Save the last dance

It's not how anyone imagines a race ending. We always visualize crossing the finish line triumphantly, achieving our goals on the day. We see friends and family joining us for the last lap on the track, buoying us to the end. The alternative endings are never entertained. It just won’t happen. That finish line will be reached. We don’t think about having to walk to the volunteers and say that the day is done. We never in our wildest dreams imagine the race ending sitting on the cooler in the van, sobbing. And yet....

Rewind 17 hours. John sent final starting wave at Silverheels 100 into the darkness and I was off on my journey to attempt my third 100 race. I settled into an easy pace, repeating my early day mantra - if it feels comfortable, it’s too hard. Keep it easy and breath. Don’t race, stay in your mind and focus where you need to be. It was five miles of mostly climbing on dirt road to the first check point and it would be easy to go too hard in those first miles. I shifted my focus from the road and the pink ribbons to the stars above. So many stars and I was lucky enough to see a shooting star before we dipped into the trees. As we started the long climb up to High Park, I was catching runners from the first two waves. That early into the day, we were all excited and eager to be out in the mountains, running with friends again. Every time I caught someone I knew, I slowed and chatted for a while. Solo long runs are great, but it's the community that makes ultras special!

Sunrise from just below High Park, looking Southwest

The sun starting to warm up the mountains to the west

As always, the sunrise brought warmth and energy to the mountains. I made it up to the mine as the sun was starting to peek around Mount Silverheels. It was going to be an amazing day. I was feeling strong, the weather was gorgeous and there were many miles ahead. I kept reminding myself of that as I left High Park Aid station, cheerily calling to the volunteers "See you tomorrow!" After all, it would be Sunday when I returned. Or so I assumed. I took it easy on the steep descent down from High Park. It was early enough in the race that I didn't want to blow up my legs. I kinda remembered things from Last Call last year, but was going in the other direction! Everything that's old is new again when you are going the opposite direction. Unlike last year, I didn't have to worry about getting my feet wet when we crossed Beaver Creek the first time. The water was low enough and the beaver dams in different locations. 

Climb up to the mine the first time. 

Even with trying to keep my pace super easy, I hit the first crew point - Poor Man's Gulch 1 ahead of my anticipated schedule. Nick was ready for me though. He had my food, water and everything all organized according what I though I'd need. It wasn't my best performance at a pit stop. While Nick was great as always, I was a little scattered. I grabbed my second banana wrap, but forgot the rest of my food. I even left the aid station without picking up my poles! Which I would need for the climb between Trout Creek and Tarryall... I only got a few feet outside of the aid station before I realized I'd forgotten my poles, but I didn't realize I'd forgotten snacks until later on. 

For a few miles, we were on familer trails. How different they looked in the day as opposed to the dark of night from last year! I was actually able to take in the views of South Park this time. I kept my easy pace, power hiking when I thought the running was too hard, moving smoothly on the downhills. HPRS had had some trail work days on the course prior to the race and it showed. The trails were in great shape. The course markings however.... Over night, some kids had headed into the mountains to go camping and decided that tearing down course markings seemed like a great thing to do. When the trail hit the road, I had to pause. I knew the 50 and 100 diverged somehow, but couldn't quite remember. Last Call had taken a sharp right at some point where Silverheels went straight. Was this that point? Thinking it was, I headed straight. But there were no course markings and things just didn't feel right. I pulled up the map, studying it for a bit. Should I turn around or continue going? Luckily, Collen was right behind me and she had the course on her watch. We were going the right direction... We did meet up with two other runners who'd turned around and all started heading up hill. As per John's instructions - when in doubt, go uphill! After we passed a group of campers - with one of them looking quite chagrined, the pink flagging suddenly re-appeared.  People...

At Jungle Hill, I refilled my pack. I didn't think it would take too long to get to Trout Creek, so I didn't fully fill. After all, it was just a few miles, including the little out and back to the Crooked Creek hole punch. And other then the Crooked Creek out and back, I knew this section of trail. Or road - as it was a rocky jeep road, just smooth enough to get a normal car down if you drove nice. What I didn't realize from last year was how exposed the road really was. There was almost no shade at all. Even though it was still pretty early in the day - about 10:00, it was already hot out. The heat was also radiating off the road, amplifying the effects of the sun. Huh. I made a mental note of the heat, but really didn't pay much attention to it. Just keep eating and drinking as usual. One foot in front of the other, keep the pace easy and relaxed. Perhaps I should have relaxed a little more? I will never know. I was out of water by the time I hit Trout Creek though - which was unusual for how short of a stretch it was between the two points. John was at the aid station and I said hi and gave him a big smile - which he couldn't see with the buff in the way! I filled up my pack for the climb up and over Little Baldy and took a few chunks of salted watermelon. 

