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| "The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected" -- Robert Frost |
Preamble
Full disclosure: this isn’t your typical race report. I’m
not going to bore you with all kinds of factual information about the race and
the course. If you want to know about each creek crossing and the exact GPS
location of every rock on the route, I’m guessing that information is included
in the 47-page-long race guide available on the race’s website (which I
definitely plan to read… one day).
No, this “race report” is more of a “love letter”. A love
letter written by an aging runner who has accepted the fact that his body has begun
to slow down, and that his fastest days are likely behind him now, but who is
immensely grateful – grateful to still be able to do what brings him joy,
grateful to be able to move through the mountains with some grace, grateful for
the people in his life (both past and present). Grateful. Full stop.
To pole or not to pole, that is the question…
It’s the day before the IMTUF 100 miler and my buddy Loren –
who is going to be pacing me for the last 46 miles of the race – swings by my
house to pick me up on our way to the airport. As I climb into the passenger seat, I
glance at his race gear, tucked neatly in the back.
Dude, “Where did you find those hiking poles… at a garage
sale… in 1970?” I jokingly ask, ogling his huge, aluminum hiking poles – the
kind with the with big rubber safety tips on the bottom to help the elderly
avoid slipping on wet floors at Bob Evan’s.
“Did you buy those at CVS, next to the Metamucil and
reading glasses,” I continue teasing? “I’m surprised they don’t have tennis
balls on the bottoms,” I toss in for good measure. “What else did you pick up
at the pharmacy?” I inquire. “Does Ensure even make sports gels?” I blurt out, now
laughing uncontrollably.
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| Loren's poles. LOL! |
“These poles have been to Mt. Everest base camp I’ll have
you know!” Loren exclaims defiantly.
“Oh, did you take them off a dead climber whose body had
been frozen on the mountain for 50 years?” I quip. “Who made those things anyway… Spaulding?” I jest,
naming the oldest sporting goods brand that comes to mind.
I then proceed pull out my lightweight, carbon-fiber, Black
Diamond Z poles that conveniently fold down into a third of their full size,
allowing me to neatly stuff them into the Salomon custom quiver attached to the
back of my hydration pack. “You need to get yourself a pair of these bad boys,”
I instruct. “Look at the sharp carbide tips,” I exclaim while wielding my pole
like a fencing epée, dangerously close to Loren’s face.
Loren and I proceed to spend the remainder of the 45-minute car
ride to the airport discussing the pros and cons of whether to bring our poles
to the race or not. Neither of us are huge fans of poles. But, having recently
sustained a rather severe injury to my left ankle, which is still painful,
swollen, and unstable, I’m hoping that poles – along with my ankle brace – with
provide some degree of stability and give me a better shot at completing this
exceptionally difficult course.
Plus, I figure using poles may help spare my legs by
shifting some strain away from my legs to my upper body. Having been sidelined
by my torn ankle for over two months, I’ve only recently been able to start
running again, putting in just one week of solid training. I figure my quads
are going to need all the help they can get.
Loren however, decides he’s going sans poles. Part of his
concern is that his ridiculously large poles are too large to stow away when
not in use, meaning he will have to carry them the entire time during the race,
making it difficult to free up his hands for things like scrambling over rocks,
stuffing quesadillas into his face at aid stations, and high fiving other race
participants and spectators. “Jesus. How much high fiving are you planning to
do out there,” I ask, bemused.
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| Hopefully Loren will upgrade to these! |
Loren then reveals that his primary concern is that TSA
won’t allow him through security with the poles, which could be perceived as a
weapon. I try to assure him that no one has ever tried to highjack a plane with
a rubber tipped walking cane. Loren and I start laughing at the mental image of
him waving his poles about while shouting, “Turn this plane around. I need to
go home. I forgot my arthritis medication.”
While we joke about old age, I am acutely aware of the fact
that, having recently turned 50 and 51 respectively earlier this year, Loren
and I – while in damn-good shape for our ages – are technically no longer young
men. I don’t want to call it a mid-life crisis, but I have recently accepted – albeit somewhat begrudgingly – that I’m not getting younger, or
faster. And, unfortunately, much like sands in an hourglass, so too is the
cartilage in my knees.
