“As a person, I wanted to inhabit that distance of expectation versus reality. I wanted to be a walking fucking delight.” – Devin Kelly
*Disclaimer: this post contains f-bombs and other obscenities. I do not mean offense, it’s just that distance running is hard and sometimes there’s just no better word than a swear word to convey the sentiment of the moment. So just a fucking heads up on that.
Expand this section to read the lengthy personal lead up to the race. Or continue reading below for just the running bit!
After my DNF at Mountain Lakes (ML) in September, I had a roller coaster of emotions, but for the most part, I was sad. Not a I’ve-suffered-great-loss kind of sadness, but an aching sorrow of having all my hard work end in failure. My body was tired and I couldn’t really regulate my emotions, so I would cry at the still-fresh race memories. Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of wonderful memories from the months of training and the many hours during the race, but the process of getting “over it” couldn’t begin soon enough.
I have two wonderful girlfriends in Seattle and we had a little conference call / race recap and, like everyone, they filled my ears, heart, soul, and brain with nothing but love and support. But what I didn’t expect to come out of it was inspiration. Sybil said they had another runner friend who had a DNF from ML in 2017 and wrote a blog post about it. When we got off the phone, she sent me the link and I read it right away. The writer explained the entire race experience, and the DNF experience, in all the words and sentiments and feelings I couldn’t articulate. The post was also filled with f-bombs and emotion. Frustration mixed with happy memories. I cried while reading it, not only from my own race, but for theirs, too. I got to the end and the blog “suggested” the next post, which was their subsequent finish of the Javelina Jundred that same year, just a month later. I sat up straighter in my chair and devoured it. And then,
“He got an idea. An awful idea. The Grinch got a wonderful, awful idea. ‘I know just what to do.’”
I went straight to the Javelina website; there were spots left! However, it just just one week after we’d be back from Germany and I didn’t think I could recover from ML and international travel and be successful at finishing 100 miles. So I scoured Ultra Signup. And the PNW running calendar. And eventually the nationwide running calendar. And I called my coach and talked and strategized and were troubleshooting and finally we settled on one. She was easily on board and we updated my training log, I emailed the race director to apply my trail work volunteer hours from ML to this one and I registered. I’d be running Rio Del Lago 100M (RDL) on November 2nd in California. It was 6 weeks from my ML weekend and I was excited about running again. The sorrow was fading.
I sent a text to John, hoping he wasn’t too traumatized from pacing me at ML. “Hey John, have plans for the weekend of 11/2?” Turns out he was running his own race that weekend; a local favorite, the invariably gorgeous Silver Falls, but didn’t hesitate to skip it for an adventure in Folsom.
I sent Dan a screenshot of my registration, hoping his Little House on the Prairie disease had passed. He was more than keen and booked a flight from Denver. Things were already looking up.
I was browsing flights and panicking about arrival and departure times, especially because race weekend would fall on the Daylight Saving Time change; but the race wouldn’t be honoring it until the event ended, which complicated planning, even though it’s only an hour. Jesse sweetly suggested that we would drive. *Duh*. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about making my gear flight-friendly and we wouldn’t have to rent a car. Sacramento (Folsom, technically) is only 9 hours from Portland, so it’d be quite easy. Though I didn’t want to do it all in one day the day before race day, and with mandatory packet pickup on Friday, we’d have to leave mid-day on Thursday. Which was Halloween. I was feeling more and more guilty that John would have to miss his race and Halloween! Good grief, I owe him so much. But the planning was coming together.
We went to Germany and I relaxed. My training plan was easy – it was recovery. I had a few miles to do here and there, but mostly it was just “run if you can. Don’t if you can’t.” Now that’s my kind of training plan! When we returned, I had a small block of “heavy” miles and then taper. Really, ML had just become my long training run. And good practice for what not to do. I was feeling ready. My DNF no longer bothered me.
I updated my spreadsheets with my projected best-mid-worst case times, accounting for time spent at aid stations this go ‘round. I sent off planning emails and booked our AirBnB. My Mom would be driving down from Idaho, bringing my sister this time. My Dad couldn’t make it for this one, and neither could Jan, but their love was felt nonetheless. I didn’t really tell my work what I was up to, but just took the days off. If I didn’t finish it, I didn’t want to recap with them again.
I worked in the morning on Halloween and then we took off mid-day. My sweet friend Naomi would once again be watching RileyDog (and John’s dog Clyde, too, this time), so we gave the pups some head pats and hit the road, making a quick stop for road trip foods, and headed south. We booked a room in a random-ass town just over the border in California and got there around 10 PM. Just before, though, in Ashland, we were hungry and debated between the 24 hour Denny’s or the closes-at-9-PM-but-it’s-already-8:45-PM Elmer’s. We made the dick move and went to Elmer’s. We were treated to wet carpet and a window meth dance, but it was still better than Denny’s.
The AirBnB was a funny experience, with a composting toilet in the corner and the “real” bathroom in the “main” house. But it was warm, comfortable, and cheap. In the light of day, the town left a bit to be desired. But we left early and it didn’t matter at all.
We rolled into Folsom and went straight to packet pickup. Dan met us there and I went to check in while my boys picked up their pacer bibs. “Hi, I’m here to pick up my packet,” I told the volunteer. He replied with a question “For the Rio Del Lago 100 miler?” I felt like he punched me in the stomach. Did I not look like I could do it? Did my sweater, skirt, and Kate Spade scream “non-runner”, while everyone else was in tech tees and sneakers? My imposter syndrome overwhelmed me and I suppressed my bitchy response; Dan was suddenly at my side and that made me feel better. “Yup!” I said excitedly, knowing the man probably didn’t mean anything by it (or even know he did anything) and I was just projecting. He gave me my bib (#253) and my swag. I walked over to the merch table and lusted after the grey-blue and white RDL hat. “Not until you finish” I said to myself, again, remembering the ML coaster I had wanted. I hadn’t earned it. I hadn’t earned shit.
