Ultramarathon Man (11 page)

At the stroke of zero he pulled the trigger, and a mighty blast shook the air. The ribbon dropped, and, for a second, time seemed suspended. The shot echoed up the valley and then back down again.

Over the loudspeaker came a farewell diktat: “CHAAARGE!!”

The adventure had begun.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

The 379 runners charged
forward in a pack. The crowd roared. Flashbulbs ignited the cloud of dust we kicked up. I was desperately trying not to step on or be stepped on by anyone in the middle of the horde. The race was on.

As we pounded up the mountain, the pack quickly thinned; stronger runners pulled ahead, weaker ones fell behind. I remained somewhere in the middle. I'd been told that one of the tricks to finishing the Western States—though I questioned whether there was any such thing as a “trick” to running 100 miles—was not to start out too hard. If you go out too fast, your muscles don't get the oxygen they need to run efficiently. This causes a buildup of lactic acid in the muscles that can later bring swelling and pain, even temporary paralysis.

So I was taking a reserved and consistent approach to the first several miles of the race. The climb up to Emigrant Pass was so steep that I was forced to move very slowly anyway. The high altitude and thin air didn't help my pace much, either.

It felt weird running up slopes I'd snowboarded down many times in the winter. At the summit of Emigrant Pass is the peak of Granite Chief. At 9,050 feet, it towers over the surrounding mountains. Getting up to Granite Chief as a skier requires three separate and lengthy chairlift rides. We ran under these lifts as we climbed.

Three miles up the course, I looked back down the winding valley. There was a steady procession of runners moving up the trail like pack mules. The field had spread considerably, and most were now in single file. Above, the first golden rays of sunlight were lighting up Granite Chief. It was like the opening round of a title fight, my opponent being a 9,000-foot mountain.

Soon I began experiencing the effects of the high altitude. My head grew light, and the surrounding scenery started to look dreamlike and distant. My fingers swelled so that I had difficulty opening and closing my hands. In the Official Participants Guide, a binder issued to every runner, an entire chapter is devoted to “Medical and Other Risk Factors.” It noted: “The high altitude plus exertion can produce various degrees of mountain (altitude) sickness. This can lead to severe lung and brain swelling, and even death.” It had been a little unsettling to see the use of the D-word. I could accept—and expect—severe discomfort or even hospitalization, but brain swelling and death were a bit much. Sure, I wanted to finish this event, but the idea of dying in the process wasn't too appealing.

Still, I kept pushing forward at a steady pace. Nearing the crest, I encountered something unexpected: snow. Large swatches of it crossed the trail, and the entire summit was covered. The footing was unstable; it was difficult to put any power into my stride without slipping. There were big foot-holes along the snow-path where other runners had stepped too heavily and broken through the flimsy crust. I slowed to prevent falling. Several runners were attempting to pass me, but it was easy to posthole in the untracked snow and slip (potentially a long way down). So, demoralizing as it was, I did the courteous thing and stepped aside to let them pass. No one thanked me for this show of sportsmanship; they just kept motoring along as though I wasn't even there.

I reminded myself that at this stage of the race, anyone could run strong. But what toll would it take farther down the line? Long-distance running requires a certain discretion and reserve. It's easy to let your ego get the better of you early on and run beyond your means. It's a mistake that may haunt you as the miles and the hours add up. One of my biggest challenges in this early stage would be to have the discipline to go slow, even as other runners passed me. And I hated being passed.

When I neared the summit, called the Escarpment, a short line of runners was waiting to get water at the first aid station. I pulled up to the back of the line and bent over, my hands on my knees, breathing deeply. I couldn't catch my breath in the thin air.

Somebody tapped me on the shoulder. One of the aid-station volunteers stood next to me with a pitcher of water.

“Can I fill your bottles?” he asked.

Without looking up, I said, “Sure.”

In my hip pack were two 16-ounce water bottles. Both had been full at the start of the race. I'd emptied them—a quart of water—in 4 miles.

“Where you from?” the volunteer asked as he filled them.

“San Francisco.”

“Ah . . . that's a very nice place,” he said. “But you best be on your way.”

“Why's that? I'd like to enjoy the view for a moment,” I replied, jokingly—I was still hunched over looking straight down at the dirt.

“Well, there's one thing I'm sure about San Francisco,” he went on. “It's at sea level. Let me see your hands.”

I held out my right hand and he squeezed my fingers.

“Your best move at this point would be to get up over that summit and start heading down to lower elevation,” he advised. “Once you get over the pass, the trail starts to descend quickly. You're not going to be able to catch your breath standing here, no matter how long you stay. We're too high up in the sky.”

He was right. I took one last deep breath and stood straight up.

“Thanks, partner,” I said.

“Just doing my job,” he replied. “Now get out of here.”

I started moving forward again. The summit was only seven-tenths of a mile away—unfortunately, though, it was nearly straight up. My watch said it was 6:09 A.M. The time of day for a projected twenty-four-hour pace at this point was 6:05 A.M., so I was right on target. But then again, I was a very short distance into a very long race.

Today I would rely on my watch like never before. I'd still run with my heart, but I'd need to use my head as well. I'd use my watch to make sure my pace was sensible.

Even without referencing the time, though, it was clear that my tempo to the summit was arduously slow. At several points I was on all fours, literally crawling up through the snow, as were other runners around me. It was extremely slippery and very steep, and there wasn't much to hold on to. My fingers were turning blue from the cold. Other runners had on gloves, but I hadn't thought to bring a pair.

