This doesn't have much to do with coffee, except to partially explain why DoubleShot is SHUT for four days. The real gist is my personal contemplation about running, racing, failure/success, and personal demons.
I ran in the Leadville100 on Saturday. My legs still hurt, and everything is still hazy in my mind. It's hard to separate perception from reality.
This year was different from last. The course is the same. The way I handled it was different.
The race started at 4a on Saturday, which meant I had to roll out of my tent around 250a. I showered, got dressed, and pulled my gear together; then I drove into town and walked to the starting line. It's quite an event for Leadville. They put on a first-class event, and the whole town is amped up for it. Even the coffeeshop (Provin Grounds) opens at 3a on race day. The pre-race meeting, much like the atmosphere at the starting line, is inspirational, awe-inspiring, spine-tingling, and nerve-wracking.
All 500 or so of us bunched up and listened to the count-down and the cheers from anxious onlookers. And then we ran.
A mass start like that, running out of town and onto dirt roads in the dark, tends to drag me along with the crowd. Since I haven't been running much lately, my legs weren't really ready for the distance and pace. The first aid station isn't until 13.5 miles, up and down on dirt singletrack- like running a half-marathon at the beginning of an ultra. It took me a long time to get into my rhythm, and I was glad to see the aid station- and to find my crew there waiting for me.
I ate a dry hamburger, filled my bottles, and headed back out on the trail. The next section is 10 miles over Sugarloaf Pass. It was the first real climb of the race, and I was ready for it. I'm a pretty good uphiller, so in some ways it feels like a break to ascend. Sugarloaf tops out just over 11,000ft and then descends 1500ft to the next aid station.
My faithful crew was a no-show at this one so, a little confused and irritated, I moved on down the road- but didn't eat anything (big mistake). Seven miles later, after a slight uphill on paved and dirt road, I made it to the Halfmoon aid station, which is inaccessible to support crews. Still on my own. I ate as much as I could at that one, but the ham sandwich was so salty that I chewed and chewed. It's hard enough to eat while running, but dry and salty?
The next ascent is rough. It's steep and then it descends and goes up again. And then it levels out, runs along a ridge that teases me with views of Twin Lakes (and the next aid station). And then it descends sharply for 1,000ft.
I don't think I mentioned it, but until this point, it had been chilly and rainy all day. It finally cleared off and I started to get hot in all my layers. And you know how I said I'm good at ascending? Well, that pretty much makes me bad at descending. I suck at it. I tried some different running forms to try and save my legs, but the fact is, I have to run down steep slopes and it jars the hell out of me.
By the time I got to Twin Lakes, my legs were tired. But my crew was there. Yay! I still felt pretty good, and was prepared for the next section. Ate another hamburger (this time with mayo) and struck out again. The trail crosses a field and a few streams, so my feet finally got soaked. Then the madness begins.
The next ascent goes from 9,300 to 12,600ft (the summit of Hope Pass) in short order. Frankly, it's ridiculous. I hammered up the first mile (I really thought I had something there), then I slowed to a normal pace on the second mile, and staggered up the third mile to the Hope Pass aid station. We're not talking about running here. I'm not sure if the leaders run up, but if they do... uh, I can't even imagine that. And unless you've been there, I doubt you can imagine it either. After eating ramen at the aid station, I continued my one foot in front of the other stagger to the summit (and prayer flags). Oh yeah, as soon as I left the aid station (complete with alpacas), a storm blew in and it got cold and started hailing. The picture here is of the top part of the descent of Hope Pass. It's not as steep on the far side, but the continuous precipitation made the trail as slick as snot. I had a very difficult time keeping my footing on steep singletrack, trying to avoid racers coming back up for the second 50-miles. But I finally made it to the bottom and ran another 2mi up a dirt road to the half-way point.
Josh and Jason (my support team) say I looked pretty rough. 50mi is as far as I made it last year. But with the help of my guys, I rallied enough strength to get back out there. It's funny, but this year I held the same pace as last year, only this time my legs weren't as fried as they were last.
So Jason and I ran back down the dirt road to the base of Hope Pass. I was actually moving pretty good now, partly because I knew I was pushing the time limits. From 50miles on, pacers are allowed, and it helps to have someone carry my second water bottle and give me moral support. Through the mud and steepness, I somehow really got into a groove moving up the mountain. I drew from some inner strength that pushed me forward and upward, and I even attempted to run part of it. To the top and back down a mile to the aid station, where I waited for Jason. Refuel. Move on.
All that hammer time pushed me into a state that I can only describe as a trance. I'm not sure what happens, but I regress, move inward, and fight the demons. They seem real, and they talk to me. They make me tired, make my legs hurt, tell me things I don't want to hear. And I tell them to go away. They can't control me, but if I'm not careful they influence my mind. I wonder if they are not always there, and I just don't hear them until I am weak.
Anyway, I rallied again and pushed down the mountain in the dark. Made pretty good time, and got into the Twin Lakes aid station on schedule.
I knew I was in trouble.
People talk about "hitting the wall" in marathons, but until you stretch out that distance, you don't find out that "the wall" is actually a tunnel. I can come out of it, even though it is really dark in there.
Josh took over as my pacer for the next leg, and from 60 to 70 miles I struggled. The demons came again and my stomach started feeling queasy. It was slow going, and the ascent out of Twin Lakes was destroying me. I even sat down at one point to consider whether it would be in the best interest of my safety to turn around. My mind was screwed up. But with Josh's help, I continued on. It was dark, and the trail was narrow, and my balance was bad, and even though our pace was slow, we were passing a lot of people. One girl, who came in from Japan, withdrew from the race on a stretcher on this section of trail. I did eventually make it to the next aid station 21 hours and 22 minutes into the race. Unfortunately, the time cutoff for this aid station was 20:45, and I missed it.
The woman in charge of disqualifications met me as I arrived. She told me I was late and cut off my racing wristband. She told me that it was a good effort, that it was a rough day, and there was nothing to be ashamed of. So at 70 miles, I was done.
It's hard to know what to think of this. I didn't train for it, and I knew there was a slim chance of me being able to finish. But I still had hope. And I wanted it bad. But I ran as far as I could, and then I stopped. Just like I always do.
I'm not sure what all of this means. I'm not sure why I do this. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to learn from it. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to feel like I failed or if somehow I achieved success. It's never really been about winning for me. I like to win, don't get me wrong. But for some reason, I've always felt disappointed in myself only if I didn't give it everything I had. I definitely tried and failed- I wanted that buckle. I'm disappointed in that. But at the same time, I know that under the circumstances, I pushed myself as far as I could. Is there honor in that? I don't know.
I know this: I can run 70miles in the Rocky Mountains without training.
Thanks to Josh and Jason for the support during the race- I wouldn't have made it that far without you. And thanks to all my friends who have been checking on me the last few days. I really feel the love and support of people who care about me, and I really appreciate it.
"So what's next?" (I ask myself in the car today before I can even walk normal)