Coming into Trout Creek, pulling up my buff as per race rules
Photo - John LaCroix

Last year there was no choice but getting feet wet as Trout Creek had taken over the road. This year? No such issues. The road was clear and I couldn't even tell where the portages from last year were! Granted, last year had been dark. but still... How different things looked in the light.Except for the climb - straight up! Can't miss that in either darkness or light. There were a lot of things that I'd missed on this section of trail last year. There was some old mining building on the descent down to Gold Dust that I promised I'd take a picture of on the way back. Lots of flowers and a steeper descent then I remembered. My right big toe was getting a little cranky - like it was hitting the front of my shoe with every step. Maybe changing shoes at Tarryall would be a smart move. I tossed that thought around for the next few minutes until I made the left onto Gold Dust. Yes - I needed to change shoes. I didn't want to risk the long road of Boreas Pass in shoes that felt a little snug. 

While I've never run any of the trails I was about to see, I've ridden my mountain bike on every inch of the Gold Dust/Boreas Pass loop, including the out and back to Como. I knew what was coming. I was feeling a little warm, but very comfortable when I made my way to the van for the first stop at Tarryall. Nick had everything ready for me. I ate and drank some chicken broth while he refilled my pack, took my poles and grabbed my spare-spare shoes. I didn't want to change socks - just the shoes. I was hoping the knee highs would keep some of the cankle issues I've had in the past at bay. In hindsight, maybe putting on lower socks might have been smart? I'll never know. I left Tarryall, just a little behind my anticipated time. Moving well! But there was an undercurrent I wasn't paying enough attention to. Something wasn't right. It wasn't my stomach - everything was sitting well and I was still eating and drinking well. It wasn't my legs. I felt really good. A little slower then I wanted on the hike out of Tarryall, but still moving really well. 

The stretch of Gold Dust between Tarryall and Gold Dust Aid station was fun running. It's the flume section of the trail and you are running down the center of a trough like a bobsled run. Once you climb up to the flume, it's very level and just smooth crusing. A few bikes and some other hikers, but the trail was pretty quiet. At Gold Dust, I got some pickle juice, ice cubes, water and more salted watermelon. Yum! Then it was time for the real hike of the section. I decided because it was so hot, I wouldn't even try to run. I would just keep marching. It was the hottest part of the day and there was no respite from the sun. I could tell I was getting warm, but again didn't pay much attention. I should be heat acclimated from long runs in the high 80s and low 90s, right? But at the same time, that wasn't 10,000' high 80s... I found myself looking for the small creeks to soak the sleeves of  my shirt. Normally, my lightweight wool long sleeved works wonders to keep my cool when I get it wet. I wasn't noticing much difference this time. Boreas Pass would be a challenge - dusty, hot and exposed. I knew I was getting close. I could hear the cars above me. A blessing and curse knowing the course. I've climbed up Boreas Pass many times on my bike and I was not looking forward to running down it. I also knew I'd given up huge chunks of time on the climb up Gold Dust. Ouch. 

Near the end of Gold Dust trail, climbing towards the sun
Photo - Emily Royal

Onto Boreas Pass. Immediately, I noticed the heat. The sun beating down from a cloudless sky and waves of heat rising from the dusty road. I would not be running the entire road. I made the decision right there that I would run a mile or so, then stop and walk so I could cool down. As anticipated, there was a lot of traffic. Some of the drivers were nice, slowing down as to not dust me out. Others? Not so much. I kept to my intervals of run/walk even when I felt like I didn't have to walk. I was drinking a lot, but it didn't seem to be helping. At the Halfway Gultch aid station (named because it was on a creek called Halfway Gulch - not because it was halfway into the race!) I broke out my chicken broth packet. I always have one or two with me, but this was the first time I'd had to actually use it. Some more snacks as well, water and ginger ale and I was back onto Boreas Pass road. I was running with Glen now - last year's winner and a guy I'd run a few miles with at Sangre. We commiserated about the heat - he wasn't feeling all that good and mentioned that last year he'd run down the entire road. I knew something was wrong with him when he kept walking after one of my walk breaks. I was again looking for creeks to soak my shirt in - but without much luck. At the driveway looking turn off just after Boreas Pass road ended, we were running through private property. No stepping off the road to the creek just feet away! I knew at the end of the road we would be crossing that creek through. I could wait. My walking breaks were getting longer, which was getting frustrating. The road wasn't that steep and my legs felt really good still. But there was that feeling that something wasn't right and I couldn't shake it. It got worse when I tried to run and just wasn't going away at all - even when I soaked my shirt in the creek.

