Cascade Crest Classic - August 27, 2016

The Cascade Crest Classic 100 Mile Endurance Run was my third attempt at the 100-mile distance, following Pine to Palm and Bighorn. Despite many challenging conditions before and during the race, it also was my second finish at 100 miles. As with every other ultra, I learned a great deal and will likely continue to draw more lessons in the weeks ahead. Below you'll find the story of my race and what I've taken away after a week of reflection. A warning that this report is LONG. If you're mainly interested in the details of the race, skip to the middle section titled "The Race". Here is my Strava.

Why this race?

There are three races I'd like to run that require a fair amount of advanced planning for the mere opportunity to toe the line. They are: the Western States Endurance Run, the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB), and the Hard Rock 100. Each has a different combination of qualifying requirements, and Cascade Crest is unique in that it provides the maximum amount progress toward each set of requirements; in particular, it is one of only 20 races in the world that upon completion secures entry into the Hard Rock lottery.

In addition, Cascade Crest was held a little over a month from my son's due date, making it one of the last possible 100 milers I could run this year that would minimize the probability of me missing his birth. And, should Jamie have gone into labor, it's location in central Washington is close enough to home that I would have had a good chance of getting back in time.

Last, the Cascades are beautiful. Make it a point to spend time in them.

Planning

I entered the Cascade Crest lottery in January and a month later found out that I'd been placed on the waitlist. I had a pretty decent spot on the waitlist at #30 of >100, but despite a reassuring email from the race director to the waitlisted group about our good chances of gaining entry, I did not think I'd end up in the race. In addition, I had won lottery spots in Way Too Cool (50k, early March), Lake Sonoma (50 miles, early April), and Miwok (100k, early May), which all created a nice progression for a 100 miler in June. Since I didn't get into WSER this year, I planned to run Bighorn on 6/17. In the back of my mind, I thought running two 100s this year would be fun, and thus, while I wasn't counting on running Cascade Crest, I decided that I would at least fulfill the additional trail volunteering entry requirement, which was also just a generally good thing to do.

Then came June and my DNF at Bighorn. Afterwards I was not sure what the rest of my running year would look like. I took a solid two weeks off and felt good enough that I started considering another 100 with my waitlisted status likely playing a role in my thinking. In addition to Cascade Crest on 8/27, I noted that IMTUF on 9/17 would help me make progress toward the races mentioned above. At this point I had about 8 weeks to get my body back on track for Cascade Crest; I would have preferred the extra training time gained with IMTUF, but I felt that was a little too close to Jamie's due date. And, if I didn't get into Cascade Crest, we could always revisit the likelihood of an early entry by Baby Leach.

After watching the entry list like a hawk, I was offered entry on 7/31, just after 10pm.

Training

In the aftermath of Bighorn, I decided to revamp my training. I wanted to focus entirely on managing my races with perceived effort, rather than looking at my heart rate monitor or tracking mile times. This would help me do a better job managing the race all around, including keeping up with hydration. My goal for Cascade Crest was simply to finish. I modified plans from the recently released book Training Essentials for Ultrarunning by Jason Koop to create an 8-week plan that would tune me up for another crack at 100 miles. Koop gave a presentation at San Francisco Running Company in May, which I attended. I was impressed with his approach but was too far along in my Bighorn training to incorporate much of his advice. This was going to be a good chance to test out his techniques.

My training went mostly to plan, and despite the increased effort to nail the workout specifics, I was pleased with the results. I did develop a strain in my left popliteus (small muscle behind the knee) that hasn't gone away, and much of the connective tissue in my heels never fully relaxed in my taper, leaving a little inflammation that plagued me until race day. Overall, however, I felt physically prepped to endure 100 miles.

Friday night before the race

I got to Cle Elum Friday night before the race just before 4:30 pm. My dad and Vickie met me at my hotel. This would be the first time they would see me run an ultra. I had prepped to do the race without a crew as Jamie, my default crew chief, was too pregnant to travel, but I was excited to be able to see them at the aid stations.