I’m not sure how it happened, this getting-old nonsense.
One day I was in my mid-forties, at the peak of my powers, winning races and
collecting Strava KOMs, the way a four-year old collects candy on Halloween –
exuberantly, by the handful, stuffing it in his face as he skips down the
sidewalk. Then suddenly, the next day I’m looking in the mirror at a fifty-year
old man with graying hair and growing laugh lines. But as they say… getting old
sure beats the alternative.
The trouble with training
They say you should train for races. You know, long runs on
the weekend and that sort of thing. And I was really hoping to put in a dedicated
training block for IMTUF. I even rented a condo up in Tahoe for a high-altitude
training camp, which I pitched to my family as an impromptu summer vacation!
“Yeah guys, we’ll do lots of fun family stuff together. Like have breakfast
together. And then say good night to each other at bedtime when I return from
my epic all-day hike. You know, family fun!”
But unfortunately, the training camp / family vacation was
cut short when I took a hard fall running down the mountain one evening and
tore every ligament in my ankle, including a grade 3 “complete” tear of my
ATFL. As I hobbled out of Urgent Care on crutches with my foot in an air cast,
I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to run trails again. Certainly, there’s no way
I would be running IMTUF in just over two months.
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| Modeling the latest in footwear fashion |
I did some research and then spoke with a podiatric surgeon
who laid out my options. “Option A: We can surgically remove a section of
muscle tissue from your leg, and then transplant it into your ankle. Recovery
time will be 4-6 months. You’ll need to be in a full cast for the first couple
of months, and then a walking boot…”.
“Sorry to interrupt Doc, but what about option B: Go f*ck
yourself!” I shouted defiantly, intending to make a quick, dramatic exit out of
the office. Unfortunately, I completely underestimated just how difficult it is
to open the hospital exit doors while using crutches and trying carry a handful
of medical paperwork. Several minutes later, as the entire lobby watched in
amusement, I finally managed to hobble out of the building.
And so, I made up my mind that instead of having surgery to
repair the torn ligament, I was going to start doing 10,000 calf raises a day to
strengthen all the surrounding muscles and ligaments in my foot, ankle, and
calf in order to compensate for the missing ligament. “Time to pick up the
slack, fucker!” I shouted in the general direction of my fibularis longus
muscle, not knowing exactly what the fibularis longus is, much less precisely
where it is located.
With only a couple weeks to go before the race, I still
wasn’t completely sure whether my ankle was battle-ready or not. So, I decided
to head back up to Tahoe for a week to hike the steepest, craziest, most technical
routes I could find. At the end of the week my ankle still hadn’t exploded or
fallen off, so I figured what the hell, let’s give this a shot.
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| Tis but a flesh wound |
Mandatory reading…
Having completed over 100 ultra marathons at this point in
my life, I tend to read race descriptions with a bit of healthy skepticism, skipping
over the hyperbole and overly detailed turn-by-turn directions that I’m never
going to remember anyway. “Crap, I forget, am I supposed to turn left after the
small Aspen tree by the large rock, or after the large
Aspen tree by the small rock?”
Now I just skim race manuals for any interesting nuggets.
After all, most races are essentially the same. They all have aid stations every
6 – 12 miles or so. And the aid stations all provide some kind watery-liquid,
sugary gels, and carbohydrate-laden snacks.
The biggest mystery is how stale the P&B sandwich bites
will be, and how many yellow jackets you’ll have to battle for the last turkey-avocado
wrap. Oddly, race manuals very rarely address these two critical pieces of
information.
I’ve yet to run a race that was like, “No, sorry. Didn’t you
read the race manual? We don’t have water at our aid stations. Just driveway
gravel and cornstarch. Which can we fill your bottles with?”
The race manual for IMTUF was 47 pages long. “Eff that! I’m a
busy man. I work full time. I have a family. I don’t have time to read the
Atlas Shrugged of race manuals,” I thought to myself, quickly flipping through
the manual with one eye, while doom-scrolling through cat videos on my phone
with the other eye. “Ha, ha, ha. The cat just stole that dog’s bed. Look how
utterly confused that poor dog is. I think he might cry! OMG!”
