell at Bear Camp any longer than necessary. I drank a bit of Coca-Cola to try to boost my mood and set out on the 7 miles to Cow Camp, the longest distance between aid stations. A couple of people passed me at this point and this forced me to think about how I was going to approach the rest of the race.

I estimated that 20 minutes per mile would get me to the finish in time, but I had doubts as to whether I could truly keep up 20 minutes per mile. I got my watch out from my pack, unhooked the charger, and placed it back on my wrist. I would take the next mile to see what a sub-20 felt like. (Note: a sub-20 minute mile is ridiculously easy in most circumstances; nearly every able-bodied adult can walk at an 18-minute per mile pace comfortably). I also began to shift my thoughts to writing this report, and what it would be like to write about a DNF. I came up with a story that like Gary Robbins and the The Barkley Marathons, Bighorn would be the race that had my number two years in a row. What great company to be in. While that was a story that felt somewhat acceptable to tell, I couldn’t help but feel that the difference in finishing the race and missing the cutoff was completely within my control. If you have seen the video of Gary at the Yellow Gate, you know that lack of effort cannot be blamed for his DNF and that my analogy fell flat. I hated that idea. I resented that I had to push to make the effort to finish the race. I wanted to know it would either happen or it would not. I felt I had already pushed and that circumstances were conspired against me. Wasn’t it enough that I was willing to keep moving forward? Did I actually have to increase my effort? Couldn’t I just be certain of an outcome? As much as I tried to push it out, the thought that finishing or not was up to me remained. I slowed to a walk in reactance to it, like a child pushing back against a parent simply for the sake of doing so. As I looked ahead at the trail and down at my watch, I began to give in to the truth that finishing was my choice. I began to think that I probably could maintain a 20-minute pace and likely could do better. Since I had covered this section of the course well on the outbound, I decided that it was acceptable to at least test the idea that I just might be able to pick up the pace to finish below the cutoff. I agreed to myself that I would test the idea for a couple of miles.

Picking up the pace late in any ultra is challenging. The most difficult task is finding a new faster rhythm of movement, but once you get past the initial first few minutes of resistance, similar to warming up on an early morning run, it is possible to increase speed. At least this is what I told myself. I also continued to remind myself of all the workouts in which I had executed multiple interval pieces that required re-engaging to a faster pace after a recovery period. With the sun now beginning to warm the day, I began to find a faster rhythm. It was not terribly speedy, but it was an improvement. The next two miles confirmed that I was in charge of finishing and that the quality of my finish lay with me. During this period I began to see up ahead some of the people who had passed me earlier. While I had no egotistical motivation to beat them, I convinced myself that I should catch them as a way to further improve my speed.

Slowly but surely my mile times came down, from 19s and 18s to 17s and 16s and then a 15. I passed several people in the last yards leading to the Cow Camp aid station at 76.5. I grabbed some gels, ate half a piece of bacon, filled my bottles, downed some Coke, and headed with renewed vigor to Dry Fork. I had begun to use some of the mantra I had spoken to Julia while pacing her at the Miwok 100K Trail Race in May. Relax your shoulders. Keep your lower abs tight. Run on the balls of your feet. And as Suzanne advised me during bodywork sessions, just move your bones. Relax your muscles.

I began to get a little joy back into my running, helped in part by the growing calculation of how much I would beat the cutoff even if I decided to walk it in from Dry Fork. My happiness turned to somewhat maniacal focus on forward movement as I approached the final climb into Dry Fork. While I was not listening to music, fragments of songs from my running playlist echoed and repeated in my head, boosting me on the climb. I began to think about my goal of closing the race well and very strangely repeated to myself Alec Baldwin’s famous line from Glenngarry Glen Ross, “Coffee is for closers.” I guess I was applying some weird logic that since I like coffee more than the average person, I must also be a closer. Whatever works.

I should also note that during this part of the race, I had quite a few hallucinations. Nothing too crazy, but I repeatedly thought dead trees were the silver railings of aid station tents or racks on top of SUVs and many of the white rocks dotting the terrain were mistaken for papers covered in either advertising logos or in one case a skull. I did not ever think I saw a person or animal that wasn’t there.