We had an early dinner after a failed attempt to find soft water bottles at any of the local stores. I had decided to use a hydrapak bladder (i.e., camelback) for this race as I was anticipating hot conditions and did not want to get dehydrated like at Bighorn. However, in my packing, I had neglected to include two soft flasks, and while I had trained with the bladder in the weeks leading up to the race, I had wanted to include two soft flasks in case the bladder bothered me. This was the first of a many moments during the weekend in which I would have to suck it up and push forward.

After dinner, I gave my Dad and Vickie a pre-race prep talk on the ride back to my motel, describing that 1) I might appear in various states of emotional and physical exhaustion but that I would be fine and maybe even genuinely happy despite appearances and 2) that under no circumstances should they facilitate my withdrawal from the race. They both communicated their understanding and ostensibly agreed to my terms.

I returned to my hotel and completed final packing and race-day preparations, finishing in time for plenty of sleep. Just before bed, I received an urgent message from work to update my phone operating system. Requests to update are not normally this urgent; hence, I agreed to receive the update immediately, and it was executed without incident. I plugged in my phone and set the alarm for 6:15 am, turning out the lights just after 10 pm.

As is usual on race eve, I woke earlier than planned. I reached over to wake my phone to see the time. The screen did not turn on. I pressed the button again. Black screen. I tapped the home button. Black screen but then Siri spoke, "I'm sorry, I didn't get that." Buttons tapped again. Screen still black. Panic begins.

Phone panic

I was planning to use screenshots on the phone for race intel. I had elevation profiles and descriptions of sections of the course on the phone. For example:

I also was planning to use the phone to take race photos, which is one of my favorite parts of long races. I reached down to grab my laptop from a bag and plugged the phone in. I noted that the time was just after 1 am. The iTunes logo bounced, and my phone's details appeared. Relief. But still, the screen would not turn on. I tried updating the phone again. I tried the hard reset. I tried the hard reset with the phone plugged in followed by the Update button. After multiple attempts hoping for a positive outcome, I resigned myself to the Restore button. Even it didn’t work. Nothing would work. The phone was bricked. I needed sleep. Time for plan B.

Plan B

The first step of Plan B was that I needed an alarm. I sent my dad, Jamie, and Julia all Facebook messages requesting that if they were awake at 6:15, they call me at the hotel. There was a good chance that at least one of them would be up that early and check a Facebook message, but I also asked the front desk for a wake up call and figured out how to set the alarm on my watch.

Next, I needed to figure out what I had on paper in my hotel room about the course that I could carry with me. Fortunately the runner's guide I had printed contained a section with aid station names, mileage, and cutoff times. I folded that into a ziploc bag and put it in my running vest. I wouldn't have any of the specifics from my phone, but I would have the bare necessities. I decided that this would be fine and would actually fit well with my knew perceived effort approach to racing.

My adrenaline had been running, but I was starting to calm down. An hour had passed, and I knew I needed sleep. I turned out the lights and luckily got back to a decent slumber.

Race Day

I woke up 10 minutes before any of my alarms. Of course. I sent messages to everyone saying that I didn't need calls, although I didn't reach my dad before he placed his call. The wake up call also came and the watch alarm went off. Sleeping through the start would not be an issue. I donned my raced gear, grabbed my drop bags and suitcase, and headed out the door in plenty of time to reach the start.

When I got to my rental car, I realized that I didn't have a way to navigate to the start given my bricked phone. Fortunately, I knew enough of where Easton was and where the start was within town that I was able to get there without incident. Nevertheless, I felt a general sense of forboding as I considered all of the ways in which I depend on my phone. I also vowed silently to have analog everything for all future races.

In contrast to the previous 8 hours, the feel at the start was wonderful. Lots of calm excitement from runners checking in, getting breakfast, and waiting for the race briefing. I ate one tasty pancake and downed some coffee.

One aspect of trail running that I enjoy time and again is the people. They are an unfailingly good group, and the cream of the crop shows up to 100 milers. I'm not at all gregarious in the hours and minutes before a run, but I do enjoy simply watching the small groups meet up and chat. Being among these people makes me happy.

After the race briefing, we lined up behind the start/finish line for the national anthems. There was first a rendering of "O, Canada" followed by the "Star-Spangled Banner". I stood next to Hal Koerner, said a quick hello to him and pointed to my hat, noting that I enjoyed Pine to Palm last year and that I would be back to his race in a couple of weeks to pace Julia. He was, as expected, unnecessarily amiable and wished me a good race.

