So Foggy, So Sleety, So Dark! Orcas Island 100M DNF Report

Not long after running out of time at the 96-mile mark at the 2015 Mountain Lakes 100M, I realized that 6 whole months would elapse before I could attempt another local 100-mile endurance run. I planned to run the Badger Mountain Challenge in March 2016, but needed to train and practice for that. I rejected out-of-hand the idea of running Orcas Island 100M; with nearly 30,000 feet of cumulative elevation gain, steep climbs, wet winter weather, and short daylight hours (February), Orcas was unthinkable for someone who couldn't finish Mountain Lakes. Plus, runners had to pre-qualify.

I was researching more sensible alternatives like Javelina, and Across the Years, when the question surfaced again, like Swamp Thing: what were those pre-qualifications for Orcas, again? I was surprised to discover that I met the qualifications. Orcas hadn’t sold out either, so I wouldn’t feel guilty about displacing a more qualified runner. 

I signed up and trained hard. By January, I started to wonder if it might be possible for me to finish.

Or not.

On the one hand, I had a solid strategy and a theoretical shot at finishing. I was determined to do my best.

On the other hand, I had very good reason to believe that, even if I was strong enough, I might not be fast enough to finish within the time limit of 36 hours.

In the end, I missed the 27-hour cutoff time to proceed with the fourth lap. Under the circumstances, I was thrilled to have completed 75 miles on this brutal course.

POETRY SLAM

During the final week before the event, runners tapered and diverted their nervous energy toward other pursuits. An off-line poetry slam flared up, taking the edge off the drop-bag tension.

I was inspired to write four haikus: one for each of the four 25-mile laps around Moran State Park. Here they are again, along with my impressions during the run.

lap one

mossy single-track

beckons, switchback summit vistas,

camera air stunts

When I wrote lap one, I imagined the irrepressible energy and exhilaration of the first 25 miles, the mossy old-growth forest, steep climbs, spectacular views of the San Juan Islands from the summit of Mount Constitution, and runners leaping into the air for Glenn Tachiyama’s camera:

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

This was the first time I ever managed to leap into the air for any camera – a classic rockstar jump - except I utterly misjudged the timing and Glenn’s field of view. That is my left arm, catching air in the left margin of the photograph frame below...about ten paces past the camera frame....pretty incompetent, yep:

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

The trails WERE mossy, sinuous, inviting. The west flank of Mt. Pickett and the east flank of Mt. Constitution were blanketed with luxurious, green, fluffy, stump-consuming moss:

The trails were also WET. Epic wet. Submerged, even. Two days before the run, Race Director James Varner warned runners that the trails were unusually wet.

The water was at least a foot deep along a 30-foot section of trail. Back at Camp Moran, hillside runoff gushed out from under one of the bunkhouses. Out on the course, it was possible to pick one’s way around this puddle:

Yes, that is an official course marking arrow in the middle.

But the flooding south end of Twin Lakes was much wider than it was long:

Ready. Set. Suck it up, buttercup.

I finished lap one in 7 hours and 4 minutes, over an hour ahead of plan. I climbed the tower at the summit, too. And I finally intersected with the camera frame:

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

The trail was wet and pig-slop muddy in places, but the incoming weather front held off behind a blustery drizzle. It seemed like I might be on track to finish. I picked up a headlamp and a 600 lumen waist-lamp at Camp Moran, and kept my original pair of shoes and socks on for a second lap.

lap two

owl hoots, bats swoop,

headlamp beams dart, nocturnal

forest solitude

I took this photograph at the beginning of the second lap from a viewpoint below Little Summit. Right around the corner, my path intersected with the cloud line, where it promptly began to hail:

Dark descended and the wind picked up. Trees creaked and groaned where they leaned into each other. Runners had spread out along the trail. We would run together for a while, and then pull away, headlamps glowing through the trees. I listened attentively, hoping to hear an owl, and was rewarded with the cries of a hawk.

Near Cascade Falls I spied a closely set pair of glowing, green dots in the woods staring at me – some bold robber-raccoon, I think. He held his beady, unblinking gaze straight at my headlamp.

I finished lap two in 9 hours and 12 minutes, still about 20 minutes ahead of plan, including the tower-climb at the summit.

