Stephen Brown is an attorney with Garlington, Lohn & Robinson in Missoula, Montana. Here Steve recounts his experience at this year's Wasatch Front 100 -- his third hundred miler -- in raw yet poetic prose. The gold standard of race reports. The Montana Trail Crew encourages mountain and trail race report submissions from Montana runners.
Prologue
“Man it's hot. It's like Africa hot. Tarzan couldn't take
this kind of hot.” – Eugene Morris Jerome (Biloxi Blues)
Lamb’s Canyon, 7:10 pm, mile 53.13, and it’s still well over
90 degrees. I’m done. I’m completely exhausted, mentally
and physically. I’ve just staggered up the hill into this aid
station, checked in and stepped on the scale for the mandatory
weigh-in. I’m down nearly ten pounds from my pre-race weight, seven
of it lost in the last 13 miles. I spent 23 minutes at Alexander
Ridge, the previous aid station guzzling water and Coke to no
avail. Since leaving Big Mountain and my crew at mile 39, the fun
evaporated leaving angry salt lines all over my shirt. It’s taken me
four plus hours to cover slightly more than a half marathon distance, much of
it downhill. This race is too brutal to continue. At this
rate my fried brain tells me I’m risking not even making the 36 hour race
cutoff. The signs on the trail leading up to Lamb’s tell me my only
competition is the little voice in my head that wants me to stop. These
signs mock me. I’m not in a mood to be mocked. The voice in my head
is screaming at me. Quit, quit, quit. Go find a nice cool
place to lie down and sleep.
The carnage is surreal. At Alexander, the guy
next to me kept turning his head and vomiting over the back of his chair like
that’s totally normal. The best part of the last hour was him not
turning his head the other way and puking on me. On the trail from
Alexander to Lamb’s I stumbled across some other guy in a worse stupor than me,
sitting on the side of the trail. I offered him S-caps, but he just
stared at me with unfocused eyes. When I put a couple in his hand,
he seemed completely dumbfounded by my instructions to put them in his mouth
and swallow them. An eerie, stinky dust storm filled the late
afternoon sky. On the first downhill after Alexander my quads
screamed so bad that I turned around and tried walking backwards, which didn’t
help a bit. I occupy my brain by rationalizing my decision to
drop. I’d heard the stories about the Western States inferno, but can’t
imagine heat any worse than this particular moment at this particular
place. I’m done with this race. I’m done with races
forever. Running sucks. I step off the
scale. John and Amy lead me to a chair in the corner of
tent. I put my face in a cold wet cloth and sob.
And then somehow I get up. So here’s my
story.
I divide this race into four parts. They are not
equal, nor are they likely the normal Wasatch lines of
demarcation. They certainly aren’t what I’d planned, but in
retrospect all races seem to fall into phases, and this is my race in four
acts.
Act I –– 39 Miles of Mostly Euphoria (Start to Big
Mountain – mile 0 to mile 39)
"Wake up. Wake up. Wake up,
sleepies. We must go, yeeees, we must go at once." –Gollum
(The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King)
I knew the moment I stepped off the bus into the warm, dark
morning at East Mountain Wilderness Park that Wasatch was something
special. Like all races, the nervousness of the runners was
palpable. But this nervousness felt different. Like the
people who had run it a bunch of times already were nervous. We all
milled around in the dark for the half hour or so until it was time to
start. Nick Clark, Ian Sharman and the other celebrity runners moved
to the front. The rest of us sort of found some place comfortable in
the pack. Headlamps switched on. And then like that, the
clock struck 5 a.m. and we moved in unison into the bush and down the
Bonneville Shoreline trail.
I had no illusions for a fast start. I was quite
nervous from several nights of bad sleep, so I just sort of started somewhere
in the middle and tried to hold back. "Manage your race" I
told myself. That ended up being far easier than I imagined because the first
few miles along the Shoreline Trail were a complete slog. But the
pearly line of headlamps ahead and behind was beautiful and I settled into my
spot in the mule train, not really minding the slow pace and the occasional
bottlenecks. It wasn't really worth the effort to try to pass anyone
this early. I also was uncomfortably warm before there was even a
hint of dawn in the Friday morning sky.