As I was scrolling through the guide – which presumably
contained all kinds of important information like the start time of the race,
the location of the starting line, the tricky sections of the course where you
might get lost – my focus started to wane. “Oh look, that cat just got stuck in
a ceiling fan! Hilarious!” But then, something in the race guide caught my eye.
“Holy shit! This race has a vicious bird that attacks
runners and steals their trucker hats. The bird even dive-bombed the RD and
knocked him unconscious. How friggin’ awesome is that!” Also, “Hey Siri, what’s
a goshawk? And – just asking for a friend – is it legal to own one in
California?”
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| Griffin the goshawk, is that you? |
Who needs sleep anyway?
I usually sleep pretty well before races. Not because I
possess a Zenlike ability to clear my mind and turn off all my thoughts. No,
it’s mainly because I drug myself. I’ve suffered from insomnia most of my life,
and early in my ultra-running career I would find myself tossing and turning in
unfamiliar hotel-room beds, unable to fall asleep until an hour or so before my
alarm was set to go off at some ridiculously early hour.
However, at some point in the past few years I discovered
the miracle of medical-grade THC gummies, and now I generally don’t have any
problems falling asleep on race night… unless I happen to be extremely
stressed. However, going into this race, a couple of things were indeed
weighing on my mind. It would be completely understandable to be stressed about
my ankle injury and relative lack of training. But oddly, I wasn’t really
worried about that. In fact, one could argue that I was irrationally
overconfident about my fitness and training.
However, my mother was recently diagnosed with invasive
squamous cell carcinoma, which has spread, and which needs to be treated with
radiation therapy. I know there are far worse cancers and that my mother will
probably – hopefully – be okay. But “probably” and “hopefully” don’t provide
the assurances you crave when the life of someone you love is hanging in the
balance.
And then there was this silly thing at work.
Last Fall I was laid off from my job at work after
essentially being with the same company for 23 years. It took me nearly five
months before I finally received a couple of offers and accepted a new position.
The whole ordeal was incredibly stressful, and so I’m naturally doing
everything I can to be as successful as possible in my new role.
So, when I was asked by my new company if I would be willing
to moderate a webinar at midnight on Sunday night – only hours after finishing
IMTUF and having been on my feet for over 30 hours – I quickly said, “Sure no
problem.” What could possibly go wrong?
As I lay in bed the night before the race, I began to make a
mental inventory of all the things that could in fact go incredibly wrong. What
if the race ends up taking closer to the 36-hour cutoff than to my planned
30-hour-ish finishing time and I miss my Sunday evening flight home? And, even
if I do finish in time and make the flight, am I going to be able to stay awake
and alert during the webinar after having been awake for nearly 48 hours?
And so, I spent most of the night restlessly rolling around
the bed performing pillow origami, twisting and folding my hotel-room sheets and pillows
into various configurations. Oh look, it’s a swan! No wait, it’s pterodactyl.
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| Pillow origami |
Hotel room coffee
I slid out of bed at 4 am and began my usual pre-race
ritual. Two cups of questionable-provenance hotel-room coffee, black, prepared
using my buddy Loren’s proprietary brewing technique (something about optimal water
volume, temperature, and bicarbonate hardness). Lube the toes. Lube the undercarriage.
Sacrifice live pigeon, burn incense, pray for the death of my enemies. Fill
soft flasks with diluted Gu Roctane mix. Go time!!!
Of course, no race report is complete without an overly
detailed account of the morning’s bowel movements. Sadly, I had nothing to
report at the time. But no worries, I was relatively sure that there would be porta potties at the start line. But not completely sure, because – well you
know – the whole not reading the race guide thing.
Getting to the race starting line proved to be a bit of an
adventure. It probably would have been useful to have read the race guide that
explained how to get there without driving across the fairway of the golf
course that was hosting the event. “Loren, watch out for the sand trap,” I
scream as he shifts the rental SUV into all-wheel drive just before plowing off
the green into the rough, narrowly avoiding the 18th hole.
We hadn’t arrived in time the night before to pick up my
race bib from packet pickup – or to attend the pre-race briefing – due to
“logistical complications”, which is another way of saying that I mistakenly
thought the packet pickup ran until 7 pm when it actually ended at 6 pm. Maybe
reading that race guide might not have been a terrible idea after all.