My Achilles tendons and the soles of my feet felt tender, so I changed out of my Salomon Fellraisers into a pair of well-cushioned Hokas which….really don’t fit my feet, but I needed to rest my Achilles tendons and the Hokas were what I had to work with. I took my time taking care of my feet and left Camp Moran around 0:30 Saturday morning. I still felt optimistic that I might finish in time.

It had started raining in earnest. I ducked back inside to throw a cheap plastic poncho over everything, and then headed back out into the dark for my third lap.

lap three

aid station zombie,

blistering ten-minute nap,

electrolyte rain

This haiku turned out to be an accurate and prescient description of my third lap. I imagined by then that it could be rainy and muddy, and that my sleepy, oxygen-deprived brain would be reduced to one-word sentences.

I felt alert striding up to Little Summit. And the descent to Mountain Lake Aid Station required close attention; that section of trail had become very muddy and slippery since the previous lap. I stopped at the Mountain Lakes Aid Station just long enough to drink some warm miso soup. By the time I had turned up the trail from Mountain Lake to Twin Lakes, I became overwhelmingly sleepy.

I have struggled with sleep-running before, and was disappointed to be experiencing it so early in the evening, by 3 am. I knew from experimenting on shorter runs that coffee and coca cola have a catastrophic effect on my gastrointestinal tract, so I deliberately avoided both. Worse, I had failed to experiment with and procure caffeine tablets, which easily might have been the only thing standing between me and victory.

I staggered forward indirectly like a zombie, partially propped up on a pair of trekking poles. It seemed the harder I tried to stay awake, the more completely I sank into unconsciousness. I walked straight into trees, and tripped on uneven ground. I curled up on the snowy moss and set my cell phone alarm for an 8-minute nap. I stumbled along for a while and attempted a second nap, for 7-minutes, but it was too cold to stop and too dark to shake my brain out of it.

A pair of course sweepers passed me on their way to the next aid station. Glen Mangiantini passed me, chatting away reliably. Each time, I struggled to keep up within earshot, but I was sleep-stumbling and sleep-mumbling, and I kept falling behind.

I could tell that I was not fully conscious, and not seeing what was in front of my eyes. I remember being lapped by the front-runners here. I stepped in deep, saturated mud and ice-cold standing water over and over again. I was relieved to see glowing lights and welcoming campfire of the Pickett Aid Station through the trees:

The Aid Station Captain encouraged me to pick up the pace rather than stop. I countered that I was more narcoleptic than hypothermic, and simply needed a safe place to park myself for a while. The trail would become more technical between Mount Pickett and Cascade Lake, and there were plenty of places to become disoriented in the dark and slip off a cliff into a waterfall. The Aid Station Captain relented, and I ended up taking a cat nap on a cot under a sleeping bag.

I wasn’t paying any attention to the clock, but roughly six hours elapsed between the time that I left Camp Moran, and the time that I left Pickett Aid Station, about 9 miles apart. Many runners completed a whole lap within that timeframe. I estimate that I spent about three hours blundering around in the dark between Mountain Lake and Pickett Aid Stations, not including the nap at Pickett. My original plan for completion allowed for about one hour of float in my schedule, not three or more. Once the sky began to lighten, I left Pickett for Cascade Lake Aid Station, determined to finish lap three.

I felt strong on my third ascent up the Power Line Trail, power-hiking the whole way, chatting for a while with Byron from Florida, on his fourth lap (How do you train for this ?!?). When I reached the rolling terrain at the top, I was no longer able to jog properly. Descents were distinctly uncomfortable. After 15 miles in the Hokas, my pinky toes already felt crushed, as though the whole toe could – or should - fall off. I shuffled along quickly enough, and was passed by another wave of front-runners on the way up to Summit Aid Station. Daro Ferrara caught up with me on the descent and ascent to Mt. Constitution, his third lap as well. I knew I had already missed the cutoff time for the fourth and final lap. Instead of pressing on to Camp Moran like a responsible runner, I indulged myself shamelessly at Summit Aid Station by sitting down in a camp-chair, eating pancakes and bacon, and socializing.