After eight miles of undulating trail along the ancient
shoreline, we started to climb up the famous Chinscraper climb. The
air cooled slightly, and the runner train started to decouple ever so
slightly. It now was light enough to switch off headlamps and enjoy
the first of two sunrises that I’d see in this race. At Cool Springs
(aid station zero, mile 8.82) I gulped down some delicious, cold orange
something, and filled one of my water bottles. I wanted to fill them
both, but a line was forming and the trickle of water from the spring seemed
too slow to make others wait. Keep moving. Don’t run out
of water.
The final push up Chinscraper was steep, but
short. I remembered the race manual and tried to be
careful. I didn't want to be the guy who dislodged rocks, and sent
them tumbling them below onto other runners. The warning seemed
legitimate. Standing at the top shouting at us was Mr. Enthusiasm
with his cowbell. How early do these people get up? Do
they even sleep? He told us it was all downhill from here. He politely
declined to mention the four vertical miles or so of uphill embedded in the 90
miles of downhill still ahead. It wouldn’t be the last time that a
gloss would be put on facts about the trail. When I crested
Chinscraper and started to run, I had a momentary hypoxia blast. It
passed quickly. I never noticed the altitude again.
The trails and jeep roads that meander from Chinscraper to
Francis Peak were pure unadulterated fun. Nothing in this stage of
the herd felt competitive. The views of the long morning shadows off to the
west over Salt Lake were stunning. Much of the trail was tucked into
the shadow of the eastern ridges. On the road from the Francis Peak
towers down to the aid station I passed several people and almost started
worrying that I was going too fast. But the cool morning air felt great,
and at that point it seems to make sense to cover miles before the air
heated.
At some point in every race, I have this moment of
realization that I'm actually running the race instead of just daydreaming
about it. I remember thinking that at some point along this
stretch. Soak it in, etch some memories, because it will blur with
time. Not having run a step of the Wasatch course before, I knew
there would be pieces I'd remember clearly, and big chunks that would get shoved
into the unrecallable depths of my brain until triggered by either returning
again someday, or by other runners’ race reports and pictures.
And so it went from Francis to Big
Mountain. Those hours of running now are a series of pleasant mental
vignettes. Roads and trails, and back to roads again. The
steep, dusty drop into and the steeper, dustier ascent out of the Right Hand
Fork of Arthur's Creek. A heavenly popsicle and a cold washcloth at
Bountiful B. Some guy charging down a hill at us on a horse (too
early in the race for a hallucination, but that was weird). Chatting
in awe with grand-slammer Terry Sentinella. A bag of fresh fruit for
the climb out of Sessions. Steep climbs up, and steeper drops down
between Sessions and Swallow Rocks. The really sweet runnable turn
into Swallow Rocks.
My crew for this race were my wife Amy and good friend John
Hart. The way I understood the crew setup, John and Amy had to be
held in a hot parking lot down the hill a ways until I got to Swallow
Rocks. This evidently was to prevent mass chaos at the Big Mountain
aid station. I really wanted to get to Swallow Rocks so they could
get out of the parking lot. My goal was to get there by around noon,
but it ended up being more like 1:30, which made me feel bad. The
Swallow Rocks aid guys were especially good. It was really windy
there, but they had it all set up to keep things from blowing away, and were
super attentive. They also had popsicles, so I had
another. More bliss. Popsicles were very key at
Wasatch this year.
I liked the 4.5 mile stretch from Swallow Rocks to Big
Mountain because the views are great and the trail was cut nicely into the side
of a hill. Some professional looking photographer was on the trail
shooting pictures. (Joe Azze, I think –
amazing photos.) I chose that moment to try to choke down an
espresso gel I'd been packing from the start, thinking a little caffeine jolt
might be good. Bad idea as it sent me into a bout of impressively
loud dry heaves. Mercifully, he didn't take pictures of me.
Cruising into Big Mountain aid station. |
The drop into the Big Mountain aid station is a
rush. It was dry and dusty. From way up above I could
hear the cowbells, vuvuzelas and cheering. The pink flamingos were
out and there was a party going on. I couldn't wait to see Amy and
John and that energized me even more. It was growing hot, but I
really didn't notice. Instead, I tried to bomb down the dusty
switchbacks and cruise into the aid station looking like a million bucks.
