Welcome!

Thanks for visiting my blog. This is where I document and share all of my running adventures with my friends and fellow runners. The good, the bad, and the unquestionably painful. All for your entertainment! Enjoy!

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

2016 Hardrock 100: Savage Beauty in the San Juans


I don't yet know how I feel about Hardrock. But I know I still hurt. A lot. And that's something.

If you're reading this report, you probably already know a thing or two about this race, its history, and the long road to gaining entry, so I won't bother with too much of that detail. But I will say this...it took me 5 years of running qualifiers and entering the lottery before I got the bad news that I had secured a spot in the 2016 race.

I almost vomited when I found out.

For me, gaining entry into the race meant that I had to totally change my approach to running for the year, because I race A LOT. If I had any hope of finishing Hardrock, I would need to (for the first time in my life) focus on actually training. And NOT finishing Hardrock wasn't going to be an option. So I cleared my calendar from April until race day, and focused on running long and climbing high.

Hardrock changes directions each year, but always starts and finishes in Silverton, Colorado, at 9400' above sea level. 2016 is a clockwise year, which is supposed to be the "faster" of the two directions. So I had that going for me.

The race starts at 6:00 AM, just as it becomes light enough to see without the aid of a headlamp. Because the race has a very small field (about 150 runners), the start is a pretty low key event, but still full of nervous energy, anxiety, and more than a little whimpering.



The course takes us uphill (big surprise), out of Silverton for about 2 miles, before dropping us into the valley for our first, of many, water crossings. This is a popular spot for spectators to gather and cheer for the runners as the field has started to thin out.

Heading into the River

Shortly after the river crossing, we begin our first major climb up Putnam. This climb reaches around 12,600'. A 3000' climb over about 4.5 miles.

About 2 miles into the climb, it really began to sink in that I was actually running the Hardrock Hundred. And the people around me must have began to dwell on that fact as well, because the line of runners became eerily quiet as everybody began praying to whatever deity they were relying on for help.


I think this is an appropriate time to point out that for most of us, there's not much running in this race. Even some of the best runners on the course will advise against running the flats. Focus on strong climbing, fast walking on the flats, and running the downhills. But as I learned, even running the downhills can be hard in the San Juans. So if your dream of running Hardrock includes thoughts of flying over mountain passes and dashing down steep, scenic valleys, you may be somewhat disappointed in the face of reality. They call this the Hardwalk Hundred for a reason.



After reaching the top of Putnam, we traversed the ridge line for a bit before tipping downward for a nice jog into the KT aid station at mile 11.5.


I was feeling strong as I left the KT aid station and started the ascent to Grant Swamp Pass. I was climbing without the use of poles, because I'm stupid like that sometimes. 



As I got closer to the pass, I began to encounter a growing number of day hikers and race spectators on their way up and down the trail. They all stepped off the trail for me, even though I would have happily taken a break to let them by. The climb to Grant Swamp Pass, got steeper with every step.


The top of the pass was almost crowded with people because it's an awesome spot to catch photos of runners. I heard a few people calling my name, which meant I had to pretend the climb wasn't kicking my ass.

Photo by Myke Hermsmeyer

Photo by Chris Gerber

I was greeted at the top of the pass by my friend, Chris Gerber, who had made the climb to support the runners. I tried to act cool as he greeted me, as if the climb hadn't wrecked me, but it clearly had.

Chris followed me along a short traverse, then pointed me toward the beginning of the descent. I seriously thought he was kidding. I looked back at him, hoping to see a sly grin that would confirm the joke, but he was serious.

The descent is a near vertical drop in loose rock and scree. I started to slowly pick my way down before deciding the best course of action was to slide to the bottom and hope I didn't kill myself in the process. I dug my right foot in and rode it to the bottom like a size 9 toboggan.


The rest of the descent was only slightly less perilous, and I cruised into the Chapman Gulch aid station at mile 18 without doing any serious damage to my body.

