Scott’s Blog

It’s 5:45 AM on Friday the 13th. July 13th, that is. I’m in the Silverton High School gymnasium. I’m fumbling with an ankle brace and duct tape. “What did I get myself into?” Things weren’t falling into alignment quite as I’d like.

Five days ago I was feeling healthy and strong, like I finally got my body back from the virus that had it for most of the previous week. I was excited about checking out the last few bits of the Hardrock Hundred course I hadn’t yet seen, and planned to spend the majority of the week resting up, eating well, and getting my body and mind ready to tackle this race. Having come down a month early, I’ve spent time away from home and family, training my body to deal with little oxygen and the uphills and downhills that make most of us beg for mercy. That part had gone very well.

Then things change with a misplaced step on a soccer field Monday July 9. I tried not to kick myself too hard over this, but initially it was inevitable. “Why did I do that?” “Playing soccer the week of a major race?” “How am I going to run this technical course?” Negative energy doesn’t do much to heal a badly sprained ankle with ligament and muscle damage. So I let these thoughts and emotions run through my mind and body once or twice initially and that’s it. Time to get this thing healed. I focused exclusively on the positive things I could to for myself to most quickly heal this swollen ankle. (I want to share more on my specific rehab, but will do that in another post.)

So fast forward back to Silverton High School gymnasium and the duct tape. My crew, Leah and Jeff, are putting the final touches on my gators as I readjust my active-ankle brace. I decided to support my ankle with a rigid plastic ankle brace due to the insane downhills and off-trail terrain that the course in known for. My ankle has made incredible progress in three days as far as the decrease in inflammation and initial healing considering that I could barely walk on it during the past few days. But I knew that it was still going to need a great deal of support, as there simply wasn’t enough time for full recovery and neuromuscular retraining. With the support of this bracing system, I knew I wouldn’t worsen the injury by running on it.

In the days leading up to the race, it was obvious that word had quickly spread regarding my ankle. Most people were asking if I was going to start. I held back what I was thinking inside as my competitiveness was saying, “Start? I’m going for the win!” There definitely was an uncertainty, but either the shear stubbornness from Polish roots or knowing the time, energy, and focus I had already put into this race, my love for competition took over and I was more than eager to embrace this challenge. I was going to be on that starting line.

But approaching the starting line for the 6:00AM start on this Friday the 13th, it was hard not to question how my ankle would respond. I kept trying to remind myself about the year when I had sprained my ankle at 50 miles of Western States and still managed to do what I had set out to. During that race, I was constantly convincing myself that my ankle would be more stable as the swelling increased. Even though there would be quite a bit of discomfort, then, too, I knew I wouldn’t do any permanent damage. (Disclaimer: As a physical therapist, I don’t advocate or recommend that anyone try the same.)

The gun goes off and I enter this journey. With adrenaline flowing, I temporarily forget about the uncertainty of my ankle. We are running through the clouds and fog through the dirt downtown streets of Silverton. It almost feels like home in the Northwest, as the last couple days have been wet and rainy. Prior to this, the weather has been warm and the snow has melted which makes for great conditions on the course today.

Hitting the first climb out of Silverton in the first mile, I notice my ankle will be affecting my climbing today; it’s not feeling as strong with limited range of motion. Nonetheless I take the lead and make my way along the rolling first three miles of the course. Heading up the mining road to Little Giant Pass, I throw in more running even though I’m feeling the lack of oxygen with the gain in altitude. My plan was to pick up bits of time here and there when the climbs allowed, even though I knew it’d be easier to just settle into a constant power walk.