As I made my way into Dry Fork, I felt for the first time in several hours that I would finish the race. I was happy about that but not satisfied as I wanted to keep the momentum I had accumulated. I asked for my drop bag and opted to change socks. The course was getting dry and I wanted to be completely done with mud. This was probably a bad idea as my feet ended up hurting more when the new dry socks were in place. I declined any further assistance from volunteers and grabbed a few snacks for the next 5-mile push to the Upper Sheep Creek aid station. I had left the aid station after a quick 7-minute stop, and unbeknownst to me at the time missed the chance to say hello to Colton.

dry fork (mile 82.5) to the finish

I left Dry Fork on a bit of a tear. I jogged the initial road out and then settled into a strong power hike on the ascent up to Freeze Out Road. I was moving well and felt an odd mixture of emotions, anger at having wavered earlier, joy at how quickly I was moving, longing for my family and in particular my grandfather Jim, who came to mind as I was thinking about seeing my son. My eyes were filled with tears, snot was dripping from my nose, and I was breathing hard enough on the climb that I probably looked to be foaming at the mouth. As I passed people taking part in the 18- and 32-milers, I probably looked like a mad man. The sun was beating down and reflecting strongly off the white gravel road. It was a high point.

I calmed a bit at the top of the climb out of Dry Fork but tried to maintain most of my momentum. I continued to catch a few people and covered the distance to the Upper Sheep Creek aid station easily. There I grabbed a bit of food and filled my bottles for the last ascent of the day, back to the top of Horse Creek Ridge. I tried to be smart about pacing given that I still had a half marathon to go, but I was excited to see the view from the top.

After passing a few more people doing shorter distances (I won’t lie about the small joy each pass brought), I took in the view looking down the Tongue River Canyon. Knowing that I was headed down it to the finish made it even more beautiful. It was a moment in which I was absolutely certain of a finish and the feeling was amazing.

Despite moving well and being in an overall good mood, the descent was still punishing. While there was no mud, the ground was hard and the pounding on legs that had endured 29 hours and nearly 90 miles was rough. I was passed by only one person, who was being paced by 10-time Hard Rock finisher Billy Simpson. I let them go.

At the bottom of the descent, I began to feel the heat of the Tongue River Canyon. I stopped on the trail to remove my tights, which provided welcome relief. I continued down the canyon trying to move at a steady clip but allowing myself the occasional rest to savor the feeling of the final push. I was thrilled to see the needle eye rock formation that is featured on the logo of the run.

When I reached the start line, I pulled out my phone to see if I had service. This was the last place I had had any reception, and sure enough I had one little bar. I sent Jamie a message updating my ETA at the finish. As long as they don’t travel by car, a runner’s crew can meet them at any point along the Tongue River Canyon Road that makes up most of the final 5 miles of the run. Jamie and I had discussed her meeting me on the road and running in to the finish with me, but I wasn’t certain she’d be able to manage that given the uncertainty about my timing and William’s need to remain on a consistent schedule. Thus, it was particularly wonderful to receive a message back that she would see me at mile 98.

The miles to get to the last two ticked off steadily, although I thought that two separate women in the distance were Jamie before I ended up reaching the actual final aid station at mile 98. I first thought her pink shirt was a sign in the shape of a heart encouraging runners (note, I was not wearing any glasses and there were signs lining the road at this point) but realized it was her when I saw that she was opposite the aid station. I trotted to the aid station to get some water (the heat was more intense than I had anticipated at my last fill up) and grabbed a red Otter Pop from a volunteer. I gave Jamie a hug and we walked a short distance while I ate half the Otter Pop. I stowed the rest in my vest and we set out on a steady jog for the finish.

The last two miles were fantastic. They weren’t without pain, but I felt pretty good. As we got to the end of the road to turn right and make the highway crossing to enter Scott Park, I picked up the pace to ensure that I would finish alone and ahead of a pack of 18-milers.

The joy of turning left into Scott Park and running down the final grass section before turning right into the finishing chute is something I wish I could capture and save. The crowd was wonderful and the sense of accomplishment, of completing something you doubted was possible was overwhelming. I crossed the finish line 108 of 175 finishers (a 53% finish rate) in 31:37:29.47 and slowed to a stop, taking some effort to steady myself, eventually eyeing Mandi, Carey, Bill, and Jane, who was holding William. Jamie ran up as well. Despite arriving 4 hours later than planned, the moment was pretty perfect.

Official results

Strava; total time was 31:37:29.47; moving time was 27:14:01

Coffee is for closers