When I finally did claw my way to the summit and check my watch, the time was 7:01 A.M. It had taken me 52 minutes to go less than a mile. At that pace, the entire race would take four and one-half days to complete. I pushed another button on my watch and got a temperature read: 38 degrees Fahrenheit.

The views from the summit, however, were enough to alleviate some of the brutality of the climb. It was breathtaking in every direction. The sun had now made its way into the sky, and beams of silvery light were dancing across Lake Tahoe in the distance. I was standing on the highest peak in the surrounding area. Below was a line of runners trekking up the narrow trail cut into the mountainside. Encircling me were other towering snow-covered peaks jabbing the sky for as far as the eye could see.

Another runner was admiring the view. The man was rugged and chiseled and looked like a seasoned veteran.

“Where do we go from here?” I inquired.

He scanned the horizon to the west. “See that peak over there?” He pointed to a very distant mountain, maybe 20 miles away.

“Yes, I see it.”

“Okay. Once we get there, the finish is seventy-five miles beyond that point.”

He was trying to be encouraging, I think, but the enormity of what we were doing gripped me. We had covered about five miles, and the peak he was pointing at was about twenty miles away. Another 75 miles beyond that would make 100.

The math was logical, yet seeing it all laid out in front of me for the first time was overwhelming. Just making it to that first distant peak looked daunting. It was barely visible on the horizon. There would be untold battles waged along the trail just to reach that peak 20 miles away. And from there, “. . . the finish is about seventy-five miles . . .” It seemed unfathomable.

I thanked him for the perspective and pressed on. My approach to running 100 miles would be little different from running a 10K: I'd simply put one foot in front of the other and not stop until I crossed the finish line. Hopefully.

Running downhill
felt good, much easier than the climb up. The challenge now became not slipping in the uneven snow. Back-country snow on west-facing ridges doesn't melt uniformly. Little pockets of menacing “sun-cups” form, with narrow pinnacles and foot-swallowing troughs. The best method for traversing a field of sun-cups is to use an accelerated tiptoe-style run to minimize contact with the pitted surface. Still, even with this adaptive running technique, it was hard to avoid falling and sliding downhill. I watched as some runners slid a good twenty feet down the mountainside. I fell several times myself.

My second big challenge was wet socks. That's not as insignificant as it may sound. Other runners wore gaiters over their shoes to keep the snow out, but I hadn't thought of that. Snow seeped in, melted, and soaked my socks.

By the time I reached the Lion Ridge aid station sixteen miles from the start, the damp, softened skin of my feet was already starting to blister. Blisters can become so painful that they force an athlete out of the race. A scant sixteen miles into it, my mind was dwelling on the letters DNF: DID NOT FINISH. More than a third of the field would be listed as DNF tomorrow. I did not want to be one of them because of destroyed feet. But there was little I could do about it until I reached the Robinson Flat medical checkpoint, at mile 30, which was the first access point for support crew, and where my parents would have fresh socks waiting.

It was a long slog to get there. Most of the trail was still above 7,000 feet, and where the snow ended, water and mud took over. There were switchbacks that led to more switchbacks that ended in abrupt uphills or down-hills. And the trail was littered with natural debris. The snowmelt had dragged rocks, trees, roots, and big chunks of earth across the path. You had to do a lot of jumping over and climbing around. My poor wet feet got more and more tender. Going downhill hurt the worst, as my feet slid forward, mashing my toes against the fronts of my shoes.

And then I came to the first of many river crossings. The water, cold and crisp, came up to above my knees. I splashed some on my face and neck. It actually felt good, even though it was still early in the morning and fairly cool out.

Hours passed, miles were covered, and eventually the distance totaled 30 miles. Coming around the corner and into the Robinson Flat aid station is like discovering an oasis. One second you're on a remote trail in the middle of the mountains. Then you pop around a random corner, and mystically this little city of bustling commerce appears. There are a number of white tents set up for shelter, and lots of fresh food and cold drinks. From a runner's perspective, after you've run thirty miles through the wilderness, Robinson Flat is a welcome sight.

I was quickly ushered to the medical checkpoint. They put me on a scale and informed me that I'd lost about a pound so far. The rules state:

 

 

With just one pound shed so far, I was fine. However, I'd covered less than a third of the race. It would be important to keep hydrated and nourished to avoid losing critical body mass and risk “dangerous impairment of body functions,” whatever that meant (it certainly didn't sound good).

As I stepped off the scale and walked toward the medical aid area, people were clapping and patting me on the back. “You look great!” “Way to go!” “Keep it up.” There were a couple of other runners seated in the medical area having their feet examined. I exchanged nods and took the farthest seat down in the row. It was nothing more than a flimsy beach chair, but it felt like a plush leather sofa.

“How are the feet?” a volunteer asked.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “They're pretty wet and they feel a little tender, especially between my toes.”

He knelt. “Let's get those shoes off and have a look.” He removed my right shoe and held it upside down to let the water stream out. My foot was white as a marshmallow and looked as though it had been soaking for hours. There were huge fissures and crags along the entire length. But perhaps most disturbing was the acorn-size blister between my big and second toes.

Just then my parents rushed over to me.

“Hello, son,” my dad said. “How's it going so far?”

“So far, so good,” though I caught a look of concern when he saw my swollen, disfigured foot.

The volunteer, Jim, continued to inspect my feet carefully, top and bottom. “I'm going to need to lance these blisters to relieve some of the pressure. It shouldn't take long, but it might sting a little.”