But the upside was that, not having to spend time driving to
packet pickup, Loren and I had time to finish listening to Taylor Swift’s
Midnights album in its entirety… multiple times. Loren is a dear friend. And
who doesn’t love TayTay? But do I really want to have Anti-Hero stuck in my
head for the next 30 or so hours? Yes, of course I do; that was a rhetorical
question. “It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me…”.
After signing in and picking up my race bib on race morning,
I had an hour to kill before the start, so I made a couple more unproductive trips
to the porta-potties before resigning myself to the fact that it was
apparently a bank holiday, and that I would not be taking care of any business
this morning.
Typically, I am quite nervous before a big event, especially
when I’ve put in a big training block and invested a lot of time and emotional
energy. But, as I came into this event with only a week of solid training and a
gimpy ankle, I hadn’t put a lot of pressure on myself to perform. I wasn’t
approaching this as an actual race. I was here with one goal, and one goal only
– finish under the cutoff and punch my ticket to try to get back to Hardrock.
Unleash the glow worm!
Other runners who read the race guide informed me that the
RD was going to blow an elk bugle to start the race. “He’s going to blow an
elk?” I asked somewhat groggily, hoping for clarification. “That’s legal in
Idaho?” Thankfully no elk – or bugles – were blown, and the race started
uneventfully with a chorus of cowbells and line of headlamps quietly snaking
their way up the pre-dawn mountain, like a sleepy glowing worm.
Not wanting to go out too hard and possibly roll my ankle in
the dark, but also not wanting to get stuck too far in the back of a
slow-moving conga line and be forced to walk the runnable sections of the
opening climb, I settled in toward the back-of-the-front of the race. The pace
was rather enjoyable, and the opening miles passed by pleasantly.
After an hour or so we emerged out of the woods onto the
ridge, just in time for sunrise on Jug Mountain. I turned off my headlamp and
stashed my poles into my quiver, freeing up my hands for what – according to
those people who had read the race guide – was going to be a treacherously
steep, rocky descent that would require both free hands for scrambling.
(Note: apparently the race guide was also very clear that
all runners were required to walk this section and that anyone who attempted to
run it would be disqualified; what the race guide probably should have also
mentioned is that the disqualification would be issued posthumously – as anyone
who tries to run this section would likely die).
At this point, those of you who know me may be wondering… you
ran it anyway, right John? Embarrassingly, I must confess that in fact I did…
not. Also, there may have been some whimpering involved.
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| @Cary Johnson Photography |
Oh look, another postcard
As I cautiously made my way down the mountain, carefully
picking my line to try to avoid re-injuring my ankle, I laughed to myself
thinking about what my surgeon had said a week prior when I’d asked him if it was
okay for me to resume some light running again. “Yes, of course. Just take it
easy. And try to avoid trails or any uneven surfaces.” LOL. Sure thing
doc!
As I picked my way down off the ridge, I suddenly I caught a
whiff of something delicious wafting through the mountain air. Bacon! And just
like that, I was flying down into the Louie Lake Dam aid station where moments
later I would be stuffing my face with a makeshift sandwich fashioned using two
pancakes and handful of bacon. Mmm.
Leaving Louie Lake, the course continued up and down along
the ridge. These next miles of the race were absolutely breathtaking. Panoramic,
mountain-top views of alpine lakes for miles and miles. It was like nothing I
have ever seen or experienced. Other races, like Hardrock 100 and Teanaway 100
have a signature alpine lake that greets runners at some point in the race. But
IMTUF was one signature alpine lake after another. It was comically beautiful.
Almost bordering on absurd. The best way to describe it is as a series of one
amazing postcard photo after another. It is hands down the most beautiful
course I’ve ever run!
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| @Alex Marshall |
I would have been content to stay up there forever, just
soaking in the views. But I knew I needed to keep moving if I wanted to make my
flight home on Sunday evening. So, I pressed on and followed the course as it began
plummeting down the mountain several thousand feet to the Lake Fork aid station.
