This year at the Black Canyon 100k, there was a ~30% DNF rate (did not finish). While 515 finished, 202 people dropped somewhere along the way. Somehow, I managed to be one of the finishers. This race attracts some competitive runners as it is a “Golden Ticket” race. This year that meant the top 3 women and top 3 men received an entry to Western States 100, and anyone finishing under 17 hours gets a qualifying time to enter the Western States Lottery (which I have no interest in doing because of the heat).

I was super excited about this race. Since my brain injury, I’ve done a lot of ultramarathons, but have rarely “raced”. Most of the time I’m just out there, enjoying a long day on the trail, taking photos, and chatting with friends. The few times that I have “raced”, have really only been against myself. I’ve never tried to win anything (because I’m not delusional), and I’m not a super speedy elite runner. Over the last several months though, I have been pushing myself, and working on speed. As this race approached, I was looking at pace charts and wondering how fast I could actually do it if I put it all out there. I really had no idea how fast it would be, but on paper, it seemed like an easy course – mostly downhill at a lower elevation.

As race week arrived and I saw the weather forecast, I started to think all my plans were going out the window. It was forecasted to be hot, and that was going to be a bad thing. Heat and I don’t get along. I don’t sweat well and get easily overheated. I’m always amazed when I run with Josh, and sweat is pouring off him while I barely have a glisten. There are lots of tricks for managing heat during a race – ice down the sports bra, ice-filled bandana around the neck, water dumped over the head, keeping up with hydration and electrolytes, and in an ideal world – heat training. Since it has been cold and snowy here at home in Colorado, that hasn’t exactly happened.

My hope was that I could push through the morning because I knew I would be forced to slow down when the afternoon heat arrived. What I didn’t count on was that the heat wouldn’t wait until the afternoon. By the time I rolled into Bumble Bee aid station at mile 20, the temperature was climbing. I had been feeling great until then and was ahead of my predicted pace, which was good and bad. I had been going too fast with a lot of miles left…and I was already overheating at 10am. Josh poured water over my head, and dumped ice down my bra and the back of my pack. I told him I would need to slow down before I met him at Black Canyon aid, I just didn’t realize how much slower that would be.

The wheels started coming off the bus at this point. It turns out that this “downhill” race is really more of a rolling course, constantly up and down, with more overall loss than gain. I felt like I kept waiting for the downhill part to come. Out in the desert, there is zero shade, and the sun is relentless.  It was so hot and dry that I was running out of water in between aid stations. By Soap Creek aid, at mile 31.2 I was feeling nauseous and dizzy. I had to sit under the shade tent for 20 minutes trying to cool down. Runners were sitting or laying down looking completely demoralized, and I was right there with them. My pace had completely tanked.

It was another 6 miles to get to Black Canyon aid, where Josh would be waiting and waiting, and waiting for me to come in, way behind schedule. Thankfully, there was a bonus water drop along the way, and although I didn’t need it yet, I would have been totally out of water before I got to the next aid. I drank half a bottle and dumped the rest on my head. I could’ve kissed that volunteer for being out there.

Crossing the timing mat at Black Canyon aid, Josh was there asking what I needed. All I could say was “I don’t know, I need to sit”. He got me to a chair, where I proceeded to start feeling cold – shivering, goosebumps, and very dizzy and nauseous. Another pacer noticed my shivering, so he came over and asked if I needed a jacket. That was exactly what I didn’t need at that moment. Apparently, he has never seen heat stroke before. Both Josh and I thought my race was over. I felt horrific and was getting to a point that needing actual medical attention was approaching (or maybe it had already arrived and I was too stubborn to notice).

Josh did what he could to cool me down, and I managed to sip some coke without vomiting, and then some ginger ale. After about 30 minutes I felt the need for medical attention was subsiding, but continuing in the race seemed likely to end up with a medical evacuation.  After another 30 minutes, I had kept down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some water. My shivering was easing up.