Coming into Chapman


My crew was waiting for me and they jumped into action, getting me ready for the next climb. Leon Lutz had flown out to help me with the race and this was my first time seeing him since he got into Colorado. He was a welcome sight. Leon is often the voice of reason when he crews and paces me, and I've learned to pay close attention to what he says. So when he suggested I take my poles with me before leaving the aid station, I took it to heart. Thank god for Leon.

Game Face

The climb to Oscar Pass starts out moderately, but gets steeper as you gain altitude, before topping out at 13,100'. I was feeling really good on the climb and was in a great mood.

I didn't know it at the time, but this would be the last time I felt good in the race.


I ran into Justin Ricks and his family as they were making their way off the mountain after working on race coverage of the leaders. Justin is giving me advice on conserving energy for the flat section in the back half of the course. I don't think I'll ever be able to trust Justin again.

Photo by Denise Ricks

I had an amazing climb to the pass and quickly dropped over the other side for a long downhill run into Telluride.



I was fueling well and was feeling great all the way down the mountain. The views were amazing and I was having fun. Fun wasn't an expectation I had when I showed up at Hardrock, but I was happy to take it.

When I rolled into Telluride, I was in high spirits. When Leon rushed up to me at the aid station, I looked at him with a grim face and said, "Dude….I'm almost embarrassed". Looking worried, he asked why, then I gave him a huge grin and blurted out, "FOR THE SHAMELESS ASS WHOOPING I JUST PUT ON THAT MOUNTAIN! HAHAHAHA!!!".

We both laughed without knowing that would be the last time.


The climb out of Telluride, up Virginia's Pass, is a monster, so I took some time at the aid station to get prepared. I updated my crew, and for the time being, we were all happy and optimistic.


Leon Showing me the Way

One mile outside of Telluride, my race turned. Instantly.

I was struggling with the climb and started to fall into a funk. My mood turned bad and everything appropriately followed. I was having to slow my pace, and even then, I was stopping to rest my legs and catch my breath.

The weather had promised to provide a hot day, and it was delivering. Much of the climb is exposed and I was boiling over. Heat has always been my greatest enemy in a race, and it winning a very one sided battle.

I was desperate to reach Kroger's Canteen, the aid station that is famously perched on the narrow ledge at the mountain pass. After an eternity of climbing, I could see the pass just above me, but not the aid station.


When I got to the top of the pass, there was no aid station. "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!"

Seems as if I need to make another descent before climbing back up to Kroger's. Well if that isn't a pleasant surprise...


After wiping a few tears of frustration, I made my way down, then back up into the warm embrace of Kroger's Canteen. I took a few minutes to pout and fuel up before pushing on.

BTW…you know it's a serious mountain run when the aid station staff has to wear mountain climbing protective gear just to stay safe.


Leaving the aid station requires a rope assisted descent through a vertical snow field before hitting some really terrible single track. I wasn't amused.

After a short piece of trail, I had a 10 mile downhill run on old mining roads that would lead me to Ouray and my crew. A 5500' descent. Over 10 miles. On a road.

Just shoot me.

By the time I made it to Ouray, I had decided to DNF.

I felt sick, my entire body hurt and I just didn't care anymore. Night had fallen, and a cold beer, warm bed, and 18 hours of sleep sounded WAY better than climbing another mountain. Or five. I had five more mountains to climb.

When I met my crew, the whining started immediately. Did anybody REALLY expect me to finish this race? I sure didn't.

But when I looked at my crew, with concern in their eyes, but a slight annoyance on their face, I decided to press on. These people had sacrificed a lot to be here to help me and I owed them my best possible effort. I didn't need to quit. I needed to stop being a whiny little bitch.

I grabbed Jennilyn Eaton, my first pacer, and we headed up the mountain.

We had a 10 mile climb up Engineer, back to 13,000'. We slowly picked our way up the mountain while we chatted. I was struggling, but we were still moving ahead. One painful footstep at a time.

We made a brief stop at the Engineer aid station before moving over the top of the pass, making our descent into Grouse Gulch.

Jennilyn did a great job keeping me focused and somewhat amused with her "Girl Power Music". I couldn't have made it to Grouse without her.

