Awake at 2 AM, I was on the road shortly, slotted for arrival to Indian Truck Trail by 3:30 AM (an hour before my start time.) I felt no nervousness as I drove the lonely highways around the Saddleback Mountains. I felt calm.
About 3:15 AM, all lanes on the 91 freeway abruptly stopped. STOPPED. Stopped as in, we didn’t move for about 45 minutes. People shut off their cars. I learned from the radio there was a fatal accident up a ways.
A highway patrol officer walked about the freeway lanes talking to some drivers and pointing to the right. Then slowly, but surely, the traffic began to move to the right, into a single lane. Race time came before I made it to the offramp. I didn’t fret. Someone had lost their life. It seemed rather foolish to worry about starting on time. I merely figured that I would start the race when I started.
4:33 AM, I was finally driving the offramp and noticed traffic dumping into another jam on the city streets. The car in front of me made a u-turn over the dirt median to enter the onramp adjacent to our offramp. I followed suit. There were no cars on the freeway, except of course for the driver ahead of me. And off to my left, two lanes over, lay a corpse covered with a tarp. It looked oddly flat. And that scene stays vividly with me today.
I arrived to Indian Truck Trail in a solemn mood, but I was oddly giddy. The first wave had already started up the mountain. I took off up Indian Truck trail alone. 4:50 AM. I enjoyed my run in the dark. I took in the black coolness, and didn’t think about anything. A few miles up the road I could see bobbing headlamps from the other runners.
The sun had risen by the time I reached the Main Divide, equipped with a cheerful aid crew. They were also late due to the accident, but on-time for my arrival. John Hocket, the sweeper who chased me and Hank down the mountain last year was there this year with friendly words.
It took me more than twenty minutes longer to travel this trail than it did the last time I ran it. I had some making up to do -- my time was already fifteen minutes too slow to make later cutoffs.
The second wave front runners began to pass me as they ran at tremendous, strong speeds. My morale was dipping. And then Scott Barnes passed me with a smile and kind words. I didn’t recognize him at first. The last time I had seen him was Twin Peaks 2011 at the top of West Horse Thief where I waited as a pacer – he placed 3rd that year, the first year he ran this race (This year, he finished the 50 miles in 2nd place!).
Anyway, I reached the next aid before I knew it. Terrific workers manned West Horse Thief, optimistic, smiling and proud.
A cool wind blew as I ran above the clouds. Other runners passed me as well, pretty much for the next several miles. A little star-struck, I noticed the faces of many runners that are famous in the local ultra community. And I saw the faces of friends and other runners that I’ve met again and again on the trails. I didn’t see my friends Hank or Cody though, as they had taken off with the first wave, and with my lonely start, I just wasn’t quick enough to catch them.
I took the rocky downhill called West Horse Thief slower than I planned. My friend Robert Whited passed me here with more encouraging words. By the time I reached the bottom of West Horse Thief, I knew that I was in possible trouble as far as making the cut-offs. Of course, “that time of the month” hit (yes, I’m still young enough), and the melancholy that accompanies it did not stay home. I just COULD NOT pick up my speed to my best. I was able to increase my speed a bit, but with a foot that was beginning to ache (my neuroma foot), I worried. But I refused, flat out refused, to think about taking the 50k option. I had decided quite some time ago, that I would finish the 50 mile option or come home with a DNF. By the time I reached the bottom of Holy Jim, I knew there was still a chance, but I was going to need some special footwork.
The aid station workers noticed that I hadn’t drank much at all. I didn’t need refills on anything at mile 15. So I guzzled down the remaining fluids in my handheld and refilled before the climb up Holy Jim.
I ran practically the entire 5 mile Holy Jim trip. I probably shouldn’t have. I think I was beginning to lose my nerve and wasn’t thinking my best. A hike would have probably served me better here. The trip was lonely with a few runners passing me. I really didn’t think much at all. I was afraid to think, afraid, because I wanted to quit. Instead, I put one foot in front of the other and took in the awesome scenery. I made decent time up Holy Jim. Still, I had fallen way behind in my schedule. I refilled my handheld at an unmanned aid station at Bear Springs. And that’s when I finally allowed myself to think about IT. There was no way that I was quitting. And there was no way I was going to make the 50 mile option. And for the first time, I DID NOT WANT A DNF. And so I allowed myself the option, the 50k option. I made the decision remarkably fast, and without regret. I really felt there was no option. For all this struggle, I wanted a finisher’s medal, not a DNF. I chose to take the 50k option.
All I had to do was make it to Santiago Peak, which I’ve done dozens of times, then it would be basically downhill from there. The trip to the peak was absolutely miserable. I ran very little of it, probably 5 percent. Every single step was painstaking. It was the worst trip to the peak ever. I felt utterly fatigued and my foot ached. But I felt relief. There were also some high points, the best being that I got to see Cody as he ran down from the peak. I was so happy that he looked strong. I told him my decision, wished him a good trip. I felt comfortable that he was going to make the 50 miles. I met lots of other fine runners struggling up to the peak. Despite the pure, hellish agony, I enjoyed myself. My foot even felt better.
When I finally reached a hospitable aid station at the peak, I emptied everything out of my pack and put it in my drop bag. I ate a few potato chips, drank some Coca-Cola, and then I took off for a long, long downhill trip to finally end this race. I was one hour behind schedule at Santiago Peak, which reaffirmed my decision.
With the decision made, though I struggled, I felt happy to be running the trails, to be participating in Twin Peaks. I felt fortunate. I would not allow myself to dwell on my decision. I simply had to do it. And I left it at that.
Upper Holy Jim was a pleasure. I filmed quite a bit and remembered fondly where I had fallen several weeks back (seriously). I met up with Steve Harvey (Old Goat race director) at Indian Truck Trail. And then I began the long, long, winding trip down Indian Truck Trail. I didn’t even notice the helicopter hovering about on the divide. (Turns out, one runner had to be carried a half mile up West Horse Thief and airlifted to a hospital. I learned very little details, of which I’ll withhold here because I’m not clear on much concerning this. But thankfully, the male runner was eventually released from the hospital, expected to recover fully.)
Almost everyone running down Indian Truck Trail at this point had taken the 50k option. Almost everyone. The first place fifty miler passed me with about 3 miles remaining. And Scott Barnes passed me with about 50 yards remaining. These guys ran amazingly strong after such a huge race. I was in awe. I had company the last few miles, a young guy named Lucas. He gave up his hope for the 50 miles after severe cramping set in. It was nice to have his company, as those last few miles were unbelievably long.
So, I got my medal, and got to chat and meet many of the runners as we sat about waiting for our drop bags. I met some new running friends, and talked with old ones. We ate, we drank. We had A LOT of time to get to know each other. I think we waited something like FOUR HOURS for our drop bags. I noticed a fire truck and ambulance pull up. I was beginning to hear inklings of trouble at West Horse Thief. Unfortunately, for my friend Cody, and several other runners, they were dropped from the race at West Horse Thief due to the danger of passing while a helicopter landed. The situation also delayed our drop bags. My friend Hank though, made it and finished the 50 miles for the second year in a row!
EVERYONE has been tremendously congratulatory toward me for finishing the 50k. I however, do not feel that great about it. I feel like I failed. I know that I had to make the decision that I made. But I still failed. I was not in good enough shape. That was where I failed. On the other hand, the journey was tremendous. The training was so much fun. I met wonderful people, and I got to participate in this awesome/prestigious event. Lots of lessons were also learned. And that’s important in my life. Lessons learned – even at my age.
The 50k option:
