Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run

The rifle blast was loud but the noise of it was completely overshadowed by the shouts of the 320 runners and equal or more friends, fans and loved ones all standing and counting in unison from ten down to one. My heart was racing and I could feel tears brimming in my eyes.

“Three, Two, One! Blast!”

The runners up front moved forward and up the steep first climb. Walking forward I them move for a few seconds thinking they looked like fireflies disappearing behind the dark and lumbering hill ahead. As those lights bounced out of sight, the trail before me cleared and it was my time to move.

The runners before me began to thin out. I moved on loose legs and watched my breath erupt in clouds before my face. My feet hit pavement, then gravel, then dirt. The immediate and loudest pieces of cowbells rattling and people cheering began to fade. The landscape began to roll more steeply. I switched from a run into a jog then finally a fast power hike. The dirt from below was red, hard packed clay. It gradually faded beneath thickening blankets of harder packed snow then ice.

The runners around me all wore less layers than I, who trained in Texas heat of 90-100 degrees, whether at night or during the day. Being from the flat geography of Dallas, I had simulated the climb up this first hill with stair masters and repeats up any and every hill in the metroplex. My office was 16 stories up and I took the stairs every day, twice. For months I prepared. And now here I was, going up and up and up.

The runners around me wore lighter shoes and had no packs. They wore gloves but no shirts. I had on shorts, a tank top, a long-sleeve outer layer, bandana on my forehead and two buffs. My pack held two water bottles, energy chews, electrolyte tabs, a pair of socks. We all moved up the hill together.

There were skiers who had ridden the gondolas to the top of the initial climb to cheer and watch. They held skis and poles while cheering and clapping the best they could. They wore ski jackets and stocking caps, some sipping from steaming coffee cups.

My hands and feet were cold but my legs and lungs were burning. I looked up and saw signs indicating that we were climbing up by a double black diamond ski slope, the steepest slope available. The steeper the climb got, the farther forward I crouched. I felt the sharpness in my breath while listening to other runners talking to one another with ease. I knew I needed to conserve energy but it was so hard to tell myself to slow down. I knew my momentum was good but the hiking was hard. The sun was peeking over the mountain tops as we continued to climb. Another group of spectators stood in parkas and ski pants around a turn. They were no longer cheering and clapping. Just watching the long line of runners climbing and climbing and climbing.

The mass of runners had thinned from a crowd, to small groups, to now a single file line by the time we reached a wall like ridge. This section was the steepest yet and runners approached it by kicking their feet into the snow and leaning forward with their hands. Many slipped near the top, heaving bare chests or shoulders over the top edge. When my turn came, the material of the out layer was slick on the ice and I grabbed at rocks and strained on the cold ground to pull myself through. The other side was a fairy tale.

A man was dressed in lederhosen blowing a great alpine horn. There were bubbles floating in front of my face from some an unknown source. At the peak of this long and steep and insane climb, I could see the sun rise over the entire valley of Tahoe. The trees below rolled around in beautiful rich green with ice and snow glinting and filling the air with magical colors and beauty.

After all the hiking and climbing and the screaming from my legs and my lungs, I now looked around and smiled. Grinning, I broke into a joy filled run. My cadence felt fresh, my heart was light, I was at the top of the world, four tough vertical miles behind me and nothing but downhill fun lie in my immediate future.

The downhill fun was covered in snow. The trail was a rolling, tree-filled meadow that crisscrossed up and down hills and in and out of canopy cover. Every runner looked different travelling over the glistening white surface. Runners from the North were easy to spot: they were wearing little and seemed to glide over the ice with ease. More seasoned runners barreled over with full confidence, but while one second they flew past me, the next second they could be seen with feet over head, sliding upside down or sideways across the icy blankets. Then there were runners like me who would build confidence and run on light feet forward, before seeing another runner crash and burn and hesitate a second too long on a step, therefore falling through the upper crust then walking like a baby goat finding footing to move forward again. At one point, every runner took turns sitting down and sliding down one long hill as it was simply an icy sheet by the time we reached it. This portion at the highest elevation during the race brought such child-like joy from every runner and was so much fun.