When we got to Grouse, I sat to fuel and rest, and ended up staying for over an hour. I tried to take a quick nap, but sleep wasn't coming. I swapped Jennilyn for Leon, and we started another climb.

We headed off into the dark, making our way to the high point on the course. Handies Peak, at 14,058'.

Allow me to put this in perspective for you…

Climbing Colorado 14'ers is never easy. At Hardrock, you run 60 miles, climbing about 20,000 feet along the way, then bag a 14'er before running another 40 miles with 13,000 feet of climbing. That pretty much sums up Hardrock for me.


Before hitting the summit, the sun had come up and exposed the dramatic beauty around us. It was meaningful to share this time with Leon because we both have a profound love for the mountains, and he's one of the greatest friends I've ever had. At that low point, I was happy to have him there with me.

We didn't linger at the summit. The wind was howling and we had someplace to be. We immediately started down the other side of the peak, picking our way through brittle shale, trying to stay upright. Not an easy task.


And this is when I lost my mind.

I didn't want to alarm Leon, so I didn't really mention it. I just told him I was "sleepy". But in reality, I was freaking out. For the first time in my life, I was hallucinating in the daylight. I couldn't trust anything my eyes showed me. It was mostly subtle stuff, like large homes along the trail, vehicles in places they couldn't possibly be, people riding animals that would never allow themselves to be ridden…stuff like that. You know the drill.




We made a stop at the Burrows Park aid station at mile 67 and I found a seat. Leon rustled up an egg and cheese sandwich and a couple of Mt. Dew's. My head began to clear and I started to feel better.

We pushed on toward the Sherman aid station, 4 miles down a gravel road.

We walked the entire way, just talking. I was happy to be feeling better and I was even happier to be there with Leon.

I started to think I might actually finish this race. But I didn't share that with anybody. I wanted to keep them guessing.

Coming into Sherman

At the Sherman aid station, I would lose Leon in exchange for Traci Falbo, who would stay with me for the next 20 miles. Before leaving the aid station, I fueled up and rested while updating the rest of my crew on my condition.

I didn't tell them I had lost my mind several hours earlier. I didn't want to needlessly worry them.

World Best Crew Chief 

The climb out of Sherman, toward Pole Creek, was the most gradual I had encountered on the course. Which means it was only "very difficult", versus what we'd previously experienced. It was a pleasant change.

Traci was fresh and eager, and I tried my best to keep moving at a reasonable pace so she wouldn't get too bored. We climbed up through Cataract Lake before making a rolling descent into Pole Creek aid station.


Pole Creek is so isolated that the aid station supplies are brought in by donkeys. Which meant it would have a limited variety of supplies. All I needed was ice for my pack, and of course, that wasn't available. The sun was high in the sky, and bearing down on me again. Ice would have been nice to have.


Things got far more intense after Pole Creek. The climb toward Maggie Gulch was steep. And annoying. My mood had severely soured again and dark thoughts began to creep back into what was left of my mind. I was slowly becoming detached from the race and from myself. I had never been this exhausted.

We made a quick stop at Maggie Gulch aid station, where Traci was trying to force me to eat while I sat with my arms folded like an infant and kept saying no. We were both glaring at each other a little bit, her trying to be patient while I was trying to be stubborn for the sake of being stubborn.

She had yet to learn that I had gone completely insane during the descent from Handies. I was amused by my little secret.


The climb out of Maggie Gulch was pure brutality for me. I was moving uphill at a snails pace, on steep, rugged terrain. There were several very steep climbs, with equally steep descent, all of which I thought would be the last before dropping down toward the final aid station at Cunningham.

Every time I topped out on a peak, I was greeted by another peak in the distance, where I could see runners struggling to climb up and over. I must have said "REALLY?!?!?!" and "SERIOUSLY?!?!?!" about a thousand times.

My spirit was completely broken by this point and I was only moving forward because I really didn't seem to have much of a choice. Who drops out at Hardrock, 90 miles in? Maybe me...