On the descent from the summit, I began to drift in and out of consciousness again and hallucinate.  It was hard to tell if I was making any headway. Finally, one last trip up the Picnic Trail, down dammit, up, up, scramble up, down dammit. I thought to myself: Picnic Trail isn’t named that because it’s a picnic!

Then up the paved road and across the lawn toward the once and future finish line. James Varner was waiting at the finish with a high five for every runner. The atmosphere at the finish line was festive, and everyone shuffled out to cheer on the incoming runners, and staggered back inside to watch volunteers update remaining runners’ names on the white board.

With all my dawdling on the third lap, I covered 75 miles in just under 31 hours, around 30:57, including my third and last trip up the summit tower. 

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

 

lap four

hamstrung quads seize, brain

hallucinates, finish line yes,

one-hundred high fives

Missing the cutoff time to proceed onto lap four did not deprive me of the agony and ecstasy of the quads, the calves, the hamstrings, the hallucinations and mirages, the finish line celebration at Camp Moran, the hugs and high fives.

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama

Looping the course through the Start/Finish Line at Camp Moran was a tremendous advantage for this event. Even if you didn’t finish, you were never farther than a short walk back to the finish line, bunkhouses, hot showers, coffee, beer, and pizza. On Sunday, there was a slideshow and award ceremony at the local theater in Eastsound.

Thanks again to everyone who dreamed up, planned, pinch-hit, participated, photographed, tweeted or posted, volunteered, finished, Did Nothing Fatal, cooked up, messed up, and cleaned up, for the Orcas Island 100. It will be hard to decide whether to run or volunteer next year!

 

GEAR SLAM

SOCKS – Injini inners and Smartwool outers

Normally, wet feet guarantee blisters within 5 miles. But these 75 miles at Orcas were the furthest I’ve ever run without one single blister. First, I encase my toes in high-melting-point Trail Toes, slip on a pair of Injinjis, followed by thick or thin wool socks, depending on how swollen my feet are.

SHOES – Salomon Fellraisers and HOKA Challengers

Shoes that provide aggressive traction like my Achilles-torturing Salomons; cushion every foot-strike like my blistering, pinky-wracking Hokas; drain water and mud like my zero-cushion, metatarsal-splintering Montrails; AND, that actually fit my feet like: nothing manufactured on this planet, remain an unfulfilled fantasy. I just try to groove on whatever the current pair of shoes has done for me lately.

POLES – Black Diamond Graphite Z-Poles

I used trekking poles for the first time for one day about one month before the race (thank you, Vivian Doorn!). I found them distracting, but agreed that they would be helpful on the steep climbs, and I bought a pair. At Orcas, I did not pull those poles out of my pack until I reached the first ascent up the Power Line Trail. Then, I surprised myself by never putting them away again, even after my trapezoids were SCREAMING for mercy on the third lap. Graphite was a last-minute impulse upgrade. I can’t imagine how the extra grams in the less-expensive aluminum poles would have felt after 30 hours but, very glad I splurged. Yes, poles. Yes. All the way.

RAINGEAR – Patagonia Houdini and Fred Meyer-brand Child’s Emergency Poncho

The Houdini was fine for persistent drizzle, and intermittent rain, but too thin for the heavier precipitation after midnight. Also, the jacket is too short (on me) to prevent water from wicking up from waist level. Fortunately, a $1.99 emergency poncho thrown over everything kept the water out without compromising breathability. Underneath the Houdini, I never needed to change my lightweight wool jersey, but I did add an old, windproof, SportHill XC skiing vest at night when it started snowing. I got chilled napping in the snow, but that vest prevented me from getting hypothermic.

ILLUMINATION – UltraAspire Lumen 600 Waist Pack and Black Diamond Spot 130 Lumen Headlamp

I LOVE the Lumen 600 waist pack. It is a little eerie running along with your legs so brightly illuminated while your torso and head are immersed in darkness, so a headlamp is an important, redundant counterpart. Many Orcas 100 runners complained about fog and sleety whiteout conditions at night, and difficulty discerning the route, but I never had trouble seeing the trail through the weather. I still haven’t left the lamp “ON” to see if the battery lasts 16 hours as advertised, but I did use it continuously on high beam for 11 hours. It is theoretically possible to re-charge while you are wearing it, BUT plan ahead: the lamp won’t activate while the (lithium ion) battery is charging.