The Race

I don't even recall how the race started. I think it was a countdown. There wasn't a gun or horn that I remember, but we all started, as my grandfather would say, like a herd of turtles. Hal was walking toward the start line after the signal to being, and I made sure not to be so foolish as to go out faster than him. I waved to my dad and Vickie shortly after crossing under the wooden arch and headed down the dirt road for the first couple of easy miles. My body felt decent but a bit tight. I was hoping to warm up quickly and reduce the tension and familiar fiery feeling in my heels that had been present at the beginning of every run of the summer.

We started up into the mountains after a couple of miles. My body hadn't totally warmed up, but I felt well enough and that I was running a smart early pace. The race guide noted that the climb up to Goat Peak is where many DNFs start, and as we approached the uphill, I fell into a power hiking cadence with most of the pack. We passed the first aid station and eventually arrived to the outcropping on Goat Peak, which offers a view of the whole course. While I didn't have my iPhone, I did bring along my Ricoh Theta S to capture some 360° photos.

As we came to the Cole Butte aid station, I was still pleased with my pacing. I had good energy, although I was not happy with the level of pain in my heels and calves. The pain felt about 20 miles early, but I eased into a nice downhill pace, chatting for a couple of miles with Sean from Novato. He also is interested in running Hard Rock and told me about his adventures in Silverton earlier in the year. He moved ahead of me on the climb up to Blowout Mountain, but I remained happy with how everything was unfolding. I felt like I was experiencing some sort of weird anticipatory pain, as if my body was starting to remember my last 100-mile race and trying to convince me early that doing another one was a bad idea. I don't know if this anticipatory pain is a genuine phenomenon, but it was an added layer throughout the first part of the race that made the second 100 miler more difficult than the first.

Just before coming into the Little Bear aid station, there was a sign pointing to a detour up to the top of Blowout Mountain. Rich, the race director, had encouraged us to take the optional detour to the top in order to see the views. It was pretty cloudy at this point, but I had already made up my mind that I would go up. While the views were lacking due to the low clouds, I was happy to have made the trip.

At the Little Bear aid station, I filled up my hydrapak bladder and met Killer Dees, the aid station captain.

He's a good pup and gave me a pang of longing for Zoe. I was feeling mostly good still and the pain in my heels and lower legs had stabilized such that I was more accepting of it. While running longer distances, I do a mental countdown of the race in quantities that I have to repeat. When I hit mile 20 in a 100 mile race, which I did shortly after this aid station, I tell myself that I only have to do 4 more of what I just did. It might sound a bit crazy, but I find that it makes the whole endeavor seem more possible.

You begin 32 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail on this section of the course. The existence of the PCT amazes me, and running on it is a true pleasure.

I had expected the day to be pretty warm, but the warmth never materialized. Instead the clouds sank low and the wind gusted periodically. I became pretty cold for a few stretches as the sweat from the earlier part of the run combined with the wind to deliver a strong chill. At Tacoma Pass, I briefly stopped to fill my water bladder and eat some food. I wasn't sure whether I would see my dad and Vickie here or at the next station. I looked around quickly and without spotting them, I headed onward. Later I found out that they missed seeing me by a mere 5 minutes.

I continued to get cold during the next section. I was also beginning to worry about dehydration, despite the low temperatures. I began to increase my water intake and continued taking my salt supplements. Just before the Snowshoe Butte aid station at 32 miles, several hikers (or a trail crew) had set up camp on either side of the trail in a clearing. They lined the trail with beer cans and as the runners descended into the small saddle clearing, they let out a loud series of cheers from their lawn chairs. I haven't run the Boston Marathon, but it reminded me of the stories friends have told me of the Wellesley Scream Tunnel. It was a memorable moment and boosted my spirits.

The Snowshoe Butte aid station was staffed by a high school cross-country team. I had a similar happy feeling at this aid station to what I experienced at Pine to Palm at the Stein Butte aid station, also staffed by a cross-country team; no happy memories of actually running cross country but a lot of happy memories of my teammates and coaches. By the time I reached Stampede Pass, the first drop bag location, I was doing a bit better on hydration but was definitely ready to swap into a warmer shirt.