The trail was now winding down, then turning up and I found myself running in a procession of about six females. We were now past the first two aide stations and I had fueled and was feeling good to be out of the snow and still moving with a large pack. My heart was still light and every step was a wonder as this area of trail was still so incomprehensibly beautiful. The trail wound up river beds, full of icy snow melt. It would fill my shoes but the procession of runners was just a freight trail that pulled everyone without ceasing. The runner in front of me asked where I was from and if I had run Western before. “Dallas, Texas! First time and having a great time! This part of the trail is crazy!” She laughed at me, explaining she was from Boulder and trained on this type of terrain all the time, but wished me luck. (I saw her later struggling hard and ready to quit in the heat of the 100 degree canyons. I fought the urge to tell her in Dallas I trained in this type of heat all the time, but offered her some water instead.)

This portion of train is still vivid in my mind for the sound of the water running down rocks with deep green shrubs and wild flowers of clean white and deep purple or red tickled our calves as we moved past. The sky was such an electric blue with thin clouds overhead and pines that grew taller and thicker as the trail took us back below the tree line.

Cut now to my decent off a little climb over a technical and rocky patch around mile 21. I switched into a faster downhill gait, looked to the left thinking how beautiful the valley was, then tripped. I fell face forward, arms back, mouth and eyes wide open down the slope and bounced like a scarecrow twice before landing in a pile of dirt and rocks. I watched the disturbed trail dust swirl before my face, waiting for my eyes to come back into focus, staring at a puffy dandelion about a foot from my face. While I regained my breath and vision, I heard footsteps behind me.

“You okay?” another runner shouted on approach.

“Just a little spill,” I relied from the ground.

“Okay- see ya down the trail!”

Breathe out, press up from the ground. Right side ribs tender, back tight. Hands scraped, a little bloody. Flip over and stand. Whoa! My knees are both pretty ripped up and blood is splattered down my leg and on the rocks where I had fallen. Cool, I thought. I was literally leaving some of myself out on that trail.

I rose then and began to walk again while rinsing the dirt from my lips with my water bottle, checking I still had everything on me, then began to run again.

The next aide station I reached was Duncan Canyon. I heard disco music through the trees then was greeted by the coolest party I had ever seen. Everyone was dressed in disco attire and the second I entered their care, I had two volunteers by my side. One immediately had wipes in hand and began cleaning my knees while the other grabbed my bottles and walked with me past tables of food and various sports drinks and sodas. I was filled up with ginger ale, cantaloupe and water in a flash before being pushed back to the solitude of the trees to face a 1300 ft climb over the next three miles.

By the time I made it to Robinson Flat, the first aide station where I would see my crew and the mark for the 30^th mile, I was already more tired than I should have been, my legs ached and I was a mental mess. I knew I wasted a ton of energy in the high terrain trying to stay upright over the snow, running with the pack up and down the river beds, then being shaken by the big fall. My knees were bloody and I had the beginnings of two huge blisters in each arch, but at least my adrenaline was still high. Libby, always the cool headed statistician, quelled my fear that I was literally in last place and with my back against the cut off. Jessy, my wife, was an absolute joy taking pictures and making jokes. Jeremy, a usually calm guy with level headed seriousness, spoke of their observations of every runner in and out of the huge aide station. I was able to sit and get some food, change out my bandana, and enjoy some company for a quick minute before they kicked me out and sent me on my way again.

The running was less technical now. Fewer rocks and roots crowded my foot falls and I was able to keep a more even gait. This became tricky as well as my quads began to whimper and yelp under the constant strain of first climbing the steep beginning ascent to now, the ever present flexing required with downhill running. The country remained gloriously beautiful and I was even able to see the places along the trail where wildfires had scorched the earth a few years previously.

At mile 38, there was another themed aide station. All the volunteers were dressed in old timey, wagon train type dresses. The station was situated coming out from a long, wooded stretch with lots of undulating terrain during which I had begun to feel down on myself. My legs were aching more than I thought they would be at this point in the race. I knew I was already behind on nutrition, but my stomach was upside down and it was getting hard to eat. This combination of factors left me really confused when a woman in a pioneer dress greeted me and offered trail snacks and for a second I thought I had time travelled or gone crazy.