HYDRATION PACK

Yes, I’m still using that old, heavy, rear-loading Camelbak M.U.L.E with a 2L bladder and about 10,000 miles on the odometer.  But, probably not for much longer….

Go Beyond DNF

This is the account of my first attempt at a proper 100-mile trail endurance run, the 2015 Mountain Lakes 100, which is organized by Go Beyond Racing. Fourteen months earlier, I completed my first 50-kilometer ultra, Snoqualmie Pass Trail Runs, which is a series of informal 50-kilometer training runs for the Cascade Crest 100. Six months before Mountain Lakes, in March 2015, I completed my first 50-mile endurance run at Badger Mountain in Richland, Washington. Then in May, I attempted and fell far short of my goal at the Pigtails 100, which consists of ten-plus laps around Lake Youngs Reservoir. I had been unprepared for Pigtails’ hard-packed gravel road surfaces and dropped out after six painful laps totaling 100 kilometers. Finally, one month before Mountain Lakes, I logged 65 miles on the hard-packed gravel roads around Lake Padden at the Hamster 24-Hour Run in Bellingham.

I learned the most comprehensible and memorable lessons at Lake Padden, where I experimented with four different pairs of shoes, and noticed a direct relationship between shoe cushioning and core muscle endurance. Against all my willpower, I re-learned an old lesson that I am one of those people who falls asleep with their eyes wide open, blundering into trees and blindly tripping over logs, while my brain switches channels to watch brand-new episodes of Gilligan’s Island. Lastly, I learned that I cannot use caffeine to stay awake; apparently, half a cup of coffee delivers an overriding signal to my lower gastrointestinal tract, to jettison all contents without warning. 

After Lake Padden, I was convinced that I would need a 90-minute nap in order to simply survive an overnight endurance run. But the cutoff times for Mountain Lakes would not allow for 90 minutes for a runner of my caliber, so my plan was to see if I could afford a 20-minute nap on the course.

When I lined up at the starting line for Mountain Lakes 100, my Personal Record (PR) remained stuck in the low to mid 60-mile distance. Knowing this in advance, I was mentally prepared for the possibility that course officials might not allow me to proceed beyond 71 miles, and that the most realistic outcome might be a Did Not Finish (DNF) with a 71-mile PR.

THE WEATHER

Friday night before the race, the weather was beautiful, and the moon was nearly full. The weekend forecast called for sun and clear skies, with 30- to 35-degree temperature swings between daily high and low temperatures.

One day before the Super Moon

Early Saturday morning, I sat in the driver’s seat of my car watching a cold, soaking rain bead off my windshield. Recently, I had been skunked two weekends in a row, sheltering from mis-forecast freezing rain hailstorms. I was pleased that I had mis-trusted this weekend’s forecast, and thrown arctic cold-weather gear into my pack before I drove to Oregon.

I am a pansy, and I know it. I pulled the summer-weight running gear out of my drop-bag bin and crammed the arctic gear in, along with a replacement pair of running shoes. I removed my shorts and the lucky t-shirt, and pulled on wool underwear and a long-sleeve shirt. And then I lined up at the starting line, in a cold soaking drizzle, behind a hundred stouter runners.

 

OLALLIE LAKE SCENIC AREA

The first 26 miles of the course circumnavigates a lake-strewn volcanic plain west of Olallie Lake. Normally, the views of Mt. Jefferson are spectacular from the overlook above Breitenbrush Camp Ground, but these were the scenes through the old forest fire burn:

Maybe the weather would clear in time for the second or third pass past Breitenbrush. The fall foliage was bright and beautiful, with views of small lakes through the trees. Sections of the trail consisted of technical single-track, so I quickly found myself focusing on the details of the trail rather than the vistas. It was important to keep eyes and ears open for yellow-jackets, too. Many runners were stung during the race, and I narrowly averted several swarms of mad wasps.

I planned to run conservatively and average 15-minute miles over the first 26 miles. I finished this section right on schedule, looping back to the Start/Finish Line before the 7-hour mark. My feet were still dry, and I felt comfortable with the gear that I threw on at the last minute. From here, the course would follow the Pacific Crest Trail through Warm Springs Indian Reservation between Olallie Lake and Timothy Lake, circumnavigate Timothy Lake, and return one last time to Olallie Lake via the PCT. Patches of blue sky were visible, and it looked like the weather would improve as we ran further north.