At Big Mountain, I got my first weigh-in. Down just three pounds from the start. Not too bad. Amy and John found me a folding chair, stuck it in the shade of a big U-Haul truck. They waited on me, scrubbed the salt off my face, and we discussed logistics and instructions for the rest of the race. It all seemed to be on track. I was a little gassed, but after 40 plus miles, nothing really hurt. I was behind where I wanted to be, but I wasn't going to win anything, so it didn't matter. Getting through the next stage to Lamb's is all that mattered.
Act II – Hell (Big Mountain to Lamb’s Canyon – mile 39 to
mile 52.5)
"You look terrible, Mr. Waturi. You look
like a bag of shit stuffed in a cheap suit." - Joe Banks (Joe
Versus the Volcano)
Looking back, I now know I left my positive mental attitude
at Big Mountain. Losing the PMA was a major reason why I looked and
felt like a bag of shit when I stumbled into Lamb's more than four long hours
later. The afternoon is always the worst part of a race for
me. I had it in my mind that it was just ten miles to Lamb's, but I
looked at my mileage chart and discovered it actually was like 14. A
half marathon and a bump. I just wanted to get through it and get to
familiar faces again. And it was hot.
The heat wasn’t exactly blast furnace heat like the stories
from this year's Western States. No, it was sneaky heat. Insidious
heat. Heat that tried to disguise itself with a breeze that had
started somewhere before Swallow Rocks, but didn’t really kick in until after I
left Big Mountain at 2:45 in the afternoon. Heat that seemed to sap
every bit of moisture from what little foliage there was making it crinkly
dry. Heat that sucked the life out of unsuspecting runners like me.
From Big Mountain to Alexander Ridge (mile 47.4) things got
ugly. The runner pathos in that stretch was
impressive. It wasn't just people walking. It was walking
hands on hips, and even hands on knees. It was people sitting on
logs or rocks with blank stares on their faces. It was people
leaning on fenceposts while their pacers pleaded with them. It was
people gingerly tiptoeing down easily runnable slopes. It seemed to
get more freaky the longer into that stretch I went. My brain baked.
The worst thing about the Big Mountain to Alexander stretch
is turning the corner at Pence Point and breaking into the open to see a
serpentine, naked ridge dropping west, straight into the afternoon
sun. It's one of the longer sight lines on the course. I
also could see the cars parked down at the Little Dell waiting area, and
thought of my crew John and Amy again roasting in the sun waiting to get
released again (turns out they actually got to go straight to
Lamb’s). This is where the last of my PMA evaporated. Letting
your PMA go MIA before mile 50 in a 100 mile race is not a good thing.
I'm glad it wasn't easy to quit at Alexander (mile 47)
because I'm afraid now that I would have if it wasn’t such a logistical
challenge. The aid station workers at Alexander were quite pleasant
in their jailbird outfits. They had the tent set up with the wall on the west
side, open to the east, which provided a really nice sunblock. The
row of chairs set up against the wall and endless supply of ice water, soda and
fruit. It was no wonder it was hard to leave. It was like
Pleasure Island.
I obviously sat too long at Alexander because my quads
burned bad as soon as I stood up. Right away is a long downhill, which is
where I tried the awkward backwards walk method for about 20 yards, before
realizing that never would work. I actually quite welcomed the walk
uphill through the tall grass and away from the sun. This is where I
found the guy sitting next to the trail, just before the railroad
grade. In normal times, the run down the railroad grade and the
loops around Parley's Creek would be fun, but my mind had become pickled enough
that it simply felt like the end of the race. It also seemed cruel
to get close to the aid station, but then have to loop away from it before
finally getting to it. I couldn't wait to see Amy and John at the
aid station, even if at that moment I was ready to tell them I was quitting.