I realized I wasn’t crazy when a second volunteer sprung forth and shouted, “Look at her knees!! Medic!!!” My earlier fall had opened some pretty deep cuts on both knees and the constant movement and climbing wouldn’t let the wound close so they were pouring blood down my shins still and most of my lower legs were caked with dirt and dried blood.

I was directed to a chair by the guy who shouted and the prairie woman kindly took my water bottles and filled them, then returned with a plate of food and some gingerale. They didn’t want me to leave until the medical staff looked at my knees. While they stung a little, they were the least of my worries at this time when my quads ached and I felt so run down. After waiting for about three minutes, I was getting frustrated that they wouldn’t let me go. I didn’t have minutes to waste.

I sat there, ate my food and felt my anxiety rising when Gordy Ainsleigh approached me.He said I looked strong, but perhaps a little tired. He offered to give me a medical massage or short chiropractic adjustment. Gordy is a bit famous in the trail community, known for being the first runner of the WSER and has started it every year since it’s inception. He is also known for being a creep. While politely declining his offer for a massage in the middle of the woods, the three member crew of a fellow runner and friend, Andrea Kooiman, approached. They checked in, asked about my knees, made sure I had everything I needed. Their presence also, thankfully, shooed off Gordy.

Trail running is a community. I met Andrea a couple years before this race while crewing for a friend at the Badwater 135 race through Death Valley. She was climbing a steep hill and yelling at nature, so I knew I liked her. I had seen her again a few times afterward and we shared many mutual running friends. We met up on my first night in Squaw Valley and she introduced me to her crew. They were all female and so nice. Seeing them at this moment in the race and them offering such kindness gave my spirit a lift that is hard to describe.

Leaving Dusty Corners, I had a new boost to my spirit and while still feeling the cry of pain from my quads, was happy to be running again.

The next few miles drove the runners down into, then up and out of two separate canyons. The first took us down 1,700 ft over two miles, then straight back up the same vert out on the opposite side of the canyon over another two miles. There were times where the switchbacks would allow me a nice gait and I could move with some momentum, but mostly I felt like I was hand over hand scrambling in and out of the first canyon.

Then came the next canyon.

This one dropped 2,300 ft over five miles. The running was nice and the trail going down was beautiful. The decline was steep enough that my quads protesting only got louder and louder and my calves began to lock up. The temperature rose as I ran further and further into the canyon and the red dirt covering the rocks mocked my feet and hands. Sweat from my face and fingers made the dust stick to me until I felt like it was everywhere. Water in my mouth tasted like the dirt and I squinted to keep it from my eyes. At the bottomwas a bridge with a sign.

“Only three runners or two horses allowed at a time.”

As I climbed, I thought about how many runners and races have been brought through this canyon. The Western States Trail race began as an 82 mile horse race. I could not fathom how horses could possibly go over the rocks and decent I had just covered. I needed every muscle in my body and all the grip and strength I could muster to get myself over some of those obstacles.

I also thought about the lead runners. They had come through these canyons hours ahead of me. Did they have the strength to move and race over this terrain to the point where three might have to fight to cross the bridge at a time. It was hard to fathom this scenario while I was so hot and exhausted.

Just across the bridge was the El Dorado Aide Station. My bloody knees were now additionally caked with red dust and again, volunteers wanted me to sit and let the medic look them over before I left. I was relieved to give my legs a rest while two volunteers brought me water, soda and snacks. It was shady and nice and I felt great until an overly anxious volunteer poured rubbing alcohol on my knees then started rubbing vigorously to remove the dried blood. Now my knees were my chief source of pain.

“I’m good! I’m good! It’s okay, you don’t have to clean them!”

I’m quickly explaining the fall happened hours before and they were fine and PLEASE stop rubbing them like that. Fortunately, my yelping brought the medic over very quickly and he pulled the alcohol rubber away. We agreed it was fine, just looks bad. But now they were bleeding again. Oh well. I’ve got 1,600 ft of vert over the next two miles before arriving at my next stop.