We drove to the AirBnB to check in and unload (it was right across from Jan Park, so I pleased she could be there in spirit…and in park form!). I didn’t have a code for the door so I messaged our host while the boys unloaded literally everything from the car and dropped it by the front door. We waited a few minutes and got no response. I tried to call the host but there was no answer. I sent him a regular text message and still no response. After another few minutes, we hauled everything back to the car and decided to go grocery shopping while we waited. We hit up a Safeway just a few minutes away and bought stuff to make a spaghetti dinner, have a decent breakfast in the morning, for me to make proper food for the race the next day, and generic snacks. I remember paying and then trying to take everything to the car and the wheels on the cart locked up! In a fit of hilarious frustration, John lifted the back and Dan lifted the front and they carried the cart full of groceries to the car in an epic “fuck you, Safeway” fashion. It was the best.
We finally got a code from the host and we headed back to the house, where my sister and Mom had just arrived. Again, because it was just Halloween, the neighbors next door had some decorations out: skeletons in the front yard. “Still waiting for the code from their host, it seems” I joked.
The house was basic, but we’d only be there one night. My mom and sister could use it Saturday night, too, and I enjoyed how close it was to the start/finish. Every aspect of this race, logistically, was easier than ML. ML had the allure of remote, forested running, where this felt basically like city running, but for the crew, this was all much more attainable.
I got to work putting together my running pack, gear boxes, and deciding on shoes and clothes for the morning. The first 18 miles of the course are on a paved pedestrian path and I agonized over whether to wear my road shoes for that section and change, or just stick with my trail shoes for the entirety. My coach advised me to go trail for the whole thing and to only change if it was broken. I eventually did not take her advice and started with shorts and a t-shirt, my ultralight jacket, and road shoes.
My sister laid out on my bed while I put my gear together. We weren’t really talking, she was just watching. I was hemming and hawing over this and that, but moving quickly. At some point she said “how do you know how to do this?”. My gut response was “I don’t.” but I didn’t say that. I think my response was “Oh, this is all pretty standard” which is as bullshit of a non-answer as you can get. But I was struggling with my confidence already and it seemed as if that was more of an answer to myself than to her.
In the kitchen, John had made us a wonderful pasta dinner, complete with salad and garlic bread (even though the kitchen was barely equipped with anything needed to make any of that). Also, it was Friday night, and the finale of The Great British Baking Show was on Netflix! I couldn’t wait to watch and I made everyone sit with me for my hour long, delightfully pure show. No one argued, but they clearly weren’t that interested. I’m pretty sure John watched exactly 1 minute and then tuned out and I think Dan went back to Safeway at one point. *GBBO Spoiler*: Steph royally messed up her bakes and David won. I cried for Steph but was happy for David. Alice…well, her hair was too long for her to be trusted anyway.
After dinner, I attempted to make some of my own food for the race. I knew I couldn’t survive on energy chews and watermelon, and had really only trained with spaghetti on one paltry 18 miler. So just about everything I would have would be new. I made avocado and turkey wraps and also some Stove Top stuffing. I took some of the leftover spaghetti as well. I didn’t want Nuun this time and John offered me his Tailwind, so I filled a bottle with that. I was willing and eager to have anything with high calories. I wanted sodium and carbs. Less sugar. All of these things I was trying for the first time on race day, which is a huge running no-no. I would have to trust that my usually non-sensitive stomach would remain for this big effort.
Rio Del Lago 100M (RDL) had a 5 AM start, with a race briefing at 4:30 and it was a 20 minute drive from our rental. Everyone’s alarms went off early and I had a bagel with butter for breakfast. We headed to Beal’s Point, the starting line, and easily parked. I stood in line for the bathroom for about 2 seconds and then we just hung out at the start line. It was so easy.
Mountain Lakes (ML) had just over 160 runners and Rio had 343. It seemed like much less at the starting line. Our race briefing was really just advice; of particular note was the recommendation to run the first 18 miles at the pace you’d want to be running the last 18 miles. In other words, take it slow and save your legs. Not bad advice but I was assuming I’d be at a slow shuffle in the last 18 miles and I sure as hell wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to bank some time. I hugged Jesse, John, Dan, my mom, and my sister. I’d see them soon, but here we go again, right? Headlamps on and we were off. My imposter syndrome rose up again and I thought, “No offense to me or anything but what the fuck am I actually doing?”
“Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.” – Chuck Close
There were enough runners and streetlights that I didn’t actually turn on my headlamp. The pavement was nice and it was easy to find a good pace. Dan told me earlier that it takes energy to talk to people, so I kept to myself. I’d listen to other conversations and not chime in. It wasn’t like me not to make friends during a race, but I was here with a task. I had a job to do. I was all business this time.
There was a woman in a red t-shirt near me at the starting line and she seemed calm and experienced, chatting with other runners about their training and their racing. At some point on this paved stretch I was behind her and tried to keep pace. Maybe 10-15 minutes of this and I felt like I wasn’t going to be able to sustain it, so I backed off the pace and she pulled away. We went over a bridge and a woman came running up next to me and complimented my ultralight jacket (and I thought of a conversation I had with friend back in Oregon about why women bring up clothes as a segway into dialogue? I just want to yell “yeah, yeah, I got it at REI now what book are you reading and which Democratic primary candidate do you think is least controversial?? Be interesting!” I obviously didn’t do this; that would seem crazy. I accepted her compliment and we spent 30 or so strides talking about my jacket). I do not remember her name, but I should, because I remember it being quite unique. We ran together for a while and I mainly let her talk. I do not remember a thing she said to me. Except that she was hoping to finish in under 27 hours. It was too early (in the day and in the race) to do that sort of calculating for myself but I hoped I would see her again, hours later, doing well. Spoiler: I did not. After the aid station, she took off at a run while I walked and ate.