 

PACIFIC CREST TRAIL

Five minutes down the trail toward Timothy Lake, I realized that I had left my headlamp back at the Start/Finish Line. Knowing that there would be a full moon, I hesitated for a moment before I spent the time and energy to run back to Olallie Lake for the lamp. Doubling back cost me about ten minutes, plus some emotional momentum, but four hours later it was obvious that I would not have been able to follow the forested trail in the moonlight. 

I arrived at Olallie Meadows Aid Station (Mile 29) a half-hour behind schedule, spent less than two minutes refueling, and continued on to Pinheads Aid Station (Mile 35). I felt strong and steady a third of the way into the event, but never regained my lost time, arriving at Pinheads exactly one-half hour behind schedule. The temperature was dropping and volunteers had just started a campfire at Pinheads. I was more concerned than ever about beating the 6AM cutoff time at Mile 71. 

The moon rose while I descended along the north shoulder of North Pinhead Butte. Not long after I took this photo, I turned on the headlamp. 

After the sun sets, the aid station volunteers start up a generator for light and heat. As you approach an aid station at night, you hear the hum of the generators first, then voices, and once the volunteers spy your headlamp through the trees, people cheer and cowbells start ringing. I arrived at Warm Springs Aid Station around 7:40 PM Saturday night, feeling strong and confident because I had run this section of the course in July. Although I remained consistently behind schedule, the volunteers’ energy was contagious and the familiar ground was encouraging.

I arrived at the halfway point, Red Wolf Aid Station, at 9:45 PM Saturday night, now one hour behind schedule. One other runner had dropped out of the race there, and she was waiting for her husband to pick her up. Her gear had gotten soaked in the morning rain, and now that the temperature was plummeting, she was unable to warm up. My clothing was dry but I had six miles to go to get my cold-weather gear. I drank some hot broth, grabbed a square of PB&J to go, and headed onward to Clackamas Ranger Station at Mile 55.

 

TIMOTHY LAKE

Familiar faces at Clackamas Aid Station heckled me to get moving, but I took my time changing into warm gear and new socks. I changed shoes too, but they had less cushion than the first pair – painfully less -  so I changed back immediately. There were waffles and bacon at Clackamas, which really hit the spot, and this was the last time food tasted right... for several days. And Clackamas was the last time my body gave me enough warning to use the portable toilets. I spent about 25 minutes at Clackamas, and I don’t believe I could have changed and eaten and taken care of business in less than 20 minutes.

My cold weather gear felt so warm and dry and comfortable, I felt like a brand-new person. On my way around Timothy Lake, I noticed that the ground already was frozen in places and the bridges were frosted, but I never considered the possibility that it was colder than 32F.

I encountered my favorite course obstacle on the way to Little Crater Lake: a 30-inch diameter log completely blocking the trail. The volunteer who marked the course positioned reflective cones on either side of the obstacle so that there would be no question what was required, day or night. The bright reflective patches on the cones signaled straight back into the beam of my headlamp as if to say: midnight practical joke on you! I can still feel the memory of my hip flexors and tendons screaming as I flung one leg up and bouldered my way into a straddle across that log.

There was a great dance-club vibe at Little Crater Lake, and the volunteers were wearing SUITS. I wanted to stay for five minutes but I still had 11 miles to go to beat the cutoff time at 71 miles. I promptly and regretfully moved on from Little Crater Lake, with a square of PB&J for the road. This was when I first began to have trouble choking down food. I was getting sleepy, felt physically tired, and was starting to experience nuisance-level gastrointestinal distress which, although minor, was a time-consuming problem to have in the woods.

The course led runners across Timothy Dam, where another aid station was situated at the far end. I could hear water roaring through the spillways in the blackness below. Volunteers had strung colored lights along the railing which glowed in a bank of freezing fog that roiled up from the spillways. The Dam Aid Station was festive and incredibly energetic at 3:30 AM. I stopped for some hot soup, and then kept moving along to complete the loop around the lake.  