Act III – The Magical Night (Lamb’s Canyon to Pole Line
Pass – mile 52.5 to mile 82.3)
"All night ramblers, let's get rambling!" -
Joe (Reservoir Dogs)
I sat at Lamb's for more than 50 minutes, but it saved my
race. Amy and John poured liquids and shoved food into
me. I tried to hold it in my stomach and not wretch it back
up. Amy read texts of encouragement from friends in Montana and my
daughter Meaghen in New Mexico. John knew better than to accept my faint
mumblings about quitting. They did their work flawlessly because
after about 40 minutes the switch switched, and decided I wanted to see more of
the course, even if it meant walking a good portion of the next 48 miles. I
couldn't quit now. So I changed shirts, packed for the night, and
away we went up the canyon in the gathering darkness.
I left Lamb’s with my pacer John Hart. If you’re
going to have a pacer, get one nicknamed after the race. In Missoula
we call John “Johnny Wasatch” for no other reason than he picked Wasatch as his
first 100 a few years ago. Who does that? John does, and
he saved my race.
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Johnny Wasatch - pacer extraordinaire. |
After leaving the pavement of Lamb’s Canyon, we climbed the
trail up Bare Ass Pass and quickly developed a routine. We’d catch
runners ahead of us. John would tell them we were visiting
dignitaries from exotic Montana, out to enjoy a lovely Friday evening in the
high Wasatch. No place else we’d rather be. We first
would decline the invitation to pass, choosing instead to chat for a couple
hundred yards, before politely asking to slip by. It seemed like we
did this dozens of times over the course of the night. I love night
running, and I especially enjoy that bond you get with other runners deep in
the night. We were lucky to get to talk to a bunch of people like
that, mostly between Lamb’s and Brighton. All of these little
conversations did wonders to get the race back on the rails.
We reached Desolation Lake at 12:22 a.m. They had
a big handwritten sign out announcing that we were 66.02 miles into this
thing. At that moment I knew that, barring something like a compound
femur fracture, an open head wound, or the onset of a complete brain cloud, I
was going finish. I felt great. The 14 mile afternoon
Alexander Ridge meltdown was now a distant memory, like it happened in some
other race a very long time ago. John pointed me at the fire at Deso
and told me and to warm up. Nope. That fire was built by
the DNF gremlins and was too warm and inviting to be real. Resist
temptation. Four minutes in and out and we were on our way to
Scott’s Pass. There would be no desolation at Desolation Lake.
The climb up to Red Lover’s Ridge is achingly beautiful,
especially with a sky full of stars, the twinkling campfire at Deso far below,
and a line of headlamps behind us. Once on the ridge, it became even
more stunning, even in the depths of night. To the east twinkled the
little lights of the Canyons. To the west, urban glow of the Salt
Lake valley backlit the whole Wasatch Range creating a dramatic silhouette of
peaks. Through the deep gap Big Cottonwood Canyon forms between
Kessler Peak and Reynolds Peak I could see the pool of city lights stretching
far off to the west. It was magical.
Perhaps because delirium was setting in, I began to
formulate a new goal on the way to Scott’s Pass. If we could get in
and out of Brighton by 3:00 a.m., maybe, just maybe, I’d still have a shot to
break 30 hours. I had no idea if that was realistic. I
had no idea how long it would take to get to Brighton. I had no idea
what The Dive and The Plunge would be like. But I did know that now
two-thirds into the race, a sub-30 buckle would more than salvage my Wasatch. I
didn’t tell John, but I suspect he knew something was up by the quick entry and
exit at both Deso and Scott’s Pass (mile 70.8).
We arrived at Brighton at 2:48 a.m. Brighton was
Hemingway's clean, well-lighted place. I could see why people didn't
want to leave. Once again, spent runners splayed out
everywhere. I suspect some had been there for hours. It
was easy to see why. Real bathrooms, toothbrushes in the real
bathrooms, chocolate milk, home style potatoes, more chocolate milk, phenomenally
friendly staff. How could anyone leave this place? It was
like a womb. My self-allotted 12 minute time budget ended up being
more like 25 minutes. A bit too luxurious, but in that time Amy and
John once again got me completely retooled with a fresh headlamp and a full
belly. John and I charged back out into the
night. Mentally it felt like all I had to do was waltz over the
ridge south of Brighton and it would be an easy dance to the finish. More
delusion.
