The best SD 100 crew ever, and me
Running 100 Miles Takes a Village
About a year ago, I picked up a book called A Runner's High. It was by Dean Karnazes, who also wrote Ultramarathon Man. I don't know why I picked it up. He was an ultra guy, and I considered myself much more of a triathlete. This book describes a miserable experience in a warmup for Western States, a 100-mile ultramarathon, and then a struggle during Western States itself. It depicts two races in detail, and both appear to be utter failures for him. He catalogs a series of mistakes, falls, and mental breakdowns. He trips and lands flat on his face in the dirt. He forgets a water bottle and gets dehydrated. He is on the verge of dropping out because things are going poorly. Before I finished, I knew I was going to run 100 miles.
I was reasonable. I knew I needed to work my way up to it. I knew I needed to find a 50-mile or 100k race. I searched near me and signed up for the SRT 70-mile race. That is a self-supported race through the mountains near me which happened later in the year. Finishing that would put me on track to sign up for a 100-mile race the following year. The big question was: which 100 miler did I want to run? The only decision filter I had leading into it was that I knew I would need support. My most reliable source of support, not having many friends crazy enough to be in this community, was my family. The best option in my family was my cousin Kiersten and her husband Eric, who is a trail runner and has crewed and run ultras himself. That led me to search around San Diego.
If you search for 100-mile races near San Diego, the first and most apparent is the San Diego 100. It looked like as good a choice as any. The most important thing was that it would be easy for my cousin to get to and support me. I sent it as a question to Eric to see if he thought it was a good choice. I got the green light. He was on board. That decided it. The SD 100 was going to be my race. I knew nothing about the terrain, where it was, or the difficulty. I just knew it was the race I would tackle, and I would have someone to help me do it.
Fast forward to this year, and the race is on my calendar. All my flights and rooms are booked. I am training, feeling good running around 60-70 miles a week with over three months to go. But I've never run a race without getting injured. This time was no different. During a training run on the trails with a light coat of snow blanketing the ground, I hit an icy patch coming down a hill. It was the slightest slip. Other than noting to be careful there the next time around, I didn't think anything of it. I had a great day, continuing to run for another four hours. Then the next day, there was a slight pain in my quad and groin, and my problems began.
I tried to do an easy run, and the pain got worse. I gave it several weeks off, full of rest, ice, and compression. There was no improvement. I tried to run through it and hit full-on lockdown. Suddenly I could barely walk upstairs. The pain was so extreme. I was convinced I had torn something. With only eight weeks until race day, my best option was to get medical advice, so I scheduled an appointment with a physical therapist. I wanted solutions, not tests. From their assessment, there were no structural issues. I just needed to work it out. Eventually, one session of scraping and cupping seemed to break things loose. With about six weeks to go, I could run again. There was a prominent limp involved, but I was able to start moving and try to get back on track.
I arrived in San Diego about a week before the race. I wanted some time to get used to the weather. It had barely broken 70 near me, and I knew that wasn't what it would be like on race day. My limp was gone at this point. I'd been able to get back to doing a respectable number of miles. I wanted to run on trails that were at least similar to the ones I would see on race day. I knew they would be different than what I'm used to on the east coast. I was able to do one training run on some local trails but got hit by a stomach bug right away and couldn't do much more acclimation beyond that. Something is better than nothing.
There is something magical about the trail running and ultra community. On the trails, everyone is just happy to be there, experiencing the beauty and magnificence of nature. They are glad to have other people there with them. They are delighted to see others putting themselves to the same test, knowing we're all competing against ourselves. It is a unique community to be a part of.
My Pacers, Josh, Eric, and Michelle.
The most explicit demonstration of what this community is is the crew I ended up with for my race. There were 15 aid stations, 8 of which your crew could access. You could have someone pace you (run with you) for the last 45 miles. I knew I would have Eric on my side but discovered I would have two more people, Michelle and Josh, who volunteered to help. Michelle would join me for the last 16 miles to the finish line and Josh for 20 miles of overnight running. I met Michelle on a short run the week before the race, but I would only meet Josh during the race, shortly before he stayed up all night to help me get to the finish line. I wasn't just going to be me out there. I had three other people invested in getting me to the finish line. That is why I chose San Diego.
Race morning, the adrenaline was pumping. I had everything I needed to start the day. Eric was there to give me a ride to the starting line, and we were laughing and joking. We watched David Goggins videos to get amped up. I was going to carry the boats! The temperature was going to be ten degrees cooler than usual. That made me feel good because I had no exposure to heat this year. We got in the truck, made our way to the starting line, checked in, and waited. Eric ran into several people he knew and chatted while I silently waited. I wasn't nervous, just anxious and excited. Once it began, all I had to do was not stop.