The aid stations were generically stocked: chips, potatoes, GU, electrolyte drink, Coke. I wanted to save the Coke again for nightfall and I took time to eat a good amount. That was priority here. Eat early and often. I had pretzels, PB&J, a few chips, and a handful of potatoes. Nothing sweet. I was admittedly really enjoying my Tailwind from John (the ‘Naked Unflavored’ flavor); it was delicious and keeping me going. Noted.
I fast walked until I digested but made sure to only spend seconds, not minutes, lingering. I needed to bank time while I could. I was careful to not be speedy or competitive here, but still found I was all over the board with pace: some 10:30s, some 8:somethings. Yikes.
We reached our first decent climb around mile 10; up to a view of the dam, and the sunrise. It was pretty spectacular, I must admit.
I had been running near a guy in a red visor (Michael Li, I later learned) and he was good pacing. He is a running coach and knew the course. I let him tell me all about it. I can’t remember if he pulled away or if I did, but soon I was near a guy in a yellow shirt who works for a company that makes fitness equipment. He told me about his recent finish at Moab and I was in awe. He wasn’t exactly humble about it, but he wasn’t bragging either. I couldn’t tell. We passed another aid station (more potatoes, more pretzels, more PB&J for me) and then I ducked off to use the boat ramp restroom, hoping that would save some time at Beal’s Point once we arrived. Eventually I caught up to yellow shirt guy again – we were kind of leap frogging – and he said he could tell that I would finish Rio. He could feel it in my aura. At the time I was simultaneously grateful for his confidence in me and annoyed at the assumption, given how confident I was feeling at ML. Only the miles would tell me as the hours fell away.
Eventually back on the path we went out on, I could start to recognize where we were. It was weird, being in a hundo, and passing by fast food joints, gas stations, large intersections. It didn’t feel like a trail run at all. We could see Folsom Prison and I didn’t have the fear of cougars as I did at ML; I had the fear of escapees! Both irrational and unlikely encounters, but my anxiety never lets me forget that I am mortal.
I could see Dan at the corner and I whipped out my empty bottle: “Can I please have more Tailwind?” He didn’t take it from me and instead asked how I was feeling. I saw the race director also on the corner and it occurred to me that I had to run around the parking lot along the water before the proper aid station so if Dan helped me there, I could be disqualified. Lucky he was aware before I was! We checked in for 20 seconds and he took off to the crew as I made my way around.
I passed the checkpoint and found my crew with all my crap set up nicely under a tree. The sun was up now and I could feel it was warm now. I changed into my trail shoes (well, actually, someone else put them on me) and stripped off my jacket. I threw on my hat and sunglasses, a bit of sunscreen, and my sister handed me my bag of Stove Top. Jesse frantically looked for a fork while I, mouth full already, popped globs of sticky stuffing into my mouth like popcorn. “This is fine, babe. I don’t need it. I’m ready to go, anyway.” A new bottle of Tailwind, water topped off, and I was back on course. Back at it: 18 miles down, 82 to go. I’d see them again in just 4.5 miles.
These 4.5 miles were a little bit the worst. We were on trails at least, but I very much felt like it was a facade. We passed people out for their morning walks with their dogs (“Oh, are you running a marathon?”), and kids on bikes. We were in the backyards of folks who owned horses and could see the roads leading to their homes. There were people sunbathing on balconies perched above us and every now and then, someone would wave at us. It was the most ‘urban’ trail race I’d ever done. I was looking forward to the more remote miles out near Auburn and Cool.
We ascended some flowy singletrack and I realized this was the mountain bike area we were warned about. One runner early on said it would be closed to cyclists this morning but either that was false or the cyclists ignored any closures because I was dodging downhillers pretty consistently. Getting my bearings and trying to decide who had the right of way, I did a sanity check with the course markings and indeed, this was where I was supposed to be. Great.
It was short-lived and I caught a guy who said we were at the beginning of the famed “Meat Grinder” section…I mean, the ‘rock garden’. This is supposed to be the most technical, slow-going part of the course. I had been hearing and reading about it in the days prior and it had me nervous. The only way around it was through it.
Soon, I popped up onto a straight, easy section and I could see the aid station. A man in a white dress / nightgown wearing a Trail Sisters hat approached me and I knew: this guy belongs with me. It was Dan, grinning ear to ear. “What are you wearing?” I foolishly asked. For some reason my mouth said those simple words even though my head was clear and full of witty banter for him. The other spectators laughed and I tried to act like it was the most normal thing in the world – like, of course my crew member is in a nightgown! I went on to explain that I couldn’t stop singing Feliz Navidad and that I had forgotten the rest of the words. He looked at me like I just told him I had forgotten how to count to ten or sing the alphabet or something. “You mean, “I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas..those are literally the only two lines in the song!” I blamed the heat. He directed me to the crew spot and Jesse had made me a little Cup Noodles. “They’re not really warm anymore” he said, but I was already slurping them up. The salty broth, the carb-y fake noodles…wonderful. Another Tailwind fill up and I was ready to head out again. No lingering here! Dan jogged with me out and I told him if that section truly was the Meat Grinder, these Californians are wimps!
I learned that was not the Meat Grinder, but eventually we did go through it and I didn’t even notice. It was slightly more rocky than what we had just covered, but I wouldn’t say it was particularly noteworthy. So for anyone reading this as a preview to RDL 2020 or beyond, don’t let anyone scare you!