As we gain altitude, we also got out of the clouds and fog and see amazingly clear blue skies. It’s going to be a great day! Getting the first rays of sunshine going over Little Giant Pass, the views open up spectacularly in all directions. I look over towards the direction of Grant Swamp Pass, about 87 miles into the race, and try not to think too far into the future. I focus on the moment and the beauty of the course. I approach the next downhill, which leads into the first aid station at Cunningham Gulch, mile 9. I knew this downhill would be the first true test for my ankle, telling me what the rest of the race would have in store for me. As we drop 3000’ in the course of a couple miles on rocky and faint trails, surprisingly it goes really well. I’m able to push the pace and my ankle doesn’t slow me down, although I do feel quite a bit of discomfort. However it seems to loosen up and the pain lessons as time goes on.

Hooting and hollering into the aid station to alert my crew, the adrenaline starts flowing. My split into the aid station is under two hours, which is ahead of course record. For me it felt like a comfortable pace considering I have 91 miles to go.

It seems like I have a couple minutes on the next runners, but I’m not sure who’s behind me as I focus on the next big climb up to Green Mountain. I look back at the Grenadier Range and marvel at all the mountains in the background, also noticing a runner close on my heals. It’s not Karl Meltzer, a four-time winner here, but rather Ricky Denesik, who’s also won this race.

We head down to Stony Pass running across some icy snowfields and then make our way up Buffalo Ridge. Ricky continues on my heals and on the way into the Maggies Gulch aid station, mile 15, passes me. The pace is feeling mighty quick. When we arrive to the aid station we are again faster than course record pace. Quickly, I get through the aid station and am leaving just as Karl is arriving.

I decide to take it easier up the climb up to Maggie Pole Pass. There is a lot of fast running, but the elevation maintains close to 12,000’. Reminding myself it is really early in this race, I wonder if my competitors are pushing too hard. Karl passes by on the descent and says he’s feeling good when asked. He takes off to chase down Ricky. I’m not having a real low point, but I’m apprehensive of pushing too hard in this section so early.

At the Pole Creek aid station, mile 19, Ricky and Karl have several minutes on me. Plugging along, I notice there are a few big clouds building up, but they don’t seem too threatening. I catch up with Ricky and Karl just before Cataract Lake. Ricky pushes harder on the way down to Sherman and gains some time on Karl and me. Starting the main ascent down into Sherman, I decide to push a little bit harder and Karl drops back a bit. I’m surprised how well my ankle feels on this downhill and wonder if it’s the adrenaline or if I’ve just gotten used to it.

I catch Ricky in the last mile before the aid station at Sherman, mile 28. This boosts my confidence as I was starting to feel like Ricky and Karl were running much stronger at the higher altitudes. An aid station volunteer grabs my drop bag for me and I quickly take what’s needed as my bottles are being filled by another volunteer. Leaving the aid station back in the lead, it starts to rain.

Ricky catches up to me and we jockey back and forth on the way up to Burrows. I start feeling better on sections of this climb. It’s a monotonous section on a dirt road, but I feel it’s important to run strongly on this section. Many times it feels like it’d be easier just to fall into a power walk, but I push on with a good solid run. The driving rain and now hail are also good motivators to keep the pace and the body heat up. Hail starts to pile up along side the road, and it stings as it bounces off my head and body. I start to wonder what it’s going to be like on the climb up to Handies Peak (14,000’), which we are approaching. Lightning flashes and thunder rattles the canyon walls. I think to myself, this is Hardrock. If the altitude and terrain aren’t breaking you down, the weather will come at you too!

Around a bend in the road I decide to look back and get a glimpse of the competition. Ricky has dropped back and there are now two runners behind him. I get to the Grizzly Gulch trailhead and make my way up the trail to Handies Peak. Mark Hartell was that third runner and now he is right on my heels, powerwalking strongly. The storm above us decides to subside and give us a break as Mark and I climb together up to Handies. In the meadow above treeline before the last pitch to the summit, Karl comes into view and is just a couple minutes back. I eat half of a burrito before I fill my bottles at a creek (I treated my water during training, but in the race I decide to let the concerns of giardia slide). Every once and awhile a big thunderhead graces the top of Handies, but eventually and fortunately blows off and lets the sun through. In the last mile before the summit I can really feel the altitude of 13,500 feet. I powerwalk ferociously up the switchbacks, but it doesn’t seem like I am getting anywhere too quickly.

