After I dropped out of the High Lonesome 100 at mile 50 last year, I was determined to get that finish. This year I came home with a beautiful buckle and some excellent blisters. This finish was at least 2 years in the making, and I think both my husband and I are happy to close this particular chapter.

Early this week, I was talking to a friend about the race, and maybe it is all still too fresh, but a big part of the race exceeded Type-2 fun and moved to Type-3, which is to say – not fun. Every 100 is going to have its moments, but at least 60 of the 100 miles were spent in a pretty dark headspace, and that is way too much. My brain had a really hard time with the storms, and I had significant breathing issues for the last 50 miles.

I started getting a rub spot on my pinky toe at mile 7 of the race. WHY??? Same shoes, same socks, lots of A&D diaper ointment on my toes. Thinking about all the miles ahead, I stopped at the Antero aid station (mile 17) to get what was by then a large blister drained and taped before it got worse. All the technical downhill training I had worked on made it easier to navigate the nasty Antero road for the 6-mile descent, feeling much less beat up this year. I’m still not a good downhiller, but it helped a lot.

The first storm started moving in as I was approaching St. Elmo (mile 25). I started feeling awful, and I was trying to problem solve and figure out what I needed when I heard the thunder. Ahhh, that is why I felt awful. The barometric pressure changes still take me out. I get vertigo, nausea, and an intense feeling of fatigue. A volunteer sat me down, told me I looked rough and asked what I needed. He started going through my drop bag and found the flask with raised eyebrows. I explained what was going on and that I needed some coke and whiskey to calm my brain down. With a shot of whiskey and some caffeine on board, I started the climb up Laws Paws into the storm.

The thunder was sketchy, and all I could hear was my father’s voice telling me to turn around. By the time I reached treeline, the race photographer had bailed down off the pass, and we stood and chatted for a minute. She took my photo, and I said, “I hope that isn’t the last photo of me alive.” She said, “Don’t say that, because that has happened at a race”. Apparently, she took someone’s last photos, and then he was struck by lightning, which is horrible. This did nothing to boost my confidence about heading up the pass. Against all better judgment, I joined everyone else and climbed the pass. Sorry Dad. As I neared the top, I could see the storm mostly moving down valley on the other side. I felt safer, but I didn’t waste any time getting back down to treeline.

Down at Cottonwood, I was back to feeling good, and I grabbed some snacks and turned to go back up over Laws. I had more appreciation for the scenery this time, and the chest-high Larkspur and all the other flowers were stunning. I continued to feel good for the next 20 miles. The sunset was magical, and I reached Hancock 45 minutes earlier than last year. This was my best section of the race. After that, the wheels started coming off again.

Before reaching Hancock last year, I started having difficulty breathing, and that is part of the reason I had to drop. I continued having issues through the fall, any time we went up to higher altitudes. Since then, I have been working with a pulmonologist at National Jewish Hospital. After a million tests, we still didn’t have answers. We had hoped it was all related to mold in a humidifier, and that it would be resolved now. Then, when I started going back to altitude this summer, I was back to having issues again.

My pulmonologist started me on two different inhalers, and I seemed to be doing much better at altitude during my training runs. Throughout the race, I was using my albuterol and Combivent inhalers every 4 hours. I thought it was going well, until it wasn’t.

Picking up my first pacer, Chris at Hancock, we headed out into the night. The climb up to Hancock Lake and Chalk Creek Pass felt harder than I thought it should, and my breathing was starting to feel tight. The second storm rolled in as we came down off Chalk Creek pass. The raincoats went on, and I had the same sense of vertigo, nausea, and heavy fatigue, only this time I didn’t make the connection to the storm. The rain didn’t last too long, and I was able to change into dry pants at the Lost Wonder hut aid station. At that point, I was out of it enough that I didn’t even look at my drop bag. Chris pulled out my nutrition and asked if I needed anything else, and I said no… which was a mistake.

We headed up the climb towards “The Ridge,” which most people consider the crux of the race, and my waistlight died. That is when I remembered that I was supposed to change my battery at Lost Wonder Aid. I was carrying a headlamp in case of an emergency, but there is a reason I use a waistlight. My brain has a very hard time processing three dimensions with a headlamp, and it makes me feel drunk. But there I was, using a headlamp for the next 5 hours, and my brain was not happy about it.