The beginning of a race like this is funny. With so many people jammed into such a small space, there's nowhere to go. All you can do is slowly pick your way along, constantly walking because everyone in front of you is walking until you reach a point where the path opens up. There will always be a few people forcing their way by, doing things they'd never do in any normal situation. All of that energy that's pent up has to go somewhere. For some people, it comes out in winning that first mile.
Eventually, space opens up, and we make our way to the top of Stonewall, the second peak of the day. That's where I meet Marco. He's moving faster than me, but we're going close to the same pace. I mention that I'm in town from New York, and he asks why I chose this race. I tell him it's because of my cousin, and he replies, "Eric?". I crack up. The odds that, out of over 200 people, knowing only you're from New York and your cousin lives in the San Diego area, they would instantly guess who your cousin is are minuscule. We ran up and down that mountain to the next aid station and went on separate adventures.
The second aid station was where I made my first mistake. I was carrying two 500ml water bottles, planning on drinking a lot of Tailwind, a carbohydrate and electrolyte drink mix. I had one empty bottle and thought I'd barely touched my other bottle since filling it at the last aid station, so I only filled the empty one. From there, we proceeded out into a wide open grassy area. It started to get warm with the morning sun beating down on us. Before I knew it, the first bottle was empty. I started on the other. Suddenly that bottle was nearly empty, and I still had about 3 miles to go until the next aid station. I rationed my water and reached the next aid station, but I was thirsty. The heat and hydration were my biggest concerns coming into the day. Just over 20 miles in, I'd already fallen behind. I drank several cups of water, filled both bottles and was again on my way. Then it happened again. I came up a few miles short on water and was rationing it to the aid station again. At this point, I decided to fill both bottles and the bladder on my back. That would give me 3.5L of liquid. Hopefully, that would help me get back on track and keep me from running out again.
Next up on the adventure was Hammer's Hideaway, about 36 miles into the race. I was on track for what I'd hoped for up to that point, averaging around 5 miles every hour. I felt terrific about where I was and knew this would be the biggest test. From all my research and everyone I'd spoken to, this was the crux of the race. I was about to enter Noble Canyon. It is over 1500ft uphill. The terrain is rugged. You are entirely exposed to the midday sun. The volunteers at this station were phenomenal. A costumed BJ, one of the race directors, welcomed us in. A girl with a mister followed me around. Someone filled my buff with ice and gave my hat an ice water bath. One volunteer asked how I felt. He asked if I'd been getting enough salt and if I knew what was coming up. He reminded me to take this section easy. To focus on getting to the end intact. Then he asked, "Has anyone offered you an Otter Pop?". "What's an Otter Pop?" I responded. It turns out it's an icy pop. It was fantastic, but the most remarkable thing about that interaction was it made them realize they didn't offer one to the girl who had left a minute before. Immediately a volunteer jumped up, Otter Pop in hand, running down the trail to catch her and give her one. That is the level of volunteer that shows up at this event.
This section was brutal. Nobody undersold it. It was exactly as advertised. I was baking in the relentless sun. My ankles were twisting on the erratic rocks. My quads were straining up the ruthless hill. Turning inward, I drowned out everything around me and focused on one step and the next. I started to come up with songs to distract myself:
I love you Hammer's Hideaway
I wish I could stay all day
But I must be on my way
So I can finish this race someday
And:
Where is Lyle's Waterbreak?
I really wish it was a lake
I could go for a swim
I would jump right in
Eventually, I reached the water break and then the top of the canyon. I had gotten past the first genuine test of the day. I felt like I was in a furnace, and this is where I sat down for the first time as I tried to eat and cool myself down as the volunteers filled my bottles and bladder and put more ice in my buff.
At this point, things started to slow down for me. I would run for a while, suddenly struggling to catch my breath. I would need to walk and gasp for breath to try and get myself back on track. Then some more running before it would happen all over again. Looking for an explanation, I checked the altitude on my watch and realized I was above 5000ft. I'd had no altitude training, not having many opportunities near me, and was struggling with the thinner air.
Eventually, I made it to the next aid station. I hoped my crew would be there, having just struggled for the last 12 miles, wanting some moral support. Given the timing of everyone's schedule, I knew there would be a chance they wouldn't be able to make it. I got my bottles refilled and scanned the crowd. Nobody I knew was there. I slowly picked at the food and checked again—still nobody. I looked to see if any cars were pulling up. No luck. This aid station was the most disappointing of the day. The girl was very enthusiastic, but the pickles looked like all joy had been drained from them. The sandwiches, which turned out to be ketchup and something weird, were practically toasted. The fig bars were crispy. It also may have been me. I had been struggling to eat all day. Swallowing anything was like razor blades. No matter how much I drank, my mouth was so dry everything fused, and it was like choking down a golf ball every time. Pickles worked because they were wet, but these weren't. Candy worked because it couldn't congeal. I should have recognized that sooner and focused on the things that were working, but I kept trying stuff like fig bars and pretzels I had trained with, options that had worked for me in the past.