Along that next climb, I felt like I was crawling. It felt like the switchbacks were never ending and I was again scrambling hand over hand. At one point I saw a drop of sweat fall from my nose and land on a rock by my bleeding knees where it literally sizzled. I started this run climbing over ice and shivering but now the temperature was in the upper 90’s and muggy air was trapped and not moving in the canyon ditch around me. I was struggling for air, for each step, for anything good when I heard someone behind me. I moved to the side of the trail as the runner approached so they could pass when they turned and sat down in front of me. He was an Italian runner who spoke broken English, offering a cheerful greeting as he produced a map from his pack. He smiled and shook his head vigorously while saying something about 500 meters.

“500 meters to the next aide station?!?!”

I got excited.

“No, no, no.. 500 meters Up!”

“Ah”

I was crushed.

I only had another 500 meters of vert to climb before reaching aide, which mean another three quarters of a mile or so. I finished off the water left in my bottle. He was smiling, I was grimacing. We both stood and continued down the trail.

The next aide station, Michigan Bluff, was at mile 55 and was where my pacer Jeremy would join me. I met Jeremy through mutual running friends at a small race in Oklahoma. Most trail runners within Texas and Oklahoma knew one another, due to the community being pretty niche and rather small. Jeremy was a really nice guy, had run several 100 mile races, and having completed some of his medical schooling at Emory in Atlanta, Ga, some at Duke in NC and lived most of his life in Oklahoma, was a country boy through and through.

I was excited to spend time on the trail with him as he had tons of awesome stories from incidents with patients, friends he made in Georgia, or many of the awesome races he had run all over the country. We also had similar taste in books and culture, so I was prepared to hear his takes on this author or that actress and what shows were brilliant or bingeworthy.

For the next seven miles, that was what I got. We talked about politics and Steven King, races to run or to avoid, race directors who were awesome or who were train wrecks. We also just moved in silence and enjoyed the trail and the trees together. Night settled in during this stretch and the run morphed into a whole different animal.

We saw our jolly crew at Foresthill in full dark. I remember drinking some energy drink offered by Jessy as well as getting candy and being so happy to be able to sit. Jessy’s sarcastic wit was there and Libby’s level head and cool demeanor sent me off in good spirits despite feeling aches and pains of new and intensifying degrees.

My quads felt as though they were being pulled from the bone with each step. My calves were tightening up, my achilles tendon had become inflamed. The pressure of the enflamed tendon against the back of my shoe felt like fire with each step. It tightened and released and I swore it would snap at any second. I could feel the two distinct blisters that had formed in the arches of my feet during the first 30 miles running in and out of all the icy streambeds. The blisters were full of warm liquid that was pushing against the protesting skin on my feet with each step.

The dark was deep through the night and I remember little. I was in so much pain and my exhaustion was intensified by how dark and quiet the woods were. The trail wound up and down small hills but generally took us downward and through thick trees. I slipped off the side of the trail at one point, as I nodded in and out of sleep while begging my body to move forward. I wanted more stories, but Jeremy seemed out of them. I wanted to rest, but knew I was now in the dangerous arena of chasing cutoffs. I wasn’t super close to any, but I was closer than I was comfortable with and knew every second counted.

Jeremy would urge me forward, “Hey, let’s run this little bit to that sign.”

We’d run and it would hurt. My feet would scream. My heel would ache so bad I would start to gag.

“I’ve gotta walk.”

We’d walk. Hard. Every step was a battle now. Fighting sleep, fighting for each step. Fighting off the fatigue and the pain, and then,

I broke.

While training and preparing for the race, it was also on me to prepare my crew and pacers for the best ways to assist me through the race. I had prepared a thorough document on which aide stations I wanted what foods, time stamps for a few different paces that could be plausible come race day and notes for what to do when and if everything was going wrong. It included many things I had learned about myself from running ultras before, such as my preferred electrolyte drinks, foods for when I am hungry, food for an upside down stomach, when to take caffeine based on proximity to porta potties and everything you could possibly imagine.