Since I started running ultramarathons in 2010 I have never quit a race. Sure, there have been plenty of times that I was tempted to quit, but my only DNF has been my first post-TBI 50 miler when I got pulled from the course after missing a time cutoff. I’m not saying that quitting is the wrong choice. I think there are plenty of times it is the right choice, and each runner needs to make that choice for themselves. I can’t judge how much someone hurts, or how terrible they feel, and I never judge anyone that decides that quitting is the right decision for them at that moment. We are all out there for different reasons, and if fun is the reason, and it is no longer fun, then quitting makes perfect sense.  In this case, for better or for worse, I cautiously stood up, dumped more ice down my bra and water over my head, and Josh followed me out of the aid station.

We very slowly started up the climb with the sun blazing down and me stopping every few minutes to put my head down, trying not to vomit. I had two main concerns at this point. The first was the still very real potential for needing medical evacuation due to heat exhaustion. The second was that I had expected to finish much earlier than I was on track to finish, and I was not prepared for being out through the night. Once the sun went down, I didn’t know if I would be able to thermoregulate, or would I go from hyperthermia to hypothermia, and need medical evacuation for a different reason?

The sun began setting, and I started to feel a little energy return. I was able to slowly run the downhills and the flats, and the miles started ticking away. We pulled out the headlamps and as the darkness surrounded us we watched the lights of other runners behind us, and heading up the next climb in front of us, zig-zagging across the switchbacks. With no trees to provide shade during the day, there were also no trees to block the views, and the lights across the desert were pretty cool.

We would slog up a climb, and then curse at the rocky technical descents, wishing for some smooth easy trail to help the miles turnover faster. Fortunately, the temperature didn’t drop too quickly, and the aid stations started serving warm broth I could sip on while Josh filled up my bottles. Unlike most longer races I’ve done, there was very little of this course where I was alone. There was almost always someone to pass, or be passed by, which can make it hard to maintain a rhythm. Honestly, the solitude of not seeing another person for long stretches is one of my favorite parts of the longer mountain races I’ve done.

It was almost 11:00pm by the time the finish line came into view, and seemed like an endless mirage that we would never reach. Being at the finish line of long endurance events is beautiful. While I was just thankful I made it there without medical intervention, the tears of joy and achievement from other runners was incredibly touching.  We watched one couple, as he pulled out his phone saying “I need you to say on camera that you are never doing this distance again.” Josh shouted over, “that doesn’t mean anything, she’ll do it again”.  I had to laugh thinking about all the times I’ve said, “never again”. Apparently, country singer Leanne Womack was an ultrarunner.

Never again, again.
Once more I’ll let you back in
I know how the story ends
But I can’t help myself
You’ll break my heart I know
Through my tears I watch you go
Then just like it’s always been
I’ll say never again, again.

-Leanne Womack

This was not the day I hoped for, and it likely would have been a different experience the weekend before, when the high was a perfect 66 degrees. I did finish though, and even though I was way off my time goal, I had been doing well enough the first part of the day that I clocked off my second fastest 50k time, and my fastest 50 miler along the way.  In hindsight, given the high temperatures, I might have been better served to go easier in the morning and save more for the second half of the course, which was much harder than anticipated. Overall this course is no joke, and beyond the high temperatures, it runs much more difficult than it looks on paper, and I definitely underestimated this course.

Beyond all of that, by far the biggest win for this race is that we flew to Phoenix on Friday, raced Saturday (not getting back to the hotel until 1am), flew home Sunday and I was able to work on Monday. Even a year ago that would have been totally impossible for my brain to handle. How amazing is that?!?!  Since then recovery hasn’t been pretty, but I won’t go into those details because my parents read this so I’ll just say, “I’m going to be fine mom”.

Now it is time for rest and recovery, including leaving for an actual vacation in Costa Rica next week. This is true vacation, I’m not even taking running shoes *gasp*!  I have to admit though, right at this moment the thought of heat and humidity is not all that appealing…maybe it isn’t too late to go snowshoeing in Alaska instead. Once we get back, it is time to switch gears. After 5 years of training with her, my coach Cindy Stonesmith retired. I’ll be starting with a new coach, Andrew Simmons of Lifelong Endurance. We will be focusing on speed, and getting me prepared to run the Leadville 100 in August. With the tight time cutoffs, this is a very different race than my previous 100s. While I have a ton of work to do, I’m hoping that at least the heat should be less of an issue.

Time to get ready for TBI to 100 – round 4 (aka Never Again, Again).