I kept plugging away, still struggling with the elevation, and made it to my crew at the next aid station. That was a boost. I got a fresh pair of socks, shoes and a clean shirt. I met Josh for the first time, with him changing my socks and cleaning my feet after 55 miles of running—quite the introduction to someone. Eric incredibly whipped me up a cup of ramen, magically producing hot water in the middle of the woods. Finally, some real food that didn't hurt. I obliterated it in minutes. The sun was almost down, and it was my first opportunity to have someone run with me. Thanks to Eric, I would have company for the next 9 miles. I was bloated and sore but motivated, thanks to my crew.
Nine nice and easy downhill miles, that's what I've been told. That's what's been advertised. Looking at the map, you do drop around 1000 feet. I was ready for that as Eric and I left the aid station and headed to Cibbets Flat. My feet and ankles were screaming at this point. I knew this was coming. You can only disregard it for so long. You can only ignore the pain until it reaches a certain level and becomes impossible to overlook. I couldn't continue ignoring the Ankylosing Spondylitis any longer. It's a hereditary form of arthritis that's been with me for 25 years. It has made my journey here very unlikely, unable to run a mile due to the pain only five years ago. But here we were, together as always, and it wouldn't stop me today.
We moved along in the darkness, the path illuminated by our headlamps, Eric in front and me following. The trail was constantly strewn with loose, uneven rocks making it difficult to find consistency on my shaky ankles. He coaxed as much pace out of me as he could, pulling me forward with a jog at every clear opportunity. But the downhill never seemed to come. Every time I looked, the trail was winding upwards. At least it felt that way. Constantly buoyed by Eric's endless optimism, we made our way down. It was precisely the lift in spirits that I needed at the moment.
As you come down the hill, you can see the light of the aid station below you slowly growing closer. Everyone says the trick is treating this like an out and back, barely stopping at the aid station and heading straight back up the 1000+ feet you've just descended. At this point, Josh would be joining me for the next twenty miles. Twenty miles of running, but mostly hiking, in the dark to help someone you've never met is quite the thing to sign up for. But he'd run this race before and knew what I was in for. He knew the challenge I faced right now.
He kept my spirits up. The pharmacy of salt and caffeine pills he carried in a small ziplock pouch woke me up to start the night. He let me lead most of the time and kept me moving forward. At this point, I had broken out my hiking poles to relieve some of the strain on my agonized feet and ankles. When the ground looked friendly, I would use my poles to propel me forward, like kicking off on a skateboard with a couple of steps gliding me along until the next push. We chatted about life, work, and random things going on in the world that annoyed us. He reassured me that the next section coming up would make things easier. He kept me from getting too comfortable at any aid station, eagerly bouncing beside me, ready to tackle what was next. It was like an enthusiastic puppy looking up at you like, "Okay, we've rested long enough, let's get going," and you couldn't imagine disappointing them. Except it wasn't me doing him a favor. He was out here to help me.
Given how slowly I was moving, Josh was out there much longer than anticipated. But we got to take in some incredible, awe-inspiring views together. It was a fantastic opportunity to breathe in the grandeur of the scenery around us. To the east, the sun rose over peaks, spilling out across the landscape below. Due to the heavy rainfall, everything was blanketed in green, which was unusual, according to Josh. Gorgeous purple, pink, and yellow flowers dotted the sides of the trail. We soaked it all in as we chipped our way forward, mile by mile, eventually paring away twenty miles of the journey.
At the beginning of the day, sixteen miles seems like a small piece. At the beginning of the day, that would have taken around three hours. Now it was a different story. At this point, sixteen miles was closer to a five-hour journey. And now it was Michelle's turn to carry the load for a while. It was up to her to keep me moving and ensure I made it to the finish line. The sun was back out in earnest, and everything was hot again. I honestly felt condemnable at this point because I knew five hours of hiking was all I had left, and I didn't feel like five hours of hiking was what she'd signed up for. But that is the kind of thing you never voice because, once you've reached that state of mind, you'd rather silently berate yourself than learn the truth. Looking back from a clearer perspective, I can't imagine anyone in her shoes being dissatisfied, but after 84 miles and around 25 hours of effort, clear thought is no longer possible.