I listened to a man explain his role as a cop to a woman who was trying hard to be polite and responsive, but was focusing her energy on running. I met a woman from Washington State, Leavenworth, and that was all we said, really. I met a guy from Not Too Far Away, CA and he said if he’d had his phone on him, he would have dropped by now and would be home napping. He hung out behind me for maybe 2 miles and we chit chatted about running and mountain biking, his kids, Oregon vs. California, and who knows what else. Eventually he said he wanted to pass by me and thanked me for saving his race. I tried to look him up in the results later but don’t know his last name – there were 3 people with his first name; I hope he was one of the 2 finishers and not the DNF.
There were 9.5 miles between the last aid station (Granite Beach) and the next (Horseshoe Bar) and that might have been the longest 9.5 miles of my life. It was hot and seemed to take ages. It was a lot of rollers so quick running, then slow hiking and not a lot of room for momentum. At one frustrating point, a guy I had been leap frogging with (but never interacted with) caught me as I stopped on a corner to regroup. “How you going?” he asked. “It’s fucking hot out here.” I think was my reply. “I know!? Where the hell is the aid station? You got water?” he asked back. We were both fine, but over this section. Feeling his struggle matched up with mine was helpful. It’s those little moments of solidarity that can be the spark that you need to proceed. Maybe that’s what I provided for the nap guy earlier. I hope so.
We had to work for that aid station; it was at the top of a short but steep climb and was I ever grateful. I passed it up, beelining for the Porta Potty. A woman offered me an ice water soak as I walked by and I told her I’d be back. Indeed I was and the sponge to the head was incredibly refreshing! I went back to the food tent and took in more potatoes, more PB&J, and some orange slices. I asked a volunteer for some sunscreen and she frantically searched and searched, coming up empty handed. “Probably good to have, I’m so sorry!” she told me. Shrug. A man just came in and brought out his course map and asked for the time, which I gave to him. He was so pleased that he was ahead of his projected arrival and my spirits were lifted! He was in such a happy mood it was infectious. I gave him kudos, took another icy sponge soak to the head, and headed out. Just 3 miles to Rattlesnake Bar and my crew.
I caught my Leavenworth friend again and kept pace with her for a while from a distance. I could definitely recognize myself feeling down again as the heat wore on me. I had to walk some of this section; I was getting actively sad. I drank water like it was bottomless. I emptied my Tailwind. To quote, in part, comedienne Emily Heller “my brain is like a radio DJ who doesn’t take requests. It’ll be like ‘coming up next, we have a full hour of just the first verse of Mambo No. 5, followed by an imaginary argument with someone you love!”” Except instead of Mambo No. 5 it’s Feliz Navidad and replace the argument with emotionally and dramatically quitting your job (that you, in reality, love and don’t want to leave). I choked back tears and then got mad for feeling so awful at only the 55K mark. I needed to rein in my brain. I was ahead of my own projected times and feeling physically OK, so what was my problem? I couldn’t pinpoint it, but I knew I’d have to pull myself out of it somehow.
Finally I saw the volunteer pointing us down a very steep hill to the aid station. I didn’t trust the tread on my shoes to even keep me upright so it was a delicate tip toe down there. This aid station felt busy, but Dan caught me right away, as he had been. I nearly burst into tears when he asked how I was doing. I couldn’t explain what I needed so it was impossible for him to help me. I couldn’t tell if he could tell. I just asked him “Do I need to check in here?” “DO RUNNERS NEED TO CHECK IN HERE!?!?!?!” he shouted at the volunteer tent not 1 second after I finished saying it. “No”, someone calmly replied. I laughed at his assertiveness. I would have waited at the table to be acknowledged and gingerly squeaked out my question, where he boldly demanded “my runner needs something!” and my attitude was turned around. I sat in a chair here and told everyone I just needed a minute. I let the feelings and tears I was holding in go, as all the love and support I needed could be felt just inches away. I’m going to name those feelings ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ because where did they come from and where did they go? “It’s really fucking hot out there.” I finally offered. Dan produced a bandana filled with ice for me to take and it felt amazing. “Can I have more Tailwind?” I felt awful using all of John’s nutrition and he said he was out of the ‘Naked’ flavor but had berry with caffeine. I’ll take it.
I felt better now. It was six miles to the next aid station and then a short paved section to where I could pick up my first pacer at Overlook. I let my bad energy fuel me back up that hill and onto the course.
I don’t remember the miles to Cardiac aid station. Literally zero recollection. Was it pretty? Was it difficult? Was I happy or sad? Those miles and memories are gone.
Cardiac aid station featured men in coconut bras and grass skirts. I grabbed food quickly and had another sponge soak, then left in a hurry. It was 3.5 miles of paved up and I was in a mood for power hiking. Poles aren’t permitted in RDL so I pretended; arms at 90 degrees and swinging. I overheard two men talking about Oregon races and I joined for a quick minute, offering advice on ML and the NUT 100K. And then I took off. I passed a lot of people here; head down, legs churning. Eventually I came upon a woman and her dog out for a walk and she wanted to know all about the race…but I really didn’t want to be the one to tell her. I gave her a brief recap of what the heck we were doing (she was amazed by us all) and then bid her farewell. Her Boxer dog was cute, but I was on a roll and feeling good!
“Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope.” – Edith Wharton
The pavement felt easy, even though it was a decent uphill. It was fast going and I was easily ahead of schedule. I was excited to have my pacers available from here on out and would have company through the night; any anxiousness about dark running that I felt from ML was gone. Even though I wasn’t yet halfway done, I thought about the card my sweet friend Melissa sent to me earlier in the week, along with copious amounts of my favorite chews, and she simply wrote “You got this” over and over inside. I pictured the card, the colorful paper, her scribbly handwriting and said it over and over like she did: “You got this”. And soon I was at the top of the hill, the clock staring at me, Jesse was there to greet me. I was kicking this race square in the teeth like I was told to do. Later, I realized I even had a 50K and 50M PR set in during this race. I was smashing it. (Side note: in their downtime while was I was out there working hard, my crew was off at some cafe having tea and crumpets! Ha!)