But I would first have to pass through an area of trail
patrolled by Griffin the Goshawk, the notoriously viscous bird with a documented
history of bird-on-human violence! Luckily, Griffin had recently acquired
himself a lady-bird acquaintance and was apparently in a luvin’ mood rather
than a fighting mood.
And so, I arrived at the Lake Fork aid station unmauled with
all my appendages intact. I’d only brought two drop bags for this race, as I
wanted to avoid having to check a bag at the airport to save time. So, I had decided
to put one bag at Lake Fork as we would run through this aid station twice –
once at mile 22 on the way out and then again at mile 80 on the return loop.
However, it was still early in the race, and I didn’t actually
need anything from my drop bag yet. I momentarily considered taking off my
headlamp and stashing it in my drop bag so that I wouldn’t have to carry it in
my pack all day, but I decided it might be smart to keep a headlamp on me – you
know, just in case. This decision would turn out to be clutch – but more on
that later.
Speaking of good decisions. As I was perusing the aid
station offerings, trying to decide between the grilled cheese bites and the
quesadilla wedges, my eye drifted over to a plate of warm grilled peanut butter
and Nutella sandwiches. Holy shit! Best decision I made all day. They were so good!
Chasing UTVs
The climb out of Lake Fork was what I would politely
describe as, “extremely spirited”. That is to say, using the formula y = mx +
b, where m is the coefficient of x representing the slope of the line… m was
definitely not equal to zero – if you know what I mean. Wink, wink.
We would gain nearly 2,000 feet over the next two miles,
with much of the climb being rather rocky and technical. I relied heavily on my
poles during this climb and felt that I was able to move quite well, while hopefully
conserving some energy and leg strength for later in the race (Spoiler alert: I
had neither strength nor energy later in the race. LOL.).
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| Don't fall in! |
I was feeling pretty good at the top of the climb, so I
decided to take off the handbrake and let it rip on the downhill, throwing down
what felt like a 7-minute mile – but which Strava later indicated was closer to
a 17-minute mile. Oh well.
In fairness, the descent was not ideal as the trail was
covered in several inches of powdery dirt with each foot-strike producing huge
clouds of fine dust that irritated my lungs and my eyes. I experimented with a
couple of different dust-mitigation strategies, none of which proved ideal.
First, I tried not breathing. While that did solve the initial
problem of inhaling dust, it also resulted in a few undesirable side effects
including dizziness, blurred vision, and extreme hypoxia. So, I reluctantly
resumed breathing again.
I’d wished I’d brought a bandana that I could have tied
around my nose and mouth. I briefly considered taking off one of my socks
and/or my compression shorts and trying to fashion some sort of mask. But that
seemed like a lot of work. Also, I was worried what the volunteers might think
when I rolled into the aid station, bare bottomed and sockless with my
underwear in my mouth. I pictured the locals explaining to each other, “He’s
from California… near San Francisco,” and then all nodding in unison, “Ah, that
explains it.”
Towards the bottom of the descent, I managed to catch, and eventually
pass, two side-by-side UTVs, who were kicking up quite a bit of dust as they
made their way down the steep, rocky section.
At first, I was unsure of the proper protocol for overtaking motorized
vehicles on the trail. Do I yell “track” and pass on the inside lane using
track-and-field etiquette? Or do I signal my intent to pass using my headlamp
as a turn-signal?
Eventually I just spoke up and asked if it was okay if I ran
by. Both drivers were extremely accommodating and pulled over to let me pass.
Grateful, I tried my hand at a little humor, inquiring where one could find the
nearest Telsa charging station. Sadly, the joke bombed. Or maybe they just didn’t
hear me???
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| Goats hiking supplies in to 45th Parallel aid station |
The petting zoo
I came into the South Crestline aid station at 50K feeling
reasonably good, considering I’d already been on my feet for over 8 hours
already. However, I was starting to feel like I was falling a bit behind on my
calories. I realized that aside from the aid station sandwiches, I’d only eaten
a couple of gels in between aid stations.
With a long uphill hiking section in front of me, I figured
now would be a good time to take in as many calories as possible, as the
extended hiking break would allow my body time to digest. “Matre’d, I’ll take a
bottle of your finest cola,” I requested. “In a glass, if it’s not too much
trouble,” I added, still hoping that one of my jokes would land.