At Stampede Pass I saw my dad and Vickie for the first time since the start. I got my drop bag, changed shirts and socks. I added more food and my headlamp to my pack. I was happier with the level of pain in my legs for the distance, although I still felt like I'd gone longer than I had.

I was doing well overall, but as I headed out of the aid station to say goodbye to my dad and Vickie, I choked up a little. I'm not sure why, but this is pretty standard for me so I picked up the pace out of the aid station.

The next two sections were pretty long and as darkness was descending, I don't remember too much. I do remember meeting a hiker who asked me for a favor before nightfall. I stopped and asked what I could do for him.

"There are two of my friends up ahead, one is a girl in blue shorts. Can you give them a message for me?"

"Sure."

"Tell them, Downtime has a new plan for camping."

"Downtime has a new plan for camping?"

"Yeah."

"Ok."

About half a mile down the trail, I saw a male hiker. I never saw a girl in blue shorts.

"Hey, do you know Downtime?" Puzzled look, brow raises in recognition.

"Yeah, yeah, I do."

"He has a new plan for camping."

"Oh yeah?! Excellent."

His head nods and his excitement conveyed that I had just relayed a message that might mean something more than simply a new plan for camping. Also, for the uninitiated, hikers on the PCT take on nicknames. The first guy had taken on "Downtime". I would meet a gentleman at Olallie Meadows aid station named "Daybreak". He starts at 4.

The only other thing I remember on this section is that my hydration was back to normal and the pirogues at Olallie Meadows were special, topped with olive oil and salt. Delicious.

After leaving Olallie, it's gradually downhill until you get to what the race guide calls a rough gravel road. It's more like a sharp rock road that would make for a good black diamond ski hill. It's only about a third of a mile, but it was tough going. At the bottom is the ropes section. I had not done a whole lot of studying of the course prior to running, which is unusual for me. I knew there was something about ropes, but I did not know what to expect. This section is too steep to descend on two feet alone, and the race staff has attached ropes between trees to help runners avoid descending via butt slide.

I found this section fun and was going down quickly. My speed was accelerated when I looked left and spotted a very large skunk. While I thought it was a skunk at the time, it may have actually been a porcupine. I'm not sure which would have been worse. I think skunk spray, but I don’t care to find out.

Near the end of the section, I caught up to a couple of runners and waited above while they used the ropes on the final descent. When it was my turn, I grabbed the rope firmly and began to descend. In the last 10 yards or so the rope became slack. I lost my footing, and although I hung on to the rope, I hit the deck pretty hard. My left ribs and right ankle smacked some pretty hard rock, but I bounced up quickly. My first concern was my ribs, but I inhaled deeply and felt no problem. I next looked down at my ankle. There were some small cuts, but everything appeared fine. And, I was now finally on a flat trail and headed for the train tunnel so I pressed on.

As I approached the train tunnel, I was running well. A lot of people were power hiking at this point, but I felt good so I kept running, passing a couple of groups in the tunnel. The tunnel is about two miles long. It feels longer. Here’s a video (won’t show up on a phone):

As we were nearing midnight, there was no light at the end of the tunnel, just more darkness. I only realized I was at the end of the tunnel when I was about 50 yards away from the exit. Shortly after exiting, however, there were several lights from the Hyak aid station, which was decked out in Christmas decorations. Sounds of Christmas carols echoed the surrounding area. My dad and Vickie were here as was another drop bag. I changed shirt, socks, and shoes here and added a windbreaker to my pack to prepare for the cool night. The race had worn on runners at this point, and people were noticably tired. One runner was laid out on a cot next to me covered with a space blanket while I changed. Another runner was putting duct tape around both of his shoes, which had been severely shredded by that 'rough gravel' road before the ropes section. While it was nice to see my family and be in a warm aid station, I dared not stay too long; as they say, beware of the chair. Per my mental accounting trick, I had to do only one more (actually a bit less) of what I'd already done, which felt great. I knew the second half of the race was supposed to be more difficult than the first, but I was happy with how things were going, still on pace with the pre-race hypothesis of a 27-hour finish.