We finally found the last climb and began the descent into Cunningham. I was having intense hallucinations all the way down the mountain, which wasn't great timing because it's a pretty gnarly descent with a fair bit of exposure.

At times, I was simply forgetting what I was doing and would suddenly remember I was running Hardrock. Then I'd drift back off into a fog of confusion, much like how I imagine full time crazy people live.

We made it safely off the mountain and into Cunningham aid station where we were met by Leon and Jo. Traci was done with her babysitting duties and Leon was slated to take me the rest of the way.

In the aid station, Traci was trying to force me to eat again and my sanity returned just in time to prevent me from blurting out. "HA HA, you're not my pacer anymore so I don't have to listen to you!". Dodged a bullet right there!

Leon and I, Leaving Cunningham


We only had 9 miles left, but they were nine savage miles. Leaving Cunningham launched us right into an ascent up Little Giant. Dumb name, because there's nothing little about it. It's a 2500' climb, over 1.8 miles. Steep, exposed and brutal.

But there was nowhere to go, except to the finish.



The sun was setting, once again, and as we gained altitude, it started to get cold. As night began to settle in, my insanity worsened. During the entire ascent, I was sure Leon and I had made this exact climb together at least twice before. Maybe a training run? Then I would remember this was my first trip to the San Juan Mountains and force the thought away. But not for long.

And once again, I forgot where I was and what we were doing. After finishing the steepest part of the climb, but before hitting the pass, I sat down in the basin and struck up THIS conversation with Leon:

Me- Where is everybody?
Leon- What?
Me- The people. I don't see people.
Leon- What people?
Me- Shouldn't there be people down there? Coming up here?
Leon- (vacant stare)
Me- (now frustrated) Is this a race course we're on?
Leon- It is!
Me- We should probably go now.

Sitting in the Dark, Being Crazy

After the final scramble, we found the pass and dropped over onto a very narrow piece of rocky trail that led the way down. We had a few other people with us now, so we formed a train as we made our way toward Silverton.

After about 100 yards, the trail seemed to disappear, then Leon pointed straight down the mountain to what appeared to be a small rock slide, and said we had to go down that to pick the trail below us.

It was time for me to come clean with Leon about my mental state. If he was expecting a mentally incapacitated person to fling their body OFF this mountain and slide down a nearly vertical chute, while effecting a perfect gymnast landing on that tiny patch of trail, he needed to know I had doubts.

In the end, I did fling my body off the mountain. While my technique was less than gymnast caliber, I didn't fall to my death.

The rest of the runners dropped in behind me as we picked our way off the mountain, kicking rocks and cussing the entire way. After an eternity, the trail dumped us onto an awful mine road, where we continued to follow it down toward Silverton.

At this point, I decided to start calculating an estimated finish time. I had never possessed a goal for this race, because I had absolutely no way of determining how I would perform in this type of terrain. But two miles out, I felt confident in assembling a good guess. I decided we should finish before midnight, and I made that our goal. And we had plenty of time to do that.

With ample time, I felt no pressure to rush. I wanted to walk because the ground was heavily strewn with rocks and I didn't trust my brain and my feet to work well together at this point. They hadn't been getting a long for a while. So we hiked toward Silverton.

The road led us to a dark, swampy trail, and for whatever reason, I held firm to the belief that we'd be at the finish line in a matter of minutes. So me and my addled brain just plodded along behind Leon like a dog that had been kicked in the head by a mule.

After several minutes, I began to worry we were lost. But we continued to find trail markers…so we must be close. Then that worry would return…then another trail marker. Glancing at my watch, I realized we were growing very near my last minute and very arbitrary deadline, and I began to panic. Genuine, crazy person panic.

My panic began to boil over, so I told Leon to run ahead to find if this trail ever actually dumps into Silverton. He ran. I walked and kicked rocks.

Leon returned with confirmation that Silverton was, in fact, a reality. And we were close. I picked up the pace.

The trail led to a parking lot and the town became clear. I glanced at my watch and realized I only had 4 minutes remaining if I wanted to meet my self imposed deadline. I did. I ran.

I ran through Silverton with every last ounce of energy remaining. Like a crazy person.