Now was the section of the race where everything was going wrong, and all that prep was out the window. I was crying at mile 70, stopped eating by mile 71, feel asleep standing up at mile 72. When we came into Cal 3 aide station at mile 73, the last stop through the worst of the night portion, I sat heavily in a chair, put my head in my hands and sobbed. Jeremy inched slowly toward me, extended an arm at full length, and patted me on the shoulder three times.

“All right, we gotta go.”

I was still in pain, but knew this next stretch was gentle in grade, so I decided to make up time. All I had to do was make it to the river crossing. I’d handle whatever came after that, after that. Getting to the river crossing was all I decided to focus on.

The terrain was a flatter gravel path moving along side a river. It slowly wound with the bends in the river and I could see light playing around in the trees in the distance. The lights moved and flickered against the greenery all along the surrounding mountains, it took on a life form all its own. In my mind the dancing lights morphed into a distant barn with a huge window on the front through which I could see several people dancing and moving. There was a party going on ahead! There was some kind of party barn through the trees! I got exciting thinking about how much fun those people must be having. Maybe that was the aide station! I still hurt with every step, but I was moving. I was pumping my arms and thinking about what drinks they might have at the party barn, what songs were they playing, when I heard Jeremy behind me, “I know this sounds weird, but I swear I saw a Jesus statue in the trees back there…..”

I told him to look forward to the party barn ahead, but as I said it, the flickering lights faded.. There was no party barn. I was now sad about the lack of party and that we were obviously hallucinating, so I marched ahead even harder. When we hit the river crossing I was beyond relieved. There was a raft waiting with volunteers who would row us across the icy river where we would then have just another short mile or so before seeing the crew at Green Gate aide station at mile 80.

I was definitely not thinking about the 700 ft of climbing that would happen over that mile and by the time we reached Garden Gate, I walked up to gentle Libby and cheerful Jessy, threw my pack in the dirt and said, “We need a pow wow!!” before dropping to the ground. It was around 3:30am, I had been running for 22.5 straight hours over grueling terrain. I was bloody and beaten.

But then, crew magic happened. I don’t truly remember what all was said or done, but they crowded around me like little elves. I know I ended up with calf sleeves, refilled water and food, pretty sure there was a good hearty cry and possibly some first aide. I was propped up and sent out to get it done. Being beaten was not an option under their watch and their magic made it so.

The next 13 miles were a blur. While running a 100 miler, whenever the new day’s sunlight begins to stream in through the leaves on the trees and birds start to sing, no matter how much pain you are in, the air and feel of that moment a thing of beauty. This time was no different and this area of the trail was gorgeous. Rays of sun beamed through branches and the morning would have remained a glorious tribute to all the great things in life except…

Something felt even more off in my body than the bloody knees, swollen tendons, and exhaustion. My lower back tightened up, my abdomen began to feel tense and tight. I asked Jeremy to move ahead a bit on the trail while I dove into some nearby bushes to check something…

And that something… well it’s something not enough runners talk about. It’s a hard subject
 because.. only female runners really get the true severity and awfulness of it.

Somewhere around mile 87 of the Western States 100 mile Endurance Run, I started my period. And I had no time or energy to even deal with that.

This close to the finish, all I cared about was making it to Pointed Rocks aide station at mile 94. There, Jessy was going to jump in and take me the final six miles to the finish. This next stretch was another 1000 ft climb. That was hard to think about, but I just needed to get from aide station to aide station. I was dangerously close to the cutoffs and had to kick it up.

With the sun rise came a new vigor, but also a boiling heat. I was thirsty and tired, but all I could do was move. There were a couple moments where I begged Jeremy to stop as my vision went black and fuzzy. I’d grab a nearby tree or rock and hold on until my eyes cleared and I could see again. Then we would move.

My tendons were so tight, I feared they would just snap. I had often joked with Jessy that I’d finish this race, even if I had to crawl across the line. This seemed a near possibility except if I did end up crawling, I needed to do it at a sub-14 minute mile to make sure I could make the final cutoff. While pondering these thoughts, Jeremy did some math and confirmed we could make it, we just needed to maintain that sub 14 pace and we would get there. He’d keep me on track and we could do this. We were going to make it happen. Just as he was finishing his statement, his watch chirped loudly.