This next section was fairly tough as I had misunderstood how long it would be. It's a simple section in that it's flat road followed by uphill fire road, but rather than the 6 miles I thought it was, it's actually 8. I just flat out messed this up. After what was mostly a power hike up to the Keechelus Ridge aid station, I was pretty tired and a bit cold. My right ankle was aching a bit, but I didn't think much of it. I checked the wounds from my fall, and they seemed ok. Maybe there was a little bit of swelling. After warming by a fire at the aid station, I headed out to do the downhill to Lake Kachess.

This was the first section in which I noticed that something might be wrong with my ankle. It was a nice gradual descent on a fire road, but I was having a difficult time maintaining a rhythm as my right ankle was hurting. After on again, off again, running, I managed a good even pace for the last couple of miles into the Lake Kachess aid station. Here I noticed that there was some swelling around my ankle. I stayed a bit longer than I would have otherwise liked, changing socks, but electing not to change my shirt. I got some good intel on the next section, the "Trail from Hell". Again, as I hadn't read up much on the course beforehand, I didn't know what to expect other than when people tell me something is difficult, I don't find it as difficult as they say, particularly if I get in the mindset of just having fun with it.

With my ankle swelling, I approached the Trail from Hell very slowly. This was 5 miles that was supposed to take more than 2 hours. The fastest this section has ever been covered during the race is 79 minutes and that was by Gary Robbins, who is an amazing trail runner. I settled in and enjoyed the challenge.

The first part is a long descent on a minimal trail that features a long steep fall to the left. While nerve wracking, it wasn't as bad as parts of the Bridger Ridge Run I had completed two weekends prior. At the bottom of the descent, the sun had started to rise, making the “Trail from Hell” look heavenly.

I plodded along well, overtaking 4 or 5 runners and their pacers and stopping for some nice photos.

The section took me about 2.5 hours, which seemed fast for the cohort with which I debriefed at the Mineral Creek aid station. I had a drop bag at Mineral Creek and grabbed a shirt to throw in my vest for when the weather warmed up. I elected not to change socks, but I did see that a contusion was forming on my ankle from the fall on the ropes section. I pressed on thinking about all my friends running the Santa Rosa marathon that morning, while I was beginning my last marathon of the race. How I wished that I could complete this last quarter of the run in the BQ times they were about to lay down.

The next section was another long fire road climb, up for 3,000 ft over 7 miles. This is where my race started to go sideways. I was hiking quickly up the road, passing a few runners, but my right ankle was beginning to stiffen. While it had been hurting for some time, this was different. It was swelling up and putting pressure on my shin muscle, which itself was feeling severely strained. My right arch also started to ache from all the swelling. It was not good.

I was still able to move uphill quickly, but I began to worry about further damage. I did not want to get to a point at which I could no longer move forward. I arrived at the No Name aid station worried about my condition. Dropping really never crossed my mind, but each time I tried to move quicker, my body threatened me with pain that felt like more than just pain. As I left No Name, I could no longer run downhill for any significant duration. The key now would be moving fast enough to finish the race in time while not moving so fast that I would have to drop. My internal mantra had become "you will not be a late race drop." "YOU WILL NOT BE A LATE RACE DROP."

One of the key things you learn running ultras is about the varieties of pain. Most pain is benign, and you can get through it by telling yourself that it's just pain. Some pain, however, is not benign and signals injury. This pain you can run through in shorter races, but it eventually will take you out. I was not in any real danger of missing cutoffs at this point, but since my overall pace on downhills was now effectively the same as my pace on uphills, I needed to focus to make sure I moved as fast as I could without encountering the second type of pain. I also started doing the finish math at this point, realizing that my finish time was going to be much later than anticipated. I likely would have to move my flight home and stay in Seattle until Monday. I was moving agonizingly slowly, particularly downhill, but I knew that I needed to keep moving this same way for 6 more hours. This was not a fun thought. I took what for me was an extreme measure, popping my two emergency Tylenol. I’ve never taken a painkiller on a run, but this was needed insurance.

The section from No Name to Thorp Mountain was hard. I unexpectedly enjoyed the cardiac needles (super steep uphill segments) as they gave me a chance to move relatively fast compared to those around me. Also, I found this last part of the race fairly comical, in a dark way. The section from No Name to Thorp has some ridiculously steep ascents and descents, merely one of which might be the feature hill on some courses (e.g., goat hill at Way Too Cool is shorter and less steep than the first cardiac needle) but as you're running this race, you just think to yourself, "ok, $*)K yeah, we'll do that, too." So much of the end of this race feels like it's trying to get you to give in and quit, and you just get to the point where you can't help but laugh.