Slogging up the headwall to the ridge, I was struggling to breathe and developed a wet cough. During my last discussion with the pulmonologist in early July, he had mentioned trialing medications for high altitude pulmonary edema. There wasn’t much time before the race, and I was worried about tolerating this new medication. It was a this point in the race, after 21 hours at an average elevation of 11, 000′, that I started thinking I should have gone ahead with the medications, just in case. But it was too late, and all I could do now was get to lower elevation.

At Monarch Pass I sat for a minute, breathing heavily, wondering if I was going to get through this race. My pacers swapped out, and Kristi joined me for the next 15 miles. After another short climb, we finally started descending towards the Fooses aid station. My breathing was feeling less scary, but I continued to have a wet, heavy cough. There was a brief episode of vomiting during this stretch, but overall, I was able to do a good deal of slow running on this descent.

After reaching Fooses Aid, it is still 25 miles and 5k’ gain across the Colorado Trail to the finish. During the first half of the race, I passed a lot of people on climbs. During the second half, I had nothing. The climbs were painfully slow, but then on the downs/flats I often caught back up to the people that passed me because they were doing more walking. My breathing was a mess, but my legs were okay and I could still run as long as gravity was in my favor.

Kristi got me to Blanks Aid, where Josh hugged me and gave me a pep talk. I never thought about quitting, and I knew I could finish, but damn I felt so awful. After all the training, and all the work to resolve my breathing issues, I was super frustrated that the day had unraveled so badly.

Virginia swapped out pacing duties with Kristi, and we headed out for what I told her was “a very runnable section” to Raspberry. It was not. I’ve done this section several times, and it was not at all how I remembered. There was SO. MUCH. CLIMBING. And I kept wondering where all the downhill went.

The third storm rolled in during this section as we finally started reaching some flat and downhill, but I had absolutely nothing. I started thinking I was done, I had no more running in my legs, and we were going to have to walk it in. It was going to be tight on whether or not I could make it in time. Then it started to rain, and I realized what was happening. After it passed, I could finally run again.

After a brief stop at Raspberry Aid, I could finally see the light. With only 7.5 miles to go, I knew I could walk the whole thing and still safely make the finish cutoff. But I didn’t want to mail it in, I wanted to keep trying, so I would run to that tree, and then take a walk break, and then run to that tree, etc. We had friends catch up as we started up one of the last climbs, and they encouraged us to keep up and push to the finish. I couldn’t. As soon as the trail pitched up even a little, I could not get enough air. Little by little, we made it up the climb, down to the valley and slogged our way up “Swear Hill” to the finish.

The finish line was magical. Of all the 100s I’ve done, there is no finish line experience quite like this race. It is a huge party, and everyone stays until that last finisher crosses the line. My brothers and one of my nephews were there, along with so many friends, and crowds of other people, all cheering. Josh stood at the finish line with a poster and a big marker for me to literally “check that box.” It was all pretty emotional. We did it, and I mean “we,” because I wouldn’t be able to do any of this without Josh, who reviews my training plans, gets up at 5:15am to train with me, drove me up to the high country every weekend (since I still can’t drive far on the highway), and who stayed up all night to chase me around the course to crew me and help me cross that finish line. I couldn’t ask for a more supportive husband.

This is an incredible race. The course is spectacular, and the volunteers and aid stations are top-notch. But this was not a good race for me, and I have this sort of weird “well, at least it is done” feeling without any of the usual post-100-mile finish euphoria. It all just feels a bit surreal that after two years of build-up, it is over.

Next month is my 10-year crashiversary. You’d think after 10 years, I wouldn’t still be having issues, but annoyingly, I am. That is just my reality, and the storms are still a big struggle for me. That isn’t something I have control over, and all I can do is take them as they come. I should be thrilled that I was able to push through everything and get to my 5th 100-mile finish.

The breathing? Yeah, that is something to work on. I chatted with my pulmonologist a few days after the race, and he thinks that high-altitude pulmonary edema is likely, but wishes I had gone in for chest X-rays that night to confirm. We had discussed this during one of my visits, and I knew that the only way to get a for sure answer was to do the diagnostics in the moment. But I’ll be honest, I finished at 6pm, and the race finished at 7pm. Then there was the awards ceremony, and by the time we got back to the house, I just wanted to be horizontal. My breathing was stable, and I didn’t need emergency treatment. The thought of spending a bunch of money, and making Josh drive me to the ER for chest X-rays after he spent 9 hours driving around on rough roads to get into aid stations was not high on my list of things I wanted to do. Oh well, I don’t plan on any other crazy high-altitude 100 milers, so hopefully it is a non-issue in the future.

Next July, you’ll find us back at the High Lonesome 100, but this time it will be as volunteers.