“Tough crowd,” I mumbled smiling, as I headed out of the aid
station, ready to get my hike on.
When people ask me what kind of running I enjoy most –
flats, hills, technical off trail, etc. – I typically respond, only
half-jokingly, “walking.” Or to be more accurate, power hiking. When the trail
gets so steep that it becomes impractical and inefficient to run, I can
generally out hike everybody else. It’s kind of my superpower.
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| @Cary Johnson Photography |
According to the course profile – which I had printed out
and laminated (and by “laminated” I just mean that I stuffed it into a Ziplock
snack bag) – the next ten miles would be completely uphill. Much to my horror however, the trail turned
out to be much less steep than I was expecting.
“Oh crap, this trail looks runnable,” I muttered. “What the
heck. Nobody told me there was going to be actual running involved!” I
grumbled. I made a mental note to take up this up with the RD later.
And so, I spent the next hour doing this weird little
shuffle-dance thing that was neither quite walking nor quite running. Perhaps
the best way to describe it is to imagine someone who really has to use the
bathroom and wants to get there as quickly as possible but doesn’t dare run for
fear of wetting themselves. That was me. Doing the pee-pee shuffle for 6 miles.
Suddenly, about halfway up the mountain, the 45th
parallel aid station came into view, and I instinctively broke into a trot,
perhaps even a light canter. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement in the
bushes to the right of the aid station. Surely some apex predator was about to
pounce, descending upon the aid station and dismembering everyone in sight. The
only question was whether it was a grizzly bear, a mountain lion, a
saber-toothed tiger, or maybe a velociraptor?
“Run! Run for your lives everyone,” I shouted. “It’s a pack
of vicious… goats???” I trailed off. Apparently, the goats were part of the aid
station, having helped carry the aid station supplies up the mountain. Seeing a
couple other runners taking selfies with two of the goats, I reached my hand
out to pet a goat who was tied up to a tree off by himself.
“No!!! That one bites!” shouted one of the aid station
volunteers. Too late to react, I braced myself for impact. Instead of searing
pain, I felt a warm licking sensation on my arm. Apparently, I was a human salt
lick. Minutes later, after being thoroughly tongue bathed and de-salted, I continued
my journey.
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| Human salt lick! |
Ups and downs
The next section of the course consisted of a series of
climbs and descents. I had spent most of the day running by myself, aside from one
downhill section earlier in the day where I briefly chatted with a runner named
Mike from Arizona who was nursing an Achilles injury. While I’m used to being
alone with my thoughts, it is sometimes nice to pass the time chatting with
other runners.
Leaving the 45th Parallel aid station, I found
myself moving at the same speed as a couple of other runners including Alison
from Alaska, an IMTUF veteran who had completed the course two years ago, and
Tim from British Columbia, who I noticed was wearing a FatDog120 shirt – a race
that I have fond memories of having managed to win it back in 2016.
We spent the new few hours chatting and before I knew it, we’d
arrived at the North Crestline aid station! Looking at my watch, I realized
that I was way behind my projected splits. It was going to get dark and cold
soon, well before I made it down to the next aid station at Upper Payette Lake,
where my headlamp and warm clothes would be waiting, along with my pacer Loren.
Thankfully, I had held on to my headlamp from the morning,
so at least I would have some light when it got dark. But I was a bit worried
about the cold, as I had only brought a light windbreaker in my pack. While I
would have liked to wait for Tim and Alison, I told them that I better get
moving.
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| @Di Wu |
I quickly caught up with a couple of other runners on the
gravel road descent, including a guy named Daniel from Southern California with
whom I would end up running much of the rest of the race off and on. Daniel and
I started chatting about everything under the sun… from blisters, to blister
prevention, to blister care. We were so enthralled in our talk of all things
blisters, that we didn’t notice that it had gotten dark… or that we had
completely overshot our turn and gone over a mile off-course down the mountain.
Some light profanity ensured. But eventually we retraced our
steps up the mountain and found our missed turn. I put on my headlamp and tried
to do my best to point out any potential obstacles to Daniel who didn’t have a
light of his own. Miraculously, we made it down the overgrown, rock-strewn
trail, aptly named “Terrible Terrence” without incident.
