Originally written and shared in a google doc on April 15, 2015
A hundred runners, some friends and family, a handful of rugged volunteers, and possibly one or two enthusiastic spectators mull around nervously in the cold. It’s dark in Virgin Town Park but a fire and some floodlights illuminate the area while anxious flickers of runners double-checking their headlamps add a reasonable dose of controlled chaos to the scene.
The LED race timer shows 5:54:00 AM. A warm-up sounds like a nice idea, so I do some quick jogs to the end of the park and back. On my second or third rep, I hear the race director start dictating instructions to the group so I hustle my way back over. Moments later a volunteer shouts “Over here!” as he gestures a makeshift starting line with his outstretched arm. I make my way to the front without much resistance, and seconds later it starts.
I start off pretty quick, keeping the leader within view for a couple miles. I later learn that these first two miles were run at a 7:22 and 7:34 pace -- pretty fast for a trail 50K! It’s still dark and I didn’t bring a headlamp, so I’m making sure the guy behind me with the bright headlamp doesn’t pass me until it gets lighter. The incline picks up a bit, the sky lights up, and the pack begins to spread out. Up ahead is that super steep section I read about.
This section is super steep, but it feels surprisingly good. No one is running at this point. Power hikers abound. I know that after this brutal climb I still have 26 miles of running to do, but I shrug it off -- I did plenty of climbing in training.
Miles five to seventeen are the some of the weirdest miles I’ve ever run. It’s an unpredictable, random mix of singletrack tree-lined dirt trails and undulating, exposed rock formations. It’s beautiful, but that’s not really at the front of my mind. I keep my energy and pace up, but the course is exhausting. Turning a corner, scanning for the next pink ribbon, and running across rock to the next turn starts to wear on me, and at this point I can’t wait to get off this silly mesa.
I reach the aid station at mile eighteen before the descent down the brutal hill I came up earlier, and refill my twenty-two ounce bottle with Tailwind -- a sugar and electrolyte powder mixed with water. Tailwind has been working beautifully in training and in the race thus far, and there’s no worry in mind around water or nutrition at this point. I cruise down the hill in a cloud of dust, trying to catch to the guy in the orange shirt ahead of me. I figure I’m in seventh, eighth, or ninth place at this point.
The bottom of the hill arrives. It’s pretty hot at this point, and the section of the course aptly named “Virgin Desert” lies ahead. Things go south fast here. My water bottle is half empty (yes, half empty), it’s heating up, and there’s at least another five miles to the next aid station. Of course, this is when my lack of calories catches up with me. I realize that I haven’t been taking in many calories because the first twenty miles were in cold weather. Cold weather means less thirst, less thirst means less water consumption, and less water consumption means less Tailwind consumption -- my only calorie source up to this point.
I start hiking up small, rolling hills, and struggling to jog down the other side. My mind is full of negative thoughts. I’m angry at the race director for putting aid stations too far apart (Matt Gunn is a fantastic race director, and seven miles between aid stations is a perfectly reasonable distance). I’m angry at the race volunteers for creating signs that say “this way to Virgin Desert aid station” when the aid station was still miles away, and could not arrive soon enough (a truly ridiculous thought). I’m angry at Tailwind for creating a product that requires coordination with water intake (totally my fault -- Tailwind is awesome).
My self-reassurance that no one would pass me because I built up a nice cushion is shattered as runner after runner runs by at a slow but steady pace that I simply can’t match at this point. I’ve run out of water entirely, and my only nutrition source with it. The thought of dropping out never crosses my mind, but I do make that vow that every ultra runner makes to never run another ultra again (this seemingly solid conviction would later be dismissed as naive and childish just minutes after finish).
I finally make it to the aid station at mile twenty-five, quickly put down twenty-two ounces of ice water, and hunch over in a state of exhaustion and relief. A volunteer asks if I’m alright, and I respond with a “yeah I’m fine” and she doesn’t press the matter. This aid station is also on the 100 mile course, so she has certainly seen much worse already. I eat some ruffles and cantaloupe, drink some coke, and make my way back to the trail. Six miles to go.
Spirits are high in the last stretch. I have the good fortune to share some of these miles with 100 mile runners who actually started twenty-five hours before me. My legs are hurting and I’m exhausted, but the food and coke give me a second wind. Many “nice work” and “keep it up” words are exchanged between runners. I’m able to jog it out until the end.
I finish in sixteenth place in 5:46:28. I think my previous finish at the North Face 50K in Marin County in December was somewhere around 340th place in 7:23, so I’m happy with the improvement. There’s a bit of euphoria at the finish line, some pictures with my dad, a couple water bottles and a coke. I have no appetite, but there’s a wood burning pizza oven. Everyone’s happy.
Huge thanks to Matt Gunn, all the race volunteers, every runner who offered encouragement when the going got tough, and my dad who spent the weekend driving me around in a white convertible Mustang that we got because the car rental shop ran out of cheaper cars.