Reaching Overlook, I passed up the food and went straight for my crew setup. I wanted a new shirt and bra, my current ones wet from all the ice, and I’d need my headlamp again, preparing for the night hours. But first, the bathroom. My Mom walked with me here and it felt powerful to be in such a focused mode, so in my element, that I could tell she didn’t recognize me. We found the bathroom and there was a line of 1,000 women. Scanning, like a robot, I spotted the Porta Potties and we power walked over there. No line. But also no toilet paper. “Mom, when she is finished next to me, will you see if there is any toilet paper in there?” The woman next to me answered flatly, “there isn’t.” I found this funny! My Mom offered to get me some but I wanted to just get going and I declined. We walked back over to the crew and I had my sister spray my sides with Glide – the chafing from my bra was painful, but only when I drew my attention to it. Feeling fresher, I walked back over to the food tent and had a few more potatoes and then was ready to hit the trail. A quick photo and Dan and I took off.
I’ve known Dan for years but prior to RDL, I had only met him in person twice. For the first time in 2017 after Pikes Peak and for the second time just a few months prior at his own hundo at Leadville. I talk to him all the time and he’s one of my biggest fans, but it was funny to think he was about to run a marathon with me, in the dark, and we had never actually run together before. Not a single step.
He was stoked to be on course. He was on these same trails a few months earlier pacing his buddy at Western States and he wanted the No Hands Bridge experience this time. No problem. He was a ball of energy, running ahead to take photos, hanging back to take photos, chatting away.
I was happy to have Dan’s pacing experience, his strong running background, and his general happy demeanor for this overnight section. I told him I had been all business and hadn’t really taken a lot of photos and asked him to get some good ones. He was all about it. A few miles in, we saw the first place guy coming at us. “He looks rough”, Dan commented. Not long after, we saw the second place guy. “He’ll catch him. He looks great.” Dan said again. I didn’t disagree, but apparently Dan knew the second guy and was confident he would win it. He wasn’t wrong.
I don’t remember a lot of the time we spent getting to No Hands. At one point, we could see the bridge before us and I asked “Is that it” and before I could even finish the sentence Dan said “NOPE!” He explained that the bigger bridge was not No Hands. I was suddenly less enamored with it. The bigger one was clearly more impressive. He pretended to be offended. We got to No Hands and he stopped to take photos and I took off. I sprinted across that god damn bridge. Or, at least it felt like it. Dan obviously caught me easily and he said it was fun to try to outpace the pacer!
A quick pit stop at the aid station (mile 48.5) (“I don’t want these bananas yet, but will in like, 2 miles. Can you carry them?” and the banana hand was born.) and we climbed out of there. And then descended, crossed the road, interrupted a wedding photo sesh, and I had to use the bathroom. Luckily there was a huge, clean Porta Potty and I seized the opportunity to sit down. I took a deep breath and then meandered back to my pacer and the long road still ahead. “I can’t really see, can you take my hat?” and it disappeared. “The ice is cooling me down too much, can you take this bandana back?” and it disappeared. “Can you text John about my pants?” “Can you text John about my gloves?” “Can you text John about my hand warmers?” I was needy and felt like I hadn’t really thought anything through and was making last minute, panicked requests. Dan obliged to everything I needed without question or hesitation.
There were 10.5 miles between No Hands and Auburn Lakes aid station. We were leap frogging with a couple of runners and their pacers and I was quiet. Dan was ahead of me and he was quiet, too. We were just working. I didn’t feel anything. We were just on the move.
The trail turned runnable and we jogged along. Still quiet. It was easy going and I was grateful for company, even if it was just his presence. The miles were endless here. We hit the 10.5 mile mark and there was no sign of the aid station. I didn’t need it, per se, but to have those checkpoints was a sign of progress and I was getting pissed that we weren’t making any. Was I really going that slowly? I thought back to the section between Granite Beach and Horseshoe and it didn’t seem so long now. Even Dan was getting confused as to why we hadn’t hit it yet. It. went. on. for. ev. er.
Finally we dropped down into the aid station and it was tiny and crowded. It’s always such a mind fuck to see so many runners there when you had felt incredibly alone just moments before. I used the bathroom again here and got some broth and other foods. I was ready to go and Dan was still chowing down. I wanted to keep moving and had to remind myself that he was out here, running and working hard, and obviously deserved and needed to fuel as well. I had just been used to zooming in and out of the non-crew aids all these hours!
We walked a bit from the aid station and then pulled over again to put on warm gear. I pulled my long-sleeved merino out of my pack and it was wet from the ice bandana dripping earlier. “It’ll dry” I thought and threw it on, layering my ultralight over it. Dan geared up too and we took off again. Not 5 minutes later, I was shivering. I could feel my ML failure daring me to continue and I made Dan stop again. He had Jesse’s extra base layer for me and I switched to that, giving him my lucky pink, but wet, top. The dry Baffin felt amazing and I internally gave myself a gold star for making a good choice here. The flats and downs we jogged but I was going slow and not really generating heat, so I’d put my jacket hood up and zip myself in to save the warmth. At any hill, I’d overheat and to avoid sweating and getting wet, I’d unzip and throw off the hood to cool down. It was a constant, up down up down, but it worked. I maintained a good temperature and had my system in place.
Dan and I weren’t really talking. I was out in front and his headlamp shone from behind, which was helpful. Some people passed us in through here and while deflating, I tried to focus on my own race and effort. At some point Dan very bluntly said “You’re hiking faster than you’re running, so let’s just stick with that.” Ouch. I knew he wasn’t wrong, though. Running did not seem sustainable, so I power hiked.