More salted watermelon and pickle juice at Gold Dust. I didn't refil my pack - it wasn't that far to Tarryall. Just the soft flasks with the usual water and ginger ale. The feeling of something being off was getting stronger. I was hot. Very hot. And I wasn't cooling down at all. Maybe once I got into the shade on Gold Dust I'd feel better. That was the hope. About a mile after the Gold Dust Aid station, I knew something wasn't just off - something was wrong. I'd drained my water and the ginger ale in the soft flasks and my mouth was dry - even with drinking the diluted skratch I still have. I felt like I was burning up - my body temperature was really high and I was radiating heat. Every time I started running, I'd get a few minutes and start feeling slightly dizzy. Yikes. I forced myself to run as much as I could, but allowing myself to walk to cool off. Or attempt to cool off. Even the shaded trail wasn't helping lower my body temperature. And there were no more creeks to soak my shirt. 

I don't know if Nick noticed that I wasn't feeling all that great when I came into Tarryall 2. He had food ready for me, so I sat down to eat. The chicken soup tasted good, if a little bland. I made a few changes in gear for the out and back to Como - including taking my light and my poles. I originally hadn't planned on my poles, but decided that since that section of Gold Dust was the most technical, it might be a good idea. I left my hat - I would be in the shade for the entire section and the sun was starting to go down. Secretly, I was hoping that leaving my hat would also help cool me down and get my body temperature under control. Nick soaked my shirt while I was eating and then I was off. Just about nine miles to go before the long planned pit stop.  I only mentioned to Nick that I was really hot. I said nothing else - not about the dizziness or not being able to get my temperature down. The next nine miles would be the test. It would start cooling off and maybe I'd start feeling better. I didn't want to think about what would happen if I didn't. 

The uncertainty was percolating in my mind as I headed into the woods. On one hand I knew I'd made up some time on the leading woman. On the other hand, I was starting to get worried about finishing. That's a feeling I've never had in a race before - even when things went south as Sangre. Then, I just put my head down, nibbled what I could and kept marching. Here, I wasn't sure that was a good idea. I had to hike most of the climb up to the high point on Gold Dust. The running just sent my body temperature through the roof. And then... Even on the downhill I was struggling. Run for a few minutes, start feeling overheated and then start getting dizzy. Stop and walk - not even my power marching - until my body temperature dropped. Repeat the cycle. Try not to look at my watch because any semblance of time schedule I'd hoped for was well off. Try not to get mad at myself for walking. Try not to freak out then I started feeling dizzy. Repeat. Try not to get frustrated that I wasn't running this beautiful, downhill trail. Hope the columbines would distract me from how I was feeling. Try running again to no avail. And that was on the mostly downhill section into the Camp Como Aid station! When I made the left for the short march up to Camp Como, I know that I needed to make a decision in the next five miles. I'd gone from something not feeling right to something isn't right. And I wasn't pulling out of it like I'd hoped. Even in the shade, even with more walking then running. 

The columbines I hoped would distract me

I tried to put on my happy face for the volunteers at Camp Como, but I was feeling defeated at that point. I was holding out for things turning around as the temperature cooled and now that I was out of the sun for good. But every step made that hope seem more like wishful thinking then reality. I was beyond really trying to run and when the third place woman caught me, she and her pacer passed me so easily. I still made an effort to shuffle along, but the overheating and dizzy spells were getting worse. I was done racing - I didn't care where I finished. I was doing the math to make sure I could still finish as I walked/shuffled down from the high point. I had over 20 hours for 40 miles. I could hike that pace easily and finish. I've gotten down to just under 20 minute miles for my power hiking - but I was closer to 22-25 range at that point. That wasn't much of a buffer. And I knew what was coming. Once I left Tarryall, I would be committing to another 18 miles at least - with the most technical trails left on the course and some of the steepest hills. I did the math again. It wasn't stupid runner math yet, but angry math. Yes. I could keep going and try to make it. But if this 4 miles of shady walk didn't help, what right did I have to head into the night? Maybe if I just took my big pack with my warm clothes and then changed at Poorman's Gulch I would get my body temperature down. But that still left me with 18 technical miles to get to Poorman's. Miles I was not confident in my ability to cover given how I was moving on this easy section of trail. The climb back over Little Baldy. The hike up the Jungle Hill drainage - which had shocked me last year. 