![]() |
3:00 a.m. - Enjoying the luxury at Brighton. |
I’m sure the climb from Brighton up to Point Supreme was
beautiful, but it was too dark to appreciate it. We passed a few
people, then got passed by a very fit and rested runner who I later learned was
Nick Lewis. At one time he apparently had been top 5 in the race,
but had major problems resulting in a several hour stop at
Brighton. But he refused to quit. I have utmost
admiration for people like Nick who refuse to quit, but instead pull themselves
back together to finish, even if it takes hours (and even if it wreaks havoc on
their Ultrasignup rating). He was the only person to pass us between
Lamb’s and the finish.
I looked for the sign to kiss at Point Supreme, but never
saw it. Instead we crossed over the top and began a
ridiculously steep corkscrew descent full loose rocks and
dirt. After a while of this John says he hasn’t seen trail markers
in a while. Not what tired runner wants to hear from pacer,
especially deep into a nasty descent. I did the same thing to John
when our roles were reversed at Hardrock last year at approximately the same
time of night and recall his crushed expression. I tried to recreate
the course directions in my head. All I could think of were the
terse warnings in the course descriptions not to miss particular turns or
become lost “for a very long time.” I did not want to become lost
for a very long time. I did not want to become lost at
all. Were we in Albion Basin? Would we start seeing Alta
ski lifts soon? Thoughts like that aren’t pleasant at 4:30 a.m. when I’d
already entered and exited my dark place for this race. Thankfully, angels
suddenly appeared in the form of runners to tell us we were on track and Ant
Knolls and pancakes were just below.
Ant Knolls (mile 80.3, 5:10 a.m.) did have
pancakes. That’s all I remember. Then came the
Grunt. The best thing about the Grunt was the view back to the
campfire at Ant Knolls. Otherwise the Grunt pretty much
sucked. At least it was fairly short and before long we were at Pole
Line Pass in the predawn glow.
Act IV – Euphoria Redux: The 17 Mile Sprint
(Pole Line Pass to the Finish – mile 82.3 to mile 100)
"You're entering a world of pain, son." –
Walter (The Big Lebowski)
Pole Line Pass. 83 miles down, 17 miles to
go. Time to cowboy up. I quickly choked down a breakfast
burrito, poured a Starbuck’s instant coffee packet in about four ounces of
lukewarm water, chugged it, chewed it, changed into a spiffy clean shirt from
my last drop bag, and we skedaddled out of there.
We departed Pole Line Pass at 6:37
a.m. John announced that we were going to do four miles each hour
until we were done. He didn’t ask if I wanted to do four miles per
hour and he didn’t say why four miles an hour was relevant to anything at this
point. But I knew. After nearly 83 miles, a good pacer
becomes something of a dominatrix (sorry John), and the runner’s only job is to
not ask questions, accept it, and try to enjoy it. We had just over
four and a quarter hours to do about 17 miles and I’d break 30
hours. After an 83 mile warmup, my race finally was
on. This wasn’t a race between me and anyone else. It
wasn’t the race I’d envisioned 26 hours ago, but it was a new race and gave me
reason to run and run hard. It was the race those signs at Lamb’s
correctly told me to run. The race against my mind, and now the race
for a suddenly meaningful buckle. My Lamb’s Canyon pity party seemed
like ages ago. This would end up being the part of the race I will
always look back on as pure enjoyment, not at all the pain cave I was
envisioning.
I normally don't like to use my Garmin during long races,
partly because I have a puppy Garmin (Forerunner 10), which usually only has a
4 hour battery life, so it’s pretty much worthless for long
races. Plus I hate seeing the pathetic pace it announces to me each
mile. But with 17 miles and a four mile per hour goal, I switched it
on. First mile out of Pole Line - 13:51, then
14:49. Maybe we could do this thing. Third mile
18:45. Maybe not. Math in my head: four miles
per hour is 25 hour pace, and this is supposed to be the hardest stretch of the
course. And so it went for the next few hours. Silently
swearing at the ups, rejoicing at the drops, but in a zone.
After Pole Line, I got all confused about the direction we
were heading, but at some point we came around a corner (the aptly-named Point
Serenity) and were greeted with the second sunrise of this race. The
fresh sun bathed the east face of Mt. Timpanogos with pure golden
light. As my buddy Kenya would say, it was drop-dead
gorgeous. Had I been any faster or slower, I’d have missed
it. Point Serenity became Point Serendipity.