At some point, Dan was leading and we were going at an OK pace. Some of the climbs were steep, but luckily short-lived. Dan would call out obstacles for me: “Small mud patch here” or “watch these rocks”. Two guys passed us and just after they went by Dan turned and said “big log to step over right here…oh nevermind, we’re turning here” and we rounded a corner to head up a brutal little pitch. He quickly realized those two guys had gone straight, over the log! He called out to them and pointed out the course marking and they quickly turned around, oh-so-grateful! That’s what pacers are for…fresh eyes and minds to keep us all on track..in every way.
There was a difficult, narrow trail section in here somewhere and we encountered a male racer and his female pacer – I don’t have a lot of memory about what was going on, but I remember the guy struggling and the woman waiting for him frequently. Did they go ahead of us? Did we pass them? All I remember were the digging deep grunts and moans from the runner in pain.
I was getting some decent 2nd, 3rd, 4th winds going up these hills and it felt good to power hike them. Eventually I felt like jogging again and pretty soon we were at the next aid station. They had quesadillas here and Dan was in heaven. I passed, wary of the cheese. I saw a guy I recognized from a few hours earlier and we exchanged pleasantries and brief updates and then Dan and I carried on.
I was so confused about where we were. I knew we were on course but I couldn’t really figure out why we weren’t seeing the front pack runners. Dan explained to me at least 4 times where we would pop back out onto the recognizable course, but my brain just wasn’t comprehending what he was saying.
Finally, we descended into No Hands and it was a bit of a party! This is where I exchanged John for Dan. We were at mile 70.5, it was just after midnight, and we had some hills to climb.
John and I left No Hands at a very slow trot. John was fresh and it was easy to chat with him, laughing at the beeping timing mat, stopping briefly to check in with another runner, clearly in pain from a blister, and genuinely enjoying the trail at this point. I was continuing my hood-up-on-the-flats-hood-down-on-the-hills routine and John asked if I wanted him to take my jacket, not realizing what I was doing. “No way, I have this temperature thing figured out!” I joked. John was adequately versed in my temperature regulation from ML so mainly his tasks were 1) keep me moving, and 2) keep me warm.
At some point, I did start to get chilly and John produced another layer for me, which helped immensely. I remember leading the two of us and he made the same comment as Dan, but in a less pointed way: “If you wanted to save some energy here, we can just hike; the speed’s about the same”. Hint taken – I was running slow! And, though not at him, my rage haze returned and I was suddenly able to power up those hills. Maybe it was short lived but I felt like I could hike like that for hours more (it was just as well, I was clearly going to have to).
“Running is real and relatively simple…but it ain’t easy.” – Mark Will-Weber
We were passed by a lot of faster racers on this stretch. I remember one particularly well-lit runner + pacer combo. She had her entire torso covered in LED lights and I was amazed (i.e. jealous) at how much visibility she brought to the trails. She quickly passed us and disappeared. I knew I was moving slowly, and had slowed down considerably from my earlier miles, but was still doing OK for a finish. I gave myself bonus points for still feeling good and [mostly] happy, too!
We climbed up to the Overlook AS (mile 74.5) and I was chilly enough to need to change into my longer bottoms. The boys held up blankets right there in the middle of the action and I stripped off my shorts, pulled up my capris, and then quickly swapped my bib over. I could feel a blister on my left little toe, but thought “it’s not bothering me, so I won’t “fix” it.”
From here it was the 3-ish miles of steep descent on the paved road into Cardiac. I limped down the initial steep trail and onto the road and told John I wanted to do ¼ mile walk to ¾ mile jog. I think? We did our walk, then started our jog. My calves were aching at this point and I had to really talk myself into the running times, but I was genuinely enjoying these miles, except for all the grass that was in my pants from my gear change – I had neglected to remember that the grass would stick to my socks (and subsequently the inside of my pants when I put them on) so I spent a good 30 minutes of running plucking greenery from inside my capris. *face palm* Sorry for any awkwardness, John!
Another pacer + runner combo passed us on this downhill and I swore the racer was the tallest person I’ve ever met. Not long after they soared by did my blister pop. “Fuuuck”, I said, stepping to the side of the road. I remember sighing deeply and trying to troubleshoot in my head what to do. I knew it was less than a mile to the next aid station but I didn’t want a blister to form on top of the blister, so I told John we’d walk it in. I walked on my heel and really was tempted to just walk in my sock without a shoe at that point. Desperate to avoid any more pain, it was a very slow aid station approach.
We arrived and I made a pit stop in the bathroom while John went to ask for blister supplies. When I emerged, I was told they had antiseptic wipes, band-aids, and duct tape. No moleskin or proper blister care. With the tone of I-take-no-responsbility-for-this-situation, the volunteer dismissively asked John “you’ll take care of this?”. Of course. I sat down, peeled off my shoe and sock, and John, without hesitation, question, or disgust, wiped my dirty, dusty, blistered foot off with a wet wipe and I fought back a scream from the pain of the alcohol. “You’re the worst doctor ever!” I [very rudely but jokingly] told him! He wrapped my piggie toe in a band-aid, then duct tape, and I got my sock and shoe back on. The pain was different, but just as bad as before. At least I knew it was protected from getting worse. I limped out of the aid station after eating a few potatoes and told him “just give me a few minutes to get used to this new normal” and indeed, I did.
“The race always hurts. Expect it to hurt. You don’t train so that it doesn’t hurt. You train so you can tolerate it.” – Mike Rowland
Cardiac was mile 78 and every step from there was a distance PR for me, which I held on to as something to be proud of while we finished off John’s pacing duties. We dropped into Rattlesnake Bar (mile 83.5) – I had a much slower descent coming down this time than hours before! – and I was so surprised to see my mom and sister hanging out with Jesse and Dan! It was something like 2:30 AM and I couldn’t believe they were out there! It really was the moments, the gestures, the efforts like these from my crew that kept me going.