I only remember a little of the first seven miles. I know she led, and I followed. Occasionally, she would jog, and I would try to keep up. Occasionally I would shuffle my feet, and she would hear and pull me forward. Eventually, according to my watch, we were just one mile from the final aid station. We looked ahead and watched the trail snake to the west and back out to the east, disappearing around a ridge. That was it. Get around that corner, and we will be at the aid station. Around that corner, the trail would snake to the west and back out to the east, disappearing around another ridge. That must be it. Just get around that corner, and you will be there. Then again. And again. The trail always disappeared around another corner. It felt like we ran at least five miles in that one mile. In reality I finished with 102.4 miles in the end, so it was probably just 3.4 miles.
Finally the trail continued heading west, we had made it. We were at the final push. I got cooled off with freezing water from a soaked sponge. I tried to eat some things, but still, nothing felt good. BJ gave me a pep talk and ushered me on my way. As we left for the final nine miles, I noticed Michelle with a rice crispy treat and was instantly drooling. I asked if she could go back and grab me one, and she immediately pulled one out of her pocket. It was the best thing I'd ever eaten. And then we were on our way, nine mostly flat miles to the finish line.
I constantly remind myself and my developers to eat the elephant one bite at a time. At the beginning of the race, you're thinking of tackling it one aid station at a time. After about sixty miles, my focus switched to one mile at a time, chipping away until the next aid station. At this point, I pushed for half a mile, trying to keep my legs moving for half a mile. Finally, I could only worry about making the next step. Michelle tried to coax another push out of me at one point. I tried to go with her but couldn't even get beyond a shuffle. I called out and told her I couldn't do it. My tank was empty. All the miles, the hours of struggling to eat anything, had caught up with me. I was utterly depleted.
We walked the rest of the way together, resigned to that fate. Fallen branches on the horizon started becoming broken-down cars or old signage. Tree stumps ahead would be a person in a lawn chair holding binoculars. Then we'd get close, and I'd shake my head, utterly confused at how I'd mistaken it. At one point, we watched a woman who had recently passed us moving quite well, jump over a fence and go down by the lake to take a selfie with the finish line in the background across the lake. We learned later that she thought she was lost and trying to find her way back on course. 30+ hours and 95+ miles do strange things to your brain.
The final mile was a special treat. We got to trudge through a muddy marsh. My dusty but otherwise clean and dry shoes were suddenly caked in mud and soaking wet, slipping shin-deep occasionally. But we made it around the last corner and up the final small hill. My crew, Eric and Josh, were there waiting for me. Kiersten and my nephews Bryce and Everett were there cheering me in with chants of "Uncle Nate" and holding homemade signs. I crossed the finish line and got a double fist bump from the race director Angela and a hug from the other race director BJ. I was overtaken by emotion at that point. All I wanted to do was cry, but I had so many things calling for my attention that I didn't have a chance. What color sweatshirt, over here for a photo, hug the kids, high-five the crew, drink this, do you want this now? I needed to sit and take in what had just happened.
The San Diego 100 is an incredible race, top to bottom. One thing that stands out is the directors and the volunteers. About a week before the race, I was in the area and happened to bump into BJ after they'd just finished rerouting the beginning and finish of the race. We chatted briefly, and he wished me luck. At the finish line, he said that he knew I would make it. That, along with his encouragement at many aid stations along the way, made it feel like he did have me singled out and was following my journey. Whether he did or not, an RD with a field of over 200 people who can do that is special. So many volunteers along the way made me feel genuinely cared for.
"Can I get you this?"
"Do you want to try that?"
"How can I help you?"
"You have this!"
"This is what you need to be ready for..."
I've never experienced such a great group of people out there all night to help. One was the man at Hammer's Hideaway, who reset my mindset before that section. Another was at the Sunrise aid station, who was so motivating there was no doubt in your mind after he spoke with you. I can't thank those volunteers enough.
I can't thank my crew enough. Without their support, I wouldn't have made it to the finish line. I needed every bit of their energy and guidance to get me there that day. I still have a hard time thinking about what they did for me, the sacrifice they made for someone they barely knew, without tearing up.
Finally at the finish!
The day after the race, I got knocked out with what turned out to be strep throat. Looking back at things, I wonder if that was impacting me during the race. I'll never know, but I can't help but wonder if things would've been different. Would that help explain my struggle to eat? Suppose it would explain my parched throat and mouth. One major problem I did encounter was that I needed to gain experience on that terrain. I had no idea what it was like to run there. The challenges differ from those I see daily on the east coast in heavily wooded mountains. Another issue was the altitude. Much of it happened above 5000ft, and I was unprepared. I struggled during every section at that height. The biggest problem, though, was the climate. I have had no experience running in temperatures above 70 degrees this year. I've had no experience running in anything similar to what was there. The sun was so intense it was like an invisible force constantly pressing down on me. The heat and the exposure got to me. Now I know what to do to be more prepared for next time. And now I know how invaluable a good crew truly is.
Until next time San Diego!