Incredibly, I arrived back at Clackamas Ranger Station and Mile 71 at 4:45 AM, over one hour before the cutoff time and only 45-minutes behind my original schedule. I was thrilled! But now I had just nine hours to run 29 miles and ascend 5,000 vertical feet of elevation gain. Normally, this would be no problem, but I was tired, and dangerously sleepy, and I knew myself well enough to know that it could easily take me 10 hours…not including that nap.

Clackamas was out of bacon now, but still had plenty of waffles, so I spread peanut butter on a waffle and took it up the trail with me.

 

BACK ON THE PACIFIC CREST TRAIL

By 5:45 AM, I was falling asleep with my eyes wide open, stumbling into trees, and tripping on small logs. I couldn’t proceed safely without a nap. I lay down on the ground surface, set an alarm for 20 minutes, and closed my eyes. Within 1 or 2 minutes I was shivering to the core. I sat up, and kept stumbling up the trail. I wouldn’t learn for two more days that the temperature had dropped to 23F during the pre-dawn hours; one runner reported a low temperature of 19F. The air felt cold in my nostrils, but my cold-weather gear kept my whole body toasty warm.

By 6:15 AM, I was sleepwalking dangerously. I could barely distinguish the trees from the lightening sky. This time I sat down with my back to a large log, set my alarm again, and closed my eyes. I drifted off, and woke moments later to the beams of two headlamps converging on my face:

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, but…are you sweepers?”

No, not course sweepers, just a runner and a pacer. They asked if I wanted to walk with them? I agreed that was an excellent idea. By 6:45 AM, I no longer needed my headlamp, but I was still sleepwalking and staggering my way along up the trail. I stopped and sat down on a log this time, wished the other couple luck, set my alarm for 20 minutes, and closed my eyes. This time, I woke on my own around 7:00 AM. I started striding up the trail again. Shafts of sunlight reached the forest floor. I finally felt alert, except my head had this strange fishbowl effect. This time the real sweeper did overtake me, moments before we both overtook the other couple. I felt alert now, and strong, and I decided to keep striding along as fast as I could instead of socializing. I left Red Wolf Aid Station at Mile 76 before the others arrived.  Red Wolf had run out of PayDay bars but still had two pieces of bacon left. Bacon, yes! I took one for the road.

Between Red Wolf and Warm Springs, the trail descends 1,000 feet and then ascends 700 feet. I arrived at Warm Springs, Mile 82 at 10:20 AM on Sunday. It had taken me two hours to walk 5.5 miles from Red Wolf to Warm Springs, and now I had over 7 miles and 1,000 feet of elevation gain between Warm Springs and Pinheads, at Mile 89. I stayed at Warm Springs for two or three minutes, enjoying the volunteer’s company and quietly absorbing the reality that I was not on target to reach the Finish Line in under 30 hours. I knew now that it would take me between 31 and 32 hours. Warm Springs was out of PayDay bars, so I drank a cup of broth with rice and ate a Fig Newton. The volunteers cheered me on and I disappeared into the forest with renewed energy, jogging uphill as far as the flank of North Pinhead Butte, where the trail steepened and I had to start walking again. But on the gentle descending traverse below South Pinhead Butte, I was unable to break into a trot, and recognized that this was yet another sign that I would not reach the finish line.

I had been hallucinating all day, too. Since waking at 7 AM, I felt alert but sensed an altered state of consciousness. My brain continuously reinterpreted the logs, branches, and leaves as any number of man-made objects, or people sitting on logs. I saw rooflines, yellow traffic warning signs, orange construction signs, parked vehicles, and the strangest wheeled contraption like a cross between a bicycle and a mechanized covered wagon. I stared at these scenes knowing that they couldn’t be real, attempting to deconstruct them as though they were simple, Escher-like optical illusions. At times I could will elements of these visions to dissolve, but the wheels would remain. I would stare at the disconnected wheels in mid-air, knowing they weren’t real, but never could turn them back into leaves and branches.

I also heard voices calling out through the woods, all day. No, not all day. Since mile 30 so, two days now. It sounded like campground voices right over there, or just beyond that rise. Or were those voices carrying from the other side of a lake?