I rounded the corner and the finish line was there. Waiting for me. The clock mocked me, counting it's way to midnight far to quickly.

I crossed the finish line at 11:59:59, for a finish time of 41:59:59.

And with all the reverence and humility required of the task, I knelt and kissed the rock.


I was in complete disbelief.

Hardrock had proved to be the most challenging thing I had ever done. I had pushed my body beyond anything it had ever experienced. I suffered severely in the heat, struggled in the altitude, was ravaged by the climbs, then crushed by the descents. But I finished.

I have never experienced the depth of the low places I found myself in, and I had never suffered from such mental exhaustion and incapacitation.

I found a new limit in the San Juan Mountains.

My Crew and Friends

Special thanks to my amazing wife for helping me get through this. My pacers were top notch professionals and put up with a lot to get me back to Silverton. If I was any of them, I probably would have left me for dead.

And thanks to Hammer Nutrition, Topo Athletic, and Osprey Packs for supporting me and providing me with the gear and fuel to get me through the 2016 Hardrock Hundred.

Sunday, April 10, 2016

2016 Zion 100: Mesas, Mud and Merriment


For me, running the Zion 100 has evolved into a tradition, rather than a competitive endeavor. As a brand new, inexperienced ultra runner, I lined up for the inaugural Zion 100 and it taught me a lot of valuable lessons that day. I've returned to that race every year since, and I continue to learn and grow from the experience. 

I've watched this race evolve over the years as Matt Gunn continues to refine the event as better trail options become available, and as conditions dictate, as the race continues to grow and draw a larger field each year. 2016 had the fewest changes so far, with almost everything remaining the same from the previous year, with the exception of the location of the start line. Instead of starting in the Virgin City Park, we relocated to a large camping area nestled in the desert just outside of town. In my opinion, this is a major upgrade for a lot of reasons, but mostly because it makes it easier for us to camp at the start line.


There had been a lot of buzz leading up to the race because the weather forecast was predicting rain. In most races, this is just a minor annoyance, but a steady rain in the desert presents a long list of serious hazards and can lead to significant degradation of the trails. Water doesn't soak into the desert soil very well. It likes to form rivers and shoe sucking, slippery mud.

The Calm Before the Actual Storm

This was my 3rd consecutive weekend of travel and racing, so as the race started at 6:00 AM, I pushed myself deep into the pack of anxious runners. This wasn't going to be a day to run hard, or to take things too seriously.

A long line of glowing headlamps headed out of the campground and into the desert for a traverse to the first big climb, Flying Monkey. I was feeling good and enjoying the casual banter as we navigated through the dark to the base of Smith Mesa, and a climb I'm all too familiar with.

In addition to starting a familiar climb, I found myself in a familiar situation with a familiar friend. Due to some law of nature that I can't quite explain, I found myself making this climb with Danny Widerburg. If Danny and I are in the same race, we always end up together for the first several miles. And like a well oiled machine, and without preplanning or coaxing of any kind, we begin a relentless banter that could probably get us banned from future races. The hardest thing about climbing a steep grade with Danny is managing my airflow in between fits of laughter. Good times.

Some things I learned from my time with Danny:

1. I'm on Danny's Fantasy Ultra Running Team. But so is Steve Prefontaine. And he's dead. And he's not even an ultra runner.

2. Steve Prefontaine was actually the same height as Danny's 7 year old son. This is an historic fact I did not know.

3. Some overuse injuries that runners deal with can actually be spread through intimate contact, much like an STD.

I always learn something from that guy...

After finishing the ascent to Smith Mesa, we hit the first aid station before heading out for a long, rolling loop that would eventually bring us back to this aid station before hurling ourselves back down the Flying Monkey.

For the first time that morning, I was able to see the sky and the clouds building off to the south. The overcast skies were perfect for running, but it left little doubt that we were going to see rain.


After finishing the loop and making a quick stop at the aid station, we dropped back down Flying Monkey for a fast, technical descent.