I also don’t normally carry my phone with me, but for some
reason I’d shoved it in my pack. About this time, I heard it beep,
so I pulled it out and saw two messages on the face. One was from my
friend Dean McGovern at home saying “Go Steve Go! It gave me a huge
lift to know that at 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning in Missoula people were still
following along online. The second was from Amy saying I’d “moved
up” to around 80th place. Moved up? After
passing people all night, I didn’t even want to think about how far back I must
have been when leaving Lamb’s.
On the long stretch after Pole Line, John didn’t say
anything, but I knew The Dive and The Plunge were still to
come. These are not the typical race features named for people or
geography. No, these features are named for action
verbs. Verbs with definitions like “to become pitched or thrown
headlong or violently forward and downward.” Or to “drop down
precipitously.” The Dive and The Plunge are the spots nearly
90 miles into the run where runners get the joy of dropping down 35%
pitched, rutted, dusty chutes filled with unanchored rocks that resemble
chickenheads, while desperately trying not to go ass over
teakettle. Mission Control tried to eliminate the Dive and the Plunge
as part of the necessary adjustments to the course this year, but the faithful
rebelled and amazingly, they found a way to reroute the course without losing
these two gems. I would have felt cheated to have missed
them. I did not want to do the jello salad version of Wasatch.
I expected that once we finished diving down The Dive and
plunging down The Plunge all we had left to do was sashay down some nice
buttery singletrack through quaking aspens before being spit out onto a bit of
road that would deliver us to the finish. It wasn't quite like
that. There's a stretch called "Irv's Torture Chamber" where I
vaguely remember telling John that this trail was engineered by
sadists. There are the ups and downs of the seven hills of
Babylon. This ten miles is the soul of Wasatch.
At some point we rounded a corner and almost ran into
troughs filled with cool clear water flowing out of a pipe. Ruminant
Springs. I had no idea this was coming but it was
nectar. I washed the salt off my face, soaked my hat, and poured
sweet cold water over the back of my neck. I was so refreshed that
the next mile down to Pot Bottom felt like the fastest mile of the
course. We reached Pot Bottom (mile 92) at 9:11 a.m. An
hour and 49 minutes to cover a little over eight miles. In normal
times, that would be nothing, but these were not normal times.
The last aid station is at Staton. Between Pot
Bottom and Staton, several roads split off the main dirt road and it got a
little confusing. At one especially confusing junction near the
campground some guy sitting on his dirt bike, dressed like an Imperial Storm
Trooper, pointed left. Do we trust
him? Yep. Angels might be disguised in strange attire,
but they still are angels and we accepted his directions without question.
At Staton, we didn’t stop except to gulp more
water. John told me to suck down more gel, but I was done with gels,
preferring to live off their fumes by that point. The long descent
down the rutted dirt road from Staton finally dumped us out on the pavement
above the Soldier Hollow golf course. The juxtaposition there of the
neatly pressed Saturday morning golfers teeing off on one side with dirty,
sweaty, bloody runners on the other was stark.
Once we hit the road, I saw the
finish. Tantalizingly close, agonizingly far. In one last
stroke of torture, instead of sending us straight to the finish, the course
made a big clockwise loop, kind of like how a plane circles before lining up
for the runway. We were going much slower than a plane at this point.
A runner (Ryan Lund) and his pacer were about a half mile
ahead of us on the paved section. I could see them keep turning around to
see if we were gaining on them, and running when they clearly didn’t want to be
running any more. There was no danger of us catching them. We
had a half hour of time and a mile to go. It was time to savor the
finish. I crossed the finish at 10:40 a.m. I finished at
29 hours, 40 minutes. 20 minutes under 30 hours. I’d done
it, though it really mattered to no one but me.
It's hard to describe the finish of a 100 mile
race. There's certainly elation, but mostly it's just
relief. Amy got me a 10 gallon bucket full of ice water and all I
really wanted to do was sit in a chair, soak and watch the next batch of
runners come in. I was very happy to see the woman (Christina Bauer,
I think) who we'd passed on The Dive come in under 30 hours too, so I
impulsively went over and high-fived her, which is totally out of character,
but seemed like the thing to do at that particular moment. But best
of all, was to not have to worry about moving forward any more, and to just
enjoy a chair and a bucket of cool ice water.