There was a proper medical tent at Rattlesnake and I opted not to pursue further blister treatment here. Though it was tempting, I didn’t want to waste more time on my toe issue. Jesse was ready to go and after doing some quick runner math, I felt at ease – I was 1.5 hours ahead of the cutoff and feeling good. I mentioned to him how calm I felt and he reminded me that the time had changed for Daylight Saving. “Yeah, but my watch didn’t”. He again pointed out that indeed it had and confirmed the time on his phone. I was confused, then instantly panicked. I was only 30 MINUTES ahead of the cutoff!? That was worrisome. We had to get going. Except I couldn’t will my legs to move any faster than they were. This was a problem.
I wasn’t having any serious issues except general fatigue and stiffness, so Jesse and I were able to actually cover some ground without any hysteria, unlike ML. The problem was that every 90 seconds or so, he’d praise me for my efforts. While I know his intention was good and his support was meant to be positive, it made me feel a lot of pressure and I had to tell him to stop. He knew immediately what I meant and he said “Oh yeah, Dan said that talking takes energy. We don’t have to talk.” and we both went silent. I lead and he followed, and I looked at my watch every 15 seconds, paranoid about missing the cutoff.
We got to Horseshoe Bar (mile 86.5, where I had needed sunscreen the day before) and we were in and out quickly. We descended and had to tackle the 9.5 miles to the next aid station, through the alleged Meat Grinder.
I do not remember much about this stretch, except that I was stressed. The sun was rising, but I couldn’t accurately gauge how much ground we had covered, how many miles we had to go, how long it would take us, or how I would make it to the finish line before the 30 hour cutoff to get my belt buckle. It took forever. Jesse asked if anything looked familiar and nothing did, which stressed me out even more. My left calf was really starting to hurt (from walking on my heel with John earlier). At one point it occurred to me that I was overheating and I knew if I removed a layer I could move faster so we stopped to do just that. I felt the relieving morning air on my torso after taking off a top layer and tried to use that refresh to reset my mind and take stock of my situation.
“The devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for.” – Tucker Max
Soon, we could hear the announcer at the aid station and I recognized the boat ramp area where I knew it would be; but the course markers were leading us away from it. Confused and angry, I power hiked. Jesse told me we had another 4+ miles to get there and I argued that there was no way that could be true. “If that’s true, I will definitely not make the cutoff. That cannot be true!” I demanded. He was adamant. The last 5 miles had then taken hours and I was so discouraged. I pat myself on the back now for not crying about it and continuing to move forward – I was so close to that buckle, I had to keep trying, even if realistically the timing wouldn’t allow it.
Two women were walking on the trail toward us and I asked them how far we were from the aid station (I had no idea if they were part of the race or even knew there was a race happening, but I took a gamble they’d have the information I desperately wanted) and they responded “less than two miles!”. I could have kissed them both!
The trail wrapped and curled and switchbacked up to a viewpoint and then descended in the same fashion, still leading away from the boat launch, away from the aid station announcer. I tried to work out in my head how long “less than 2 miles” would take but just accepted that it was what it was. I just kept turning my legs over.
And then I had to use the bathroom. Urgently. Juuuuuust great. The announcer was getting louder and I resisted the urge to pop off into the bushes. I could hear her encouraging words “Runners! If you can hear me out on the course, just keep moving! You will buckle!” (Jesse and I laughed at this. As runners, we knew what ‘buckle’ meant in this context, but it was still an ominous line!)
We emerged from the trees and could properly see the Granite Beach aid station just 50 yards away; I followed the sidewalk instead of cutting across the parking lot to eliminate any risk of “cutting course” and the announcer greeted me kindly as I crossed the timing mat. Instead of thanking her I just said “where’s the bathroom?” and she sweetly, not into the microphone, said “of course, just there!” and pointed to the nice facilities across the grass. Jesse ran ahead to the food table to gather up some rice / broth / potatoes for me while I used the bathroom. We met up again a few minutes later and just kept going. Just 4 miles to the finish.
Two guys had been not too far behind us and with my bathroom break, they caught up. Apparently we missed the turn through the fence to get back on course and they, returning the favor from Dan earlier, shouted to us to backtrack. Instantly I recognized the course on the other side and could smell the barn at this point.
We walked while I ate and one guy, seemingly not a racer, was walking uncomfortably close to me and I was getting annoyed. I shot Jesse an inquisitive look trying to convey “please help” but it was lost on him. Eventually I just stopped to try to get some distance and the man either got the hint or carried on more quickly without my slow pace near him and he eventually turned off course and we didn’t see him again.
“OK, just up through the mountain biking trails, then through the horse pasture part, across the dam, and then the finish line!” I was still checking my watch constantly, not sure how my left calf was going to hold up for 4 miles to get me there, but at this point I knew I would finish, even if I didn’t get the buckle. I had accepted that.
But we didn’t enter the mountain bike area at all and I was so confused about where we were. We crossed the road that I remembered but then we were near some very large and beautiful homes and I had no recollection of anything. And suddenly there were so many other racers near us. We were alone for so long, where did they all come from?
At one trail intersection, a man standing on the corner pointed down the path and said “just 1.5 miles to go!”. Is that even true? Seems like it should be more. Is he even part of the race? Was he even talking to me? I wanted it to be true, but it just didn’t seem like we had already gone 2.5 miles.
We climbed up a giant mountain (i.e. a small hill) and I recognized the large gravel corner. We dropped down again, and I remembered the switchbacks from when the girl with the impressive quad tattoo passed me on the way up yesterday morning. My calf was seized up and I was limping, but I tried to run anyway. I knew we were close. Even at this snail’s pace, it could only be about 12 more minutes before I hit the finish line.