I arrived at Pinheads Mile 89 at noon on Sunday, 2 hours before the cutoff time. This was the first time in 20 miles that I had seen a PayDay bar, which was the only food that appealed to me in the least….besides bacon anyway. There were exactly three PayDay bars left, which, by my calculation, was the exact number I would need to reach the Finish Line.  I took that as a sign of good luck.

Although I was quite tired and sore, I was in a cheerful mood, and felt lucky, and chatted with the Aid Station Captain before heading down the trail. I cared but no longer worried about the 30-hour cutoff time. All I had to do was stay ahead of the course sweeper.

I had walked 100 meters down the trail when the Aid Station Captain chased me down. 

“Waaaaaait! I stopped and we met in the middle.

"They’re pulling you!”  

“Oh....OK.”

“You’re OK with that?!?”

“Well, I know that I am not on target for the 30-hour cutoff time. I am tired enough to say ‘OK’. And if you need me to be off the course now, then I won’t argue with that.”

“Do you need a hug?”

“No, I do not need a hug. Do not hug me.”

Now two other volunteers joined us, and one explained that there had been some miscommunication. All they needed to know was: where was my car parked?

“At the Finish Line. At Olallie Lake.”

The other volunteer explained that if my car had been at Clackamas, I would have had to drop out and drive back with them. But since my car was parked at Olallie Lakes, there was no reason that I should not continue on. The first volunteer asked me “What’s your preference? Do you want to drop here or continue on?”

“I have a slight preference for continuing on. I have plenty of water, plus your last three PayDay bars. I have everything I need. It is a beautiful day, and I remember: the trail is dreamy between here and Olallie Lake.”

Plus, I was still ahead of the sweeper. The Aid Station Captain cleared me to continue on. The last 10 miles WERE dreamy, gently rising and falling past Lemiti Meadows to Olallie Meadows at Mile 96.5, and beyond to the Finish Line at Olallie Lake. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, cold but bright. I tried jogging but couldn’t keep it up, and settled back into a striding walk. It wasn’t long before the sweeper overtook me, and now I knew I had to keep up. She had a very strong stride close to 4 miles per hour, and I tried to match her pace, but couldn’t sustain it. Also, I was still experiencing lower GI issues, and had to duck off the trail occasionally. I started to lag behind her, unable to keep pace, even though I knew the consequences.

For the last 30 hours, whenever I rolled into an Aid Station, the first questions were a barrage of: “What’s your number, how are you feeling, how are you doing on water, what can we get you to eat?”

But at Olallie Meadows, “What’s your NUMBER?”

“Number Twenty, Two-o TWENTY!”

“Number TWENTY? YOU are hiking OUT with US!”

(Thinking: Hike? OUT?!?....Isn’t that what I’m already doing?!?)    “YES, SIR!”

And so I was pulled off the course at 96.5 miles and 30:45 hours. I waited while the volunteers finished packing up the Aid Station, then hiked a quarter mile or so to a trailhead where the crew’s vehicles were parked, and we caravanned back to the Finish Line. I stopped my stopwatch at the trailhead at 31:20, and switched off my DeLorme transponder. I estimated that I covered at least 97.5 miles, including Saturday’s backtrack to retrieve my headlamp.




Before the run, I wondered if I would be able to take this photo of a finisher's belt buckle with Mt. Jefferson in the background. Next time, maybe!

 

FINISH LINE

Back at the Finish Line, the post-race festivities were long over. I thanked the volunteer for a wonderful race and the ride back to Olallie Lake. The parking lot was lonely late on Sunday afternoon. I only saw one other runner there, and it looked like her husband was driving her home. I debated whether I should take a nap first, but I wanted a shower so badly that I cautiously drove my car down Forest Service Roads 4220 and 4690 to Highway 46, and then cautiously continued down Highway 46 to my room at the Lodge at Detroit Lake, where I Iimped in and took a hot shower.

I reflected on a truly wonderful weekend and many exceeded expectations. My only disappointment, if any, was based in the realization that I might not have the opportunity to attempt another 100-mile endurance run for six more months.

Finally, I indulged myself at the BBQ joint next door to the lodge, before sleeping off that strange, altered state of consciousness. 

 

 SIX MONTHS!