Postlude
"Let's do the time warp again." –
(Rocky Horror Picture Show)
Weeks later in Montana the huckleberry bushes have all
turned red, the larches gold, and grassy hills tawny brown. There’s
been snow on the high peaks and summer has faded away. But Wasatch
still resonates. I continually play out the race over in my head
while running over the same Missoula hills that I used all summer to
train. Other race reports and pictures trigger memories of segments
that would otherwise be lost in brain fog. As with every race, the
memories of agony fade and the good parts are enhanced.
In my mind Wasatch is the quintessential 100 mile
race. The course is relentless and brutal. I believe Nick
Clark when he told Bryon
Powell in the post-race interview that the last 25 miles is
one of the hardest stretches in ultrarunning. I also believe Rod
Bien when he calls the Crimson Cheetah (sub-24) the most coveted
buckle. Wasatch is a race with a deep soul. I felt it at the
beginning. I saw it in the people way out in the middle of nowhere
shouting encouragement. It became more evident with every hill and
every drop. It’s there in the bond developed with the other runners
who passed me, then let me pass them. It was there when the sun rose
gold. It was there at the end when the storm hit and we all huddled together
under the pavilion at Soldier’s Hollow to get our awards.
![]() |
Awards ceremony mosh pit. |
100 mile races are funny. On the one hand, they
are intensely personal, with the rarified highs, and the pain filled
lows. The trail to Lamb’s Canyon will forever be a metaphor for the
depths of despair. At the other end of the spectrum, Red Lover’s
Ridge signifies the moments of pure ebullient joy. I could never
have done this race alone this first time. John, Amy and everyone in
Missoula that got me through this are as big a part of the finish as my own
calloused feet.
When I finished, I told myself that Wasatch was a one and
done. But, as always seems to happen, plans change and I think there
may be some unfinished business….
Running doesn’t suck.
By the numbers:
312 runners started, only 205 finished – 65.7% finish
rate. That statistic speaks volumes when you compare it to this
year’s Western States – 72.3% finish rate, Hardrock – 74.3% finisher rate, and
UTMB 68.4% finish rate. Here are my numbers (177 minutes in aid stations
– yikes):
Aid Station
|
Distance
|
Altitude
|
Time-In
|
Time-Out
|
East Mountain Wilderness Park
|
0 mi.
|
4880 feet
|
05:00
|
|
Francis Peak
|
18.76 mi.
|
7500 feet
|
09:15
|
09:19
|
Bountiful B
|
23.95 mi.
|
8160 feet
|
10:36
|
10:39
|
Sessions Lift Off
|
28.23 mi.
|
8320 feet
|
11:33
|
11:35
|
Swallow Rocks
|
34.91 mi.
|
8320 feet
|
13:29
|
13:32
|
Big Mountain
|
39.4 mi.
|
7420 feet
|
14:33
|
14:46
|
Alexander Ridge
|
47.44 mi.
|
6160 feet
|
17:11
|
17:34
|
Lambs Canyon
|
53.13 mi.
|
6100 feet
|
19:10
|
20:01
|
Millcreek
|
61.68 mi.
|
7660 feet
|
22:28
|
22:45
|
Desolation Lake
|
66.93 mi.
|
9170 feet
|
00:22
|
00:26
|
Scotts Pass
|
70.79 mi.
|
9910 feet
|
01:36
|
01:43
|
Brighton Lodge
|
75.61 mi.
|
8790 feet
|
02:48
|
03:17
|
Ant Knolls
|
80.27 mi.
|
9000 feet
|
05:10
|
05:17
|
Poll Line Pass
|
83.39 mi.
|
8925 feet
|
06:25
|
06:37
|
Pot Bottom
|
91.98 mi.
|
7385 feet
|
09:11
|
09:12
|
Staton Cut-off
|
94.69 mi.
|
7114 feet
|
09:45
|
09:46
|
Soldier Hollow
|
100 mi.
|
5530 feet
|
10:40
|
Man oh man! This is awesome. Thanks for sharing Steve! Miss you guys. See you in a few weeks.
ReplyDeleteRock it...Wicks