“In a sprint, if you don’t have perfect form, you’re doomed. The ultra distance forgives injury, fatigue, bad form, and illness. A bear with determination will defeat a dreamy gazelle every time.” Scott Jurek
We emerged from the trees, the last inches of trail behind us, and spilled out onto the dam. Dan and John were there waiting, along with a volunteer. I tried to quote Andy from Parks & Rec and told the volunteer “Running sucks and everything hurts!” and everyone laughed, including myself. I could see the finish line and I blinked back all the emotions I was feeling as we started to walk across the dam. Dan took photos and I don’t remember what we talked about in those minutes. I looked at my watch for the 700 millionth time and said “We can get sub 29.5 hours, let’s jog it in.”
We turned the corner, reached the grass, and the announcer called me in by name. We crossed the finish line and I turned to hug Jesse and all my crew as I let the tears roll. I was handed my sweet, sweet finisher’s buckle, a small child put a medal around my neck, and I limped to my mom and sister. I was crying from calf pain, from exhaustion, from elation, and from immense gratitude. I ran 100+ miles, with 9,200+ feet of climbing in 29:28:12. And I was delighted.
My crew pointed me to a chair and, though I had sat quite a lot throughout the entire thing, I could stay this time. I knew there was no rush now. We had to check out of our AirBnB by noon but because we could now acknowledge the time change, we had many hours. Like every other race, I wasn’t immediately hungry after so I just sat and recapped my last 16.5 miles with Jesse for everyone. Dan ran to the merch tent and bought me literally every single piece of Rio Del Lago swag they had to offer, so I now have a sweatshirt, a long-sleeved tee, a tech tee, a water bottle, a pint glass, magnets, a handkerchief with the course map, that beautiful white and gray/blue hat, a finisher’s medal, and my invaluable buckle.
Jesse bought me two smoothies from the smoothie truck and I had my pick – mango or berry. Both!
I ripped off my shoes and socks and my feet were as disgusting as ever, but now also featured duct tape.
I closed my eyes and tipped my face up to the warm sun, my mind empty save for the happiness. I could hear the cheers of the other runners still coming in and I was thrilled for them.
You can see my race photos here and all my race stats here.
Eventually I was ready to go. I was ready to sleep. I planted my feet firmly on the ground and tried to stand and it was interesting how it just wasn’t going to happen. The receptors in my legs straight up denied the command from my brain. I laughed and my sister lifted me from the chair and the pain was so great that I winced and my eyes leaked. Dan suggested I visit the medical tent (where they offered me a bag of ice and nothing more) so I mustered a “thanks anyway” and we left.
I hobbled, attached to my sister, to the parking lot for curbside pickup and we drove the 20 minutes to the rental. It was all I could do to step on that leg. It was so interesting how once I was done with the race, my legs were done with me. The momentum was over and they’d had enough. It was the most painful shower I’d ever taken. I collapsed on the bed while Jesse showered and I fell asleep for those 5-6 minutes. It was enough of a nap to keep me awake through our Italian lunch.
I still couldn’t eat and just had a bowl of soup, enjoying my crew. While it wasn’t a very large restaurant, the women’s bathroom was on the other side of the dining room and so I just used the men’s, which was adjacent to our table. It was the largest bathroom I’d ever been in and that memory makes me laugh.
It was sad to part ways with everyone after lunch. I wanted to stay in that post-race mode, with all of them, for one more day. But it was Sunday and we had to begin our drive home as did my mom and sister, and Dan had a flight to catch. My sister put me in the car after we all said goodbye and ignoring any sort of road rules, I laid out in the back seat and turned on my phone to send everyone the good news!
Unlike ML, RDL had runner tracking (all those timing mats sent my times to the internet so people could check up on me). Apparently, unbeknownst to me or my crew, some of the later mileage mats did not register my arrivals properly and many of my people feared I had DNF’d again as the hours passed without an update. They received notice of my finish, to their surprise and relief, but it was touch and go there for a while.
Jesse, John, and I stopped off in Mt. Shasta to cut our trip in half [insert memories from Black Bear Diner, continental breakfasts, and morning “hiking” on Shasta here]. Otherwise I was sleeping and recovering in the backseat.
“Who are you after you finish something this magnificent – in constructing it you have also journeyed through it, to the other side. On one end there was who you were before you went underground, and on the other end a new person steps out into the light. The up-top world must be so ordinary compared to the miracle beneath, the miracle you made with your sweat and blood. The secret triumph you keep in your heart.” – Colson Whitehead
It would be days before my calf allowed me to walk properly again; I even borrowed a pair of crutches just in case. As I write this, it’s been exactly 6 weeks since I crossed the finish line and my calf is healed, but my Achilles has become angry in its stead.
I am still cardiovascularly recovering as well, which I knew to expect, but not really understanding what that felt like. And emotionally, it’s been a rollercoaster. But I am proud of my finish, but know that I couldn’t have done it without my crew:
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- Dan, the experienced, extroverted, smart, goofy, badass runner from Colorado, who reminds me that running 100s is epic; even in a world where someone has always done something bigger and better, he reminds me that I am strong. In a hundred, you live a lifetime in a day and I couldn’t imagine living a lifetime without having him there. Having him there was like winning the Great British Baking Show.
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- John is the second smartest person I know and one of my very favorite friends. He is the best, kindest, hardest working person on the planet and every adventure, big or small, that I’m on, I want John to be there. He is funny, witty, calm, moderated, reasonable, and dependable. He is the Ron Swanson to my Leslie Knope. He has saved me 1,000 times over in both running and non-running situations and I owe him a million unspoken favors. He was paramount in my success at RDL and ⅓ of my buckle belongs to him.
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- Jesse, my whole heart, my favorite adventure buddy, my life love. He always gets the “not fun” version of me but is the best suited to handle it. He’s real when I’m off base, he’s calm when I’m panicking, he pushes me when I’m struggling, he normalizes impossible ventures, and says nothing when “I’mma I’mma I’mma do my thang.” He’s just simply there, ready to go, when I need him, without question and without fail. How I got so lucky, I’ll never know.