At the Thorp aid station, you have to do a short out and back to the top of the mountain to get a hole punch in your bib. Since it is short, you can drop your pack and head up. The only problem with this plan was that Thorp Mountain featured the best views of the day and without my pack, I did not have my camera. Fortunately, Glenn Tachiyama was there to take some photos.

While the climb up was ok, the descent was excruciating. I stopped to ask for advice from the aid station captain. He didn't know what to say about my ankle. I said that if he had advice that didn't involve stopping, I'd listen, but otherwise, I just wanted some cheddar goldfish and Oreos before heading to French Cabin.

I logged a lot of these miles with a guy named Joe, who I had been around for much of the latter half of the race. He was having a tough go, with a lot of difficulty on the climbs, but he was a great companion. I'd pass him on the way up, and he'd pass me on the way down. We both arrived at French Cabin, and stayed for a short period of time before heading to Silver Creek, which would be mile 96 and the first time I'd see my Dad and Vickie on Sunday. My mom was also going to be there.

My pace was slow but it was steady, which was fortunate because my watch quit midway through this section, despite having a charge. I also ran out of water halfway through this section, as I had foolishly not topped off at French Cabin. When my watch died, it was about 3 pm, and I knew that I had about an hour to go until Silver Creek, at least if I kept pace with Joe. Sure enough, I arrived just after 4 pm. I said hello to my family, told them about my ankle and filled my water bladder. Joe met a pacer there and found some speed to head to the finish. I told my family that I’d see them at the finish right around 5:20 pm, knowing that the last 4 miles were going to take me 80 minutes.

The day was really hot at this point, but the finish was close. In Pine to Palm, the last few miles were painful and hard, but they were euphoric with anticipating of the finish. In contrast, this was numbing. I had a good limp at this point with severe pain throughout my lower right leg. I just needed to be done and every step felt closer to relief.

As I crossed the freeway and rounded the bend into Easton, I tried to remember how we would get to the finish line. Arrows directed me toward the railroad tracks and finally the finish line was in sight. I tried to run as I neared the tracks, but the pain made it an unwise choice. I continued limping until turning right across the tracks, managing to eek out a little shuffle in the last 100 yards for the photos at the end. I crossed the line 32 hours, 17 minutes, and 20 seconds after the start. I was glad to be done. 100 miles and 22,000 ft up and down were now complete.

Final thoughts

This race is hard, and I’m guessing that there is a good reason it's a Hard Rock qualifier. I hope to find out some day. Without my ankle injury, which is mostly healed now, I likely could have equaled my performance at Pine to Palm last year and maybe improved upon my time. However, I am pleased to finish in any official time. My body was likely still worn from my hard early racing season, and I did not experience any of the high highs I normally get during an ultra. I felt neutral to low nearly the entire time of this race, and I was worried that I wouldn't be able to manage myself to the finish for the last 25 miles, which turned out to be 8+ hours. I hurt most of the race. It was grueling. I think part of this was that I hadn’t spent a long time anticipating this race; it was only ever top of mind for a few weeks, and I will need to change that going forward.

But, as one contributor to the race guide wrote, it will be worth it forever.

I am happy with how I handled multiple types of adversity in this race, from not having my phone to my ankle contusion. Those are lessons I will try to embed in my thinking going forward. I want to continue to have a more minimalistic approach to running. I likely won't do a whole lot of running the rest of the year. I likely will do Quad Dipsea but immediately have one last task in pacing Julia at Pine to Palm. After this race, I have a whole new appreciation for her support of me last year, and providing the same for her this year will be great.

A big thank you to my dad and Vickie and mom for coming to support me. The best part of having a crew is simply seeing people you love.

I have had some wonderful runs this season, but I am most excited to be spending my free time recovering at home with Jamie, waiting for our son to arrive. She's been doing the real ultra this year. Getting her across the finish line is going to be amazing, but the race that will start immediately after is going to be even better. I cannot wait.