Disclaimer: This trail scares the crap out of me! It's the perfect mix of runnable and technical, which can get me into a pretty bad situation. It's a trail that begs to be ran down quickly, but presents you with perfectly engineered rocks that are expertly placed with the intention of grabbing a shoe or snapping an ankle. I'm actually surprised that half the field even makes it to the bottom without some form of serious injury. 


"Dude…Look How Fast I'm Running Down This Thing"
Photo Credit: Derrick Lytle

After surviving the descent, we headed across the desert, making our way to the Dalton Wash aid station on a nice piece of single track.

I started to develop some pain in my right knee during this section, and quietly wondered if my wife also had some pain in her right knee. Very little else could explain this. Thanks, Danny!


 Water Crossing Headed to Dalton Wash

Dalton Wash is at mile 15, and is the first crew access point. Jo was waiting for me there and helped me reload my hydration pack while I fueled up. I was in and out quickly.

Dalton Wash Inbound

Danny Widerburg and Tobias Sorensen On My Heels

Leaving Dalton Wash, Heading to Guacamole!

Leaving Dalton Wash starts with a long climb up a power line road before dropping onto the "actual" Dalton Wash Road, where we begin the LONG gradual climb to Guacamole. The climb to the mesa isn't punishing because it's not steep like the other major climbs on the course. But it's LONG and serves to slowly chip away at you. Little by little, eroding your strength and sense of humor.

We're greeted by another aid station when we top out at the Mesa. After a quick stop, we head out and run a long, undulating loop on slickrock mountain bike trails. I've always enjoyed this part of the race because it provides great views and it's relatively easy running. For Slickrock anyway.

Guacamole


After finishing the loop, I headed directly back down Dalton Wash Road without stopping at the Guacamole aid station. I was well supplied with fluids and Hammer gels, and from experience, I know it's a fast downhill trip to the Dalton Wash aid station.

Back at Dalton Wash Aid Station

I took some time with this stop because I know the trail ahead will provide the biggest challenge of the day. I fueled up, checked all my gear, kissed my wife and headed toward the Goosebump.

The Goosebump is the climb to access Gooseberry Mesa. The Goosebump sucks.

After cutting through the desert for a few miles, I reached the base of the climb, dropped a few swear words, and began the ascent. The footing is terrible for the first quarter mile. Loose sandstone, scattered rock, and plenty of eroded ruts make for entertaining climbing. The upper areas of the climb offer boulders and jagged rock to keep things interesting.

To my surprise, it was my best ascent to the mesa ever! I didn't vomit, make any enemies, and I only stopped to catch my breath once. Definitely a new record!

Near the Top of Goosebump

The Gooseberry aid station sits right at the top of the climb and is always a welcomed sight. Even more so this year when I was greeted by the familiar faces of Aaron Williams and his awesome wife, Kristyan, as they were manning the aid station. I stopped long enough to reload the pack and down some calories before heading out for 12 miles of slickrock running on the mesa.

Gooseberry Slickrock 

I felt good running the mesa and wrapped it up quickly, returning to the aid station before pointing my feet toward Grafton Mesa, and my crew chief!


The trip to Grafton aid is quick. It's a 6 mile stretch of dirt road that is mostly flat with a little bit of rolling as you pass through wash areas. I was feeling good and making great time.

Heading to Grafton Aid

Coming into Grafton

Jo was waiting for me when I arrived and we started to make preparations for running in the dark, and for running in the rain, which seemed imminent at this point. I grabbed a waterproof jacket, fueled up and rolled out.

As soon as I left the aid station, it started to pour.

It rained the entire time as I dropped down toward the Grafton Cemetery and then back up Grafton Mesa. The ground was getting greasy, but it was still runnable. That wouldn't last.

When I made it back to the Grafton Mesa aid station, the sun was beginning to set. The rain was coming and going, but was going more than it wasn't. I took ample time to load my pack with everything I might need if the weather worsened. I swapped shorts for tights, added gloves and put on a long sleeve tech shirt.

I was going to be running through a storm for 14 miles before seeing Jo again. I needed to prepare for everything.