Mark, Karl, and I are all within a minute of each other at the summit and the race is on to fly downhill 4,000 feet to the Grouse Gulch aid station, mile 42. It’s a fun roller coaster ride. Even though my legs are tired, I’m having a blast! Mark passes me a couple miles before Grouse Gulch and tears down the single track. I try to hang on for the next 1/2 mile but, having too much fun, I catch a toe and face plant on a bed of rocks. My knees took the brunt of the fall. It was one of those falls that hurt so badly. I rubbed my knees to distract the pain receptors.

I arrive to Grouse Gulch a minute or two behind Mark. The aid station is loaded with crew and spectators who have not seen their runners for six hours or more. My legs feel like they have run eighty miles rather than forty and in the last 42 miles and 12 hours they have climbed over 15,000’. I try not to think that if this were Western States, which my body knows so well, I would only have another four hours to run! In all ultras, as in life, it is easy to think too far ahead. Much better to keep the mind quiet and not listen to the noise that may keep trying to creep in.

Down in Grouse, it is a bit warmer and the afternoon sun beats down. I pick up my pacer, Nate McDowell, who will accompany me for the next thirty miles to Telluride. On the four-wheel drive road up to Engineer Pass (13,000’), Nate plays games with me to get my legs to run more than walk. And when we walk we walk hard. He tells me Mark is trying to pull away and I tell him that it isn’t even halfway into the race. Somehow he manages to convince to not let the gap increase between Mark and I. It remains a minute by the top of Engineer Pass and behind us Karl is running strong, trying to close the couple minutes I had on him since Grouse by charging up Engineer.

Mark again tears up the downhill, this time into Bear Creek Canyon, which leads to Ouray. I try to chase him down, but he puts a couple of minutes on me by the time I reach the Engineer aid station at 48 miles. I keep eating and drinking well, like I have been all day. My stomach has been solid and feeling great.

As we approach Grizzly Bear Mine, we pass the stretch of trail that I worked on with John Cappis and the trail work crew the previous week. As I know from other trail work I’ve done, it is amazing how quickly I pass this stretch, knowing how much work it took to repair the washed out trail.

The downhill is a blast cruising down singletrack. But it’s also very long, dropping to the lowest point on the course (7800’). My legs are loving the downhills, but my brain is reminded by them that they have already had enough fun and feel the fatigue. Again it is time to tune that out as well as the gnawing low-grade pain vibrating through my ankle (I haven’t taken any anti-inflammatories or analgesics prior to or during the race and don’t plan to). Light, fast, and smooth, I say to my body as we make our way below 9,000 feet.

Just after crossing Hwy 550, Nate and I catch Mark. I am surprised, as he has been screaming downhill all day. He says he needs to take it easy. Back in first place and several minutes ahead, Nate and I make our way through the downtown streets of Ouray where it is nice and toasty even though it’s now evening. When arriving at the aid station, mile 56, I think how nice it would be to just lie down on the grass in the park, enjoying the beautiful evening like many there are. But I focus on how I plan to enjoy the evening and rest of night.

Some youngsters helping at the aid station toss a soccer ball up and down, asking, “Wanna play soccer, Scott?” Obviously they heard about my ankle incident and want to have some fun with me. Would have been fun to join them. But I grab my lights as I head out of the aid station, as it will be many hours and miles before I see my crew and nightfall will soon be approaching.

On the way out of town near a two way traffic stretch of trail, we spot Karl as he heads away from us with his back turned. Just as Nate tells me he’s there and as we are almost out of sight, Karl looks back and spots us. Nate tells me, “See, he could sense us and knows this course like the back of his hand.” It’s amazing what competition will do for inspiration. I knew how tough Karl is and that this is his course. In addition to the respect for my competitor, