Ultrarunning is about pushing your limits. After completing three 100-mile races and several other ultra-distance events in the past year, I was starting to become a bit overconfident in my abilities. However, I found my limit last weekend at the Leadville Trail 100 in Colorado.
The week before the race, I was sitting on the front porch of our home in Indiana with my wife trying to comprehend the fact that the race I was about to attempt would be run 2-miles up in the sky. The same thought occurred when we were flying home from a family vacation last month and they announced that we had reached 10,000-feet and could start using our electronics again. Most of the Leadville race would be higher than we were currently flying in a commercial airplane! I simply could not get my brain wrapped around that while surveying the flat cornfields of Indiana.
Looking Out Towards the Leadville 100-mile Course
As I arrived in Leadville, all eyes were on the weather. The forecast was unusually cold for this time of year with predictions for thunderstorms, hail, sleet, wind, and snow. The scenery was quite majestic, but the constant presence of thunderstorms in the mountains gave me an ominous feeling about what I was about to attempt. I also took note about how quickly the temperature would change as each storm rolled in over the mountains. I proceeded to pack my drop bags knowing that I would need to be prepared for every kind of weather at all times during the race.
I arrived at the start around 3:00am. It was cold and raining, but I was ready. The first 13-miles of the course were on a trail that runs around a mountain lake. The hills are constant, but they are relatively short. This is just like the trails we have in Indiana and I was feeling quite at home. The altitude did not seem to be affecting me and I was running ahead of my anticipated pace.
The first big climb of the course began shortly after leaving the May Queen aid station at 13.5-miles. We moved from an elevation of 9,800-ft up to the Surgarloaf Mountain pass at 11,200-ft. I was thrilled that I was able to make it up and over without much difficulty. As we cleared the pass, I let loose and ran the next 6-miles of downhills until reaching the Fish Hatchery aid station at 23.5-miles. At times it felt like I was simply doing some downhill skiing, albeit with running shoes and rocks instead of skis and snow.
Most people complain about the next portion of the course since it consists of a continuous uphill climb on dirt road into the San Isabel National Forest, but I welcomed the change. Usually it is smart to walk the uphills during an ultra, but I found it more tolerable to alternate timed periods of running with periods of walking until reaching the Halfmoon Aid Station at mile 30.5.
Now well into ultra-distance territory, the course turned onto the Colorado Trail. I began to labor a bit on the uphills and found myself struggling for air as the elevation increased to over 10,600-ft several times. When the trail started a 5-mile downhill path to the the Twin Lakes Aid Station at mile 39.5, I was highly motivated by the fact that each breath had a higher oxygen concentration than the one before it.
At 9,200-ft, the Twin Lakes Aid Station is the lowest part of the course. Over the next 5-miles, I would climb up to Hope Pass, the highest part of the course at 12,600-ft. This is equivalent to climbing all the stairs at the Empire State Building nearly three times. Even though the weather was starting to turn bad, I was looking forward to moving on and hitting the toughest part of the day with full force.
A few miles into the climb up towards Hope Pass, I started to feel more fatigued that I ever have during an ultra. I figured this was just the altitude and continued to move forward, even if it was slower than I had anticipated. Nearing the top, I had to stop several times just to catch my breath. My heart and breathing felt like I was in the middle of a speed workout, even though I was moving forward at the pace of a slow hike.
I sat down for about 15-minutes at the Hopeless Aid Station near the top of Hope Pass. The rain, snow, and hail that were pummeling me on the way up the mountain had stopped and the skies had cleared. As difficult as it was for me to get up the mountain, I wanted to make sure I relished the views before beginning the 5-mile downhill trek to the 50-mile turnaround point in Winfield.
I again hammered the downhills after making it over Hope Pass. My aunt and uncle were planning to meet me in Winfield and I was going to make sure they didn't have to wait any longer than necessary. As I descended the mountain, I was troubled by the fact that the far side of Hope Pass seemed much steeper than what I had just climbed (since the course is "out-and-back", my first job after Winfield would be to climb back up and over the mountain at Hope Pass). Those concerns would have to wait since I was now arriving in Winfield, comfortably down below 10,000-ft elevation, and could celebrate the fact that I just made it halfway through one of the toughest 100-milers in the U.S.
Recovering at the 50-mile Turnaround in Winfield
As I took a break in Winfield, I noticed a bit of nausea coming on. I tried drinking some fluids, but immediately noticed that my stomach wasn't too happy about the idea. After lying down for 15-minutes and not feeling any better, I figured I would try heading out and hoping that some easy walking would calm my stomach. This approach had worked in previous ultras, so I had no reason to believe it wouldn't work this time.
I was overcome by fatigue much quicker as I started the climb back up to Hope Pass. I hiked at a painfully slow pace and still had to stop and catch my breath every few minutes. As I ascended, the time between breaks got shorter and the breaks got longer. My nausea was getting worse and I began vomiting each time I would stop. Even a small sip of water would be immediately rejected by my stomach. Without fluids or food, I could feel that I was starting to dehydrate. Halfway up the mountain with all of my energy stores depleted, it became more and more clear that I would not be able to finish this race.
Resolved that I was past the point of a quick recovery, I was faced with the choice of heading back down the mountain to Winfield or continuing over Hope Pass and down to the Twin Lakes Aid Station at mile 60.5. I determined that I would give it everything I had in order to make it over the mountain to Twin Lakes. As I proceeded above treeline, my pace consisted of about 10 short steps followed by at least a minute of rest. By the time I crested the mountain, it had taken me nearly 3-hours to travel a mere 3-miles. The prospect of reaching Twin Lakes before the mandatory cutoff time was highly unlikely.
My nausea was beyond hope when I began the 5-mile descent to Twin Lakes. Day was turning to night and I was so fatigued that all I could muster was a slow walk. The feeling of being dehydrated and having water but not being able to take a drink created a sense of hopelessness like I have never experienced. As I slowly wandered down the mountain in the dark, I processed all kinds of emotions and found myself dealing with deeply personal issues that I never even knew existed. Although not the most pleasant experience, I now realize that this is the kind of thing that can make an ultra a life-changing event.
6-hours after leaving Winfield, I finally entered the Twin Lakes Aid Station at mile 60.5. I had missed the cutoff time by 30-minutes, so my only option was to let the workers cut off my medical wristband and then find a ride back to my car in Leadville. I used to think that the mandatory cutoff times at each aid station were a bit harsh, but it was a blessing in this case. Even though I would not have made it much farther, I probably would have still considered going on if I wasn't pulled from the race. The cutoff time served the purpose of protecting me from myself.
I took a shower and was able to eat some hard candies 2-hours after leaving Twin Lakes. It took almost 4-hours until I was able to sip on some Sprite and eat some crackers. I fell asleep in my car for the rest of the night and then woke up to see my friend Dan Brenden finish with a time of 27:25:55. This finish puts Dan one race closer to being one of only two people in the world to complete the "Grand Slam of Ultrarunning" five or more times. I now have a much greater appreciation for how difficult of an accomplishment that really is.
In the end, only 2 of every 5 people finished this race and most of those who did were from Colorado. I know I gave it my best effort, but it is still difficult to be one of the runners who didn't make it. I also now realize that what I experienced on the mountain to Hope Pass was actually Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS). I was even starting to exhibit the early symptoms of High Altitude Pulmonary Edema (HAPE). There is no way I could have willed myself through that without putting myself in serious danger.
The next day I did not think that I would want to try this race again. Since then, I have done some research and realized that it would be possible for me to cope with the altitude and finish if I trained specifically for it over the next year. My only decision is whether or not I want to invest the time and energy necessary to make it happen. One thing I do know is that it's not your failures that define you, but how you are able to deal with and rise above the failures when they do happen.
I originally asked my uncle, who lives part-time in Colorado and is an avid outdoor enthusiast, if he would like to run as a pacer for a portion of the race. He declined because he did not want to slow me down. However, as I was leaving town, he left me with these words, "If you come back next year, I'll be ready to join you in Winfield and get you over that mountain". How can I say no to that? Until next year ...