When I came into Tarryall, I told Nick that I was done racing. Not done running, but done racing. I didn't care anymore. I didn't want to know where anyone else was in the race, or how much time I'd lost in the last nine miles. He had food ready for me and I started trying to eat. Even though I'd mostly made up my mind, I wasn't quite ready yet. I had 20 hours - I wanted to sit for a little, see if I felt better. Holding onto hope that something would change. So I had Nick fix up my big pack differently then I had it originally while I was sitting. I just wanted water in the bladder - Skratch and chicken broth in the soft flasks. I changed into my overnight clothes, washing my feet, washing my face and cleaning my eyes. When Nick touched my leg, he recoiled. It wasn't just my face that felt hot. My entire body was radiating heat. I took my bib number - 13 - off my shorts and set it on the ground. I wanted to pin it to my pack since I most likely would be putting a coat on overnight. Once I was changed, I sat down into the black chair to try to finish eating. I don't even remember what happened, but Nick was questioning me about how I felt and what was going on. I started to tell him a little - not a lot. If I told him everything, there was no way he would let me go back out. Inside, I knew though. My number still wasn't pinned to my pack. And that was more then enough of an indicator that he knew exactly what was going on and there was no way I was leaving Tarryall on foot. I kept trying to reason it out though - that I could make it 18 miles. Eighteen technical miles in the dark. Alone. I kept saying that I could do it, I would make it over to Poorman's and then I'd feel better since the sun was down. But again, I wasn't confident in my ability to make those 18 miles. And there was no rescue once I left Tarryall. Nick just let me talk. He was breaking down the pit area, packing everything up. Regardless of what I did, he still needed to pack up for either a drive to Fairplay or the drive to Poormans'. 

Even 30 minutes of not moving wasn't helping. In Nick's words, I felt like a diesel engine glow plug. I'd gone through the motions to get ready for the last 40 miles, but I wasn't going to see those miles. The decision I'd made on Gold Dust trail after leaving Como took nearly an hour to actually be fulfilled. I knew it would be irresponsible given my physical condition to even attempt the next stretch. Yes, there was a chance that I'd pull out and feel better. But if that hadn't happened with 30 minutes of not moving, what were the actual chances? This wasn't like at Sangre where I was physically fine - just not able to eat. I was not okay. And the fact that he had not pinned my number to my pack was a clearer sign then any words that he would not let me go on if I tried. 

There have been two stretches of road that have left me utterly devastated in my running. The first was at the Top of Utah Marathon in 2003, when I made the turn towards the finish line only to see the time I needed slipping away by seconds. There were tears then when I crossed the finish line 17 seconds too slow - visceral tears that took my breath away. The second was the short walk to the Tarryall aid station and then back to the van. I was failing at holding back the tears when I told them I was finished. I was dropping. Add another name to the Dance Hall list. By the time I made it back to van, the tears had turned to uncontrollable sobs. I knew it was the right choice, but I couldn't help it. The reaction to having to make the hardest choice was overwhelming. I was crying the entire drive back to Fairplay, tears streaming down my cheeks and doing my best not to sniffle. When we got back to the stadium where the start/finish was, the Last Call 50 mile runners were lining up to get bib numbers and such. I could have just gone to bed, crawled into the back of the van and hid. But I didn't. I felt that I owed it to John to be there - not just skulking away in shame. I don't know why - but I needed to tell him in person that I'd quit. When I walked over to the runner check in table, where John was doing temp screening and handing out bib numbers everything stopped. And the tears started flowing again. Breaking from the no-hug COVID rule, John and Emily came over and embraced me in a group hug. Did nothing fatal is quite accurate - but it felt like a piece of my soul had been ripped away. 

If it wasn't important, it wouldn't hurt so badly. I will never second guess the decision to stop. That was the only choice at that moment and I am at peace with my name being on the Dance Hall Patron's list. But that doesn't mean I won't be replaying the prior 66 miles over and over in my mind, trying to figure out what went wrong. What little errors, small neglected items all added up over the course of the miles to lead me to that final decision? And how can I learn from those errors so I can return next year? I'm still a young ultra runner. I was lucky all last year being able to cover as many miles as I did without major issues. But luck runs out, despite all the training, all the preparation. And there's nothing ever granted in a race like a 100.