This is the part where John throws a temper tantrum
As I rolled into Upper Payette Lake aid station at mile 56,
I apologized profusely to my pacer Loren, who was shivering in the dark, having
been waiting in the cold for many hours. “Don’t worry, you’ll warm up on the
upcoming climb!” I offered optimistically. [Spoiler alert: Loren would not warm
up. Not on the climb, not ever!].
“I just need a few minutes to reset and get my shit together,”
I explained as I fumbled around in the dark, trying to swap out the battery in my
headlamp... “First, I need to pop these blisters and put on clean socks. Then I
need to find my warm gloves. I also need to use the bathroom before we head
out. And where’s that Mountain Dew that I asked you to pick up?” I spouted in a
stream of consciousness.
“The hotel vending machine didn’t have Mountain Dew, so I
got you a Red Bull…” Loren started to explain.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I screamed in horror, having just heard
a loud cracking noise while trying to insert the battery into the connector of
my headlamp. “Fuck, I just broke my headlamp!”
Loren tried his best to be helpful, offering completely
logical, rational advice such as, “It’s okay. Maybe someone has a spare
headlamp you can borrow. Let me go check.”
But I was having no part of it. Some not-so-light
profanity ensued. As I continued unleashing a stream of F-bombs, Loren politely
excused himself. “I’m going to give you a few minutes,” he said, slinking away.
“It’s okay now Loren, I think I managed to MacGyver it!
Let’s go!” I shouted excitedly moments later, completely forgetting to pop my
blisters or change into my warm gloves. I did, however, remember to use the
outhouse on the way out.
Speaking of outhouses, normally I try to do my business and
get out of vault toilets as quickly as possible due to the less than Spring-fresh
smells. But I must say, this was one of the nicer ones I’ve encountered. It had
great ambience. Someone had decked it out with an air freshener and a soft
reading light. And it was nice and warm in there. I really didn’t want to leave.
I laughed out loud thinking about how I was going to explain to people that I
DNF’d because I sat in an outhouse all night.
 |
| Upper Payette Lake aid station |
Skipping ahead to the good parts
We’re now over 75 miles into IMTUF and Loren and I have just
climbed one of the toughest “trails” I’ve ever encountered in a race. I put the
word “trail” in quotes, because to be honest, I’m still not sure it really was
an actual trail. I’m told the race guide simply describes it by saying, “climb
the ferocious mountain slope above with only a few switchbacks for help.” You’ll
notice that there’s tellingly no usage of the word “trail” in that description.
“Hey John, do you think they made this trail just for the
race?” our new friend Daniel asks.
“Dude, I’m not even sure this is a real trail,” I respond.
“I think we’re basically mountain climbing at this point. I wish I’d brought my
chalk bag and cams,” I mutter.
Now we are at the top of the climb, having just gained 2,000
feet in less than two miles, staring down at a steep, rocky, precipice.
“Hey, do you want to borrow one of my poles for this
descent,” I ask, looking back at Loren who suffers from vertigo and whose
facial expression indicates that he is clearly apprehensive about falling off
this cliff to his death. Like any good pacer, Loren knows the correct answer to
this question is always, “No, that’s okay John. You keep both your poles. I’ll
be alright.”
Yet, without hesitating for even a second, Loren blurts out,
“Yes! Yes, I do want one,” snatching a pole straight out of my hand.
Courting elk
“Loren, what the heck are you doing?” I ask, watching as he
stands with his hands on his hips, pointing his pelvis into the woods while
gyrating rhythmically, performing what appears to be some kind of primal mating
ritual. “Are you trying to court an elk?” I ask?
“No, my headlamp ran out of batteries,” Loren offers, as if
some kind of satisfactory explanation.
“Huh?” I mutter.
“So now I’m using my backup waist light. But the problem is
that when I turn my head to locate the course-marking ribbons, the waist light
doesn’t turn. So, I have to point my hips where I want to see,” he explains.
And so, we spend the next few hours hiking through the
woods, letting Loren’s crotch lead the way.