I ran back down the dirt road toward the Goosebump as quickly as I could. I was worried the descent was going to degrade quickly with the rain and I wanted to get off the mesa as fast as possible. I passed the Gooseberry aid station without stopping and I bailed off the mesa heading to the desert floor.

Most of the trail was still in good shape and handled the rain well. When I got near the base of mesa, the trail got slick and I had to carefully pick my down to the bottom.

Once I hit the desert floor, I was headed through 8 miles of sand, dirt and wash bottoms to the Virgin Desert aid station.

The trail was in good shape, but there was plenty of slipping and sliding along the way. The rain was stopping and starting again, but it was getting more intense as time went on. There was a real danger of this race being stopped if things got worse and I felt a strong sense of urgency to make it to the finish before that happened.

When I got to Virgin Desert, they placed a red wristband on me, which corresponded with the flagging on the red loop. My first of three loops before heading to the finish.

The rain had started in earnest now and it wasn't letting up.

About 2 miles into this 5 mile loop, I was forced to make a quick pit stop. I stepped 10 feet off the trail and added even more moisture to the desert floor. Anxious to get back on the trail, I spun around and launched my leg right into a cholla cactus. These are nasty little buggers! When you connect with a cholla deeply enough, the entire branch just separates from the plant and stays with you. When I looked down, I could see this giant chunk of cactus hanging from my leg. I can't grab it because then it'll just stick to my hand. I hunted around and found two flat rocks that I used to pinch the cholla, then pull it away from me. After a few painful tugs, it fell to the ground. I inspected the wound and found about a dozen cactus needles still deeply embedded in my leg. I tried to pull them out but they wouldn't budge. So I turned and ran the last 3 miles to finish my loop.

Not the Same Cactus, But an Accurate Depiction of Your Common Cholla


When I got to the aid station, I found a volunteer with a fencing tool. He agreed to pull the needles out of my leg. He gingerly grabbed each needle, we both took a deep breath, then he'd rip it out.

It hurt like hell!

All fixed up, I swapped my red wristband for a white wristband and headed out for a 6 mile jaunt in the rain.

The white trail was getting extremely slick and muddy, but for the most part, it was still runnable. The rain hadn't let up at all and was only getting worse. Moving as quickly as possible, I made it back to Virgin Desert to start my final loop before heading toward the finish line.

The blue loop was much worse than the previous loops and I began to feel pretty bad for the runners that would be dealing with this mess later tonight, or even tomorrow morning. It was barely runnable.

I hit the Virgin Desert aid station for a final time. I loaded up on water and fuel before heading out for the final 8 miles.

The first few miles went well. The trail surface handled the water well and I made good time. The final miles before the finish line were a mess. Mud was caking to my shoes, adding unneeded weight and burden. I was skiing down the short hills because it seemed to be the safest mode of transportation by that point. As the finish line came into view, I made the final descent in cartoon character fashion, doing everything I could to stay vertical. I succeeded.

Finishing in 22:59

The rain grew stronger in the moments after I finished, but by then, it didn't matter. Jo covered me with an umbrella as I warmed up by a fire, reliving my trek through the worst desert rainstorm I'd ever seen.

I soon learned that sections of the course were being closed due to the conditions and runners were being routed back toward the finish. Depending on where they were at the time, they would finish the race with either 85 miles or 92 miles. Only a handful of runners would run the entire 100 mile course. I was grateful to be one of them.

Runners in Need of Mudflaps!!

Knowing that rain was likely, I ran the race in the Topo Athletic Hydroventure. These shoes are designed to keep water out, and they did. I ran through the night in a heavy rain and wet, sloppy mud and my feet were dry at the finish. Definitely an advantage.


This is a race that will be talked about for a long time. I'm sure some runners are disappointed, but there was nothing that could have been done to control the weather, and the conditions were becoming dangerous for the runners and harmful for the trails. The race staff did all the right things.

Week 4 of my binge racing saga continues next week as I run a road marathon in my home town. I haven't been home in 10 years, so running my way through town is the best way to see what's new in that sleepy little burg.

Thanks for reading!