“Uh oh.”

“What?”

“My watch died.”

I saw flags across the tall flowy grass and my heart jumped. Pointed Rocks. I, again, threw my pack down at Libby’s feet. She started to pick it up and change out my supplies while I continued to shed gear and buffs and anything I didn’t need.

“Nope, gonna leave it all behind. Just six miles and it’s done!”

It was so hot, but losing the weight of the pack was nice and Jessy’s fresh energy was annoyingly perfect for how I felt. She would run ahead of me and cheer and coax me on. I would yell at her to stop then apologize for yelling, then ask for stories. She would tell me stories, then run ahead again. This pattern repeated down a long decent for about two miles, then up a steep climb. I was terrified of missing the next cutoff. My legs would no longer allow me to run so it was all fast stride hiking and the climbs had completely done my legs in. I was lifting them up the rocks with my arms, then pushing down on my quads to get myself up using more upper body strength than lower at this point. Jessy stayed joyfilled and supportive and we were able to get up the final tough and true climb.

As we moved under the canopy of the Robie point aide station at mile 98.9, I begged for a soda. A volunteer gladly handed me a can while congratulating us on making it to mile 98.9. I chugged the soda and quickly handed it back.

“What?!?! We are that close?!?!”

“Yeah! You can totally do this!”

We were on flat pavement now and I had 40 minutes to make it just over one mile. That was doable! I was going to make it! We were clear of the trail and simply had to move through some neighborhoods toward Placer High School where I would circle the track and finally cross under the famous WSER banner and have completed this epic race.

The whole town seemed to be out. Families were all out in their driveways with signs and coolers, cheering and having a great time. Up a pretty steep hill around one final turn was a pop up canopy with music and happy cheering volunteers from the Squirrel Nut Butter company. With them was a guy with a bullhorn leading around another person dressed in a giant squirrel suit. He ran down the hill to me, then started jogging with me, coaxing me forward.

I was so far past the, ‘sure I can just run up this last monster hill because a squirrel man is telling me to’ point as all my focus was making it this final piece. As I was trying to tell Mr. Squirrel man I loved his set up but didn’t have it in me to play, one of the volunteers dumped a bucket of ice water down my back.

While pondering if this is what it would feel like to have your heart stop or, perhaps, if this would send my broken, dehydrated self into shock, the squirrel man whispered in my ear, “I’m not trying the be a jerk, but you’ve got 20 minutes until cutoff and you’re about 2 miles from the finish line.”

Pure panic set in. I look at my watch and know that I have longer than 20 minutes. It’s still about 32 minutes until the 11 am cutoff. The last aide station was just over a mile and I did not move backwards on the trail, so what he said could not be true. Unfortunately logic was not a thing that landed in my fuzzy brain. I am moving and panicking and now soaking wet but I WAS SO CLOSE.

Jessy sees my panic and is hopping around me and cheering and giddy and happy for me. The people along the street are getting more and more dense. They have hands outstretched for high fives and are letting me know I am almost there. I cross a bridge and see a friend who walks with us for a moment. I was so happy to see him, but still panicking I wasn’t going to make the final cutoff, until he told me the high school was 400 meters down this next hill.

I turned and saw the hill and school buses lining the fence of the track. It really was there! I was almost there! My body felt light then as a final rush of adrenaline surged through every ounce of me. I was no longer a person, just a skeleton and adrenaline and I was running down this hill. I was running toward those buses. I was running to a turn into the fence then I was running onto the track. I was running down the track and could hear cheering and then my name being called out on the loudspeaker. And then I ran under that banner.

It only clicked in my head that I actually finished the race after I was given a medal and a hug and a water bottle and then told to turn for a picture and then hugged again by Libby, then Jessy,

And then I stopped.

I turned around.

I looked at the medal hung from my neck and the bottle in my hand. I looked at the banner with the giant clock and saw it was still ticking by.

That was when it clicked.

I had just finished Western States.