The coldest hour is just before the dawn
“Bro, I can’t feel my fingers,” Loren announces, trying to
tear open the plastic wrapper on one of those Hot Hands air-activated hand
warmers. “I think these things are expired,” he says, squinting at the package
labelling.
“Well, I can’t feel my fingers, my nose, or my penis!” I
add, commiserating. “But sunrise is in less than an hour and it will hopefully
warm up soon.”
Loren, who is notorious for getting cold easily, is wearing
five separate layers of clothing. “Dude, what are you going to do with your
sweater when the sun comes out and it gets hot later this afternoon?” I ask. “We’re
not going to finish until like 2pm, right?” I say, struggling to perform basic
math calculations.
Loren and I then proceed to spend the next two hours in an
embarrassingly futile effort to do “ultra math”.
“Well, using the equation V = d/t, where V is our velocity,
d is the distance remaining, and t is the time…” I begin.
“But is t the current time, our elapsed time, or our finish
time?” Loren interjects.
“Umm, good question I say, throwing my hands up in defeat. I
guess I should have paid more attention in physics class. “I just hope we
finish in time to make it to the airport, so we don’t miss our flight home!”
 |
| @Cary Johnson Photography |
On top of the world
“Hey Loren, I think we’re almost to the top of this last
climb,” I announce excitedly, pulling out my “laminated” course profile just to
verify. “Hmm, that’s odd. According to the chart, we’re only halfway to the top.
That can’t be right, can it,” I mumble, hoping it’s just a typo. [Spoiler
alert: It’s no typo].
An hour later Loren and I reach the actual top, cresting
Boulder Peak at a little over 8,300 ft. We’re greeted by amazing 360-degree
panoramic views of the mountains, lakes, and wildflowers. “Best seat in the
house,” Loren sighs, gazing off into the distance.
 |
| The hills are alive with the sound of... Loren? |
We spend a few minutes on top of the world, quietly taking
it all in. I then draw a deep breath and brace myself for the last twelve miles. "I’ve got this. I’ve
fucking got this!" I whisper, giving myself a little pep talk.
My right foot is completely covered in giant blisters by
this point and every step is excruciatingly painful. And my left ankle, which
has miraculously held up thus far, is finally starting to complain loudly. Looking down, I notice it has doubled in size
since the start of the race. I speculate that perhaps with the increased
swelling, the ankle brace is now cutting into my foot. So, I decide to remove
my brace and hope for the best.
No longer encumbered by the brace which had been slowly
cutting off circulation to my foot, Loren and I fly down the gravel road into
the last aid station. They’re serving breakfast! As I make myself another delicious
bacon-pancake sandwich, I’m suddenly cognizant of the fact that a full day has
come and gone, and that the only constants in this world are apparently
blisters and bacon.
It's all downhill from here
While I would have been content to sit there all morning,
eating pancakes and exchanging profundities, we have a race to finish, and flights to catch. “It’s all downhill from here,” the aid station captain announces
cheerfully, sending us on our way.
“What the actual fuck!!!” I sigh exasperatedly, looking up
at a hundred-foot hill that has appeared in front us. “All downhill my fucking
ass!” It’s not lost on me that my speech has been steadily deteriorating and becoming
more and more profanity laced with each passing hour.
Loren on the other hand, seems to have caught his second
wind. He’s sprinting off into the distance, shrieking with delight as he runs
through the wildflowers flailing his arms with glee. I later learn that he surreptitiously
downed a Five Hour energy shot at the last aid station.
The last few miles seem to take forever. I keep checking my
watch every few minutes, but it feels like I’m hardly making any progress. 1.7
miles to go. 1.6 miles to go. 1.5 miles to go. Will this ever end?
Eventually we crest one last hill, and the finish line
finally comes into sight below. We did it! We f'ing did it! I stop in my tracks and turn to
Loren. “Bring it in bro,” I say, extending my arms for a hug. “Thank you! Thank
you so much!”
 |
| I'm not crying, you're crying! LOL. |
Link to Strava activity: https://www.strava.com/activities/9869987147
Link to UltraSignup race results: https://ultrasignup.com/results_event.aspx?did=101193
Link to IMTUF 100 website: https://imtuf100.blogspot.com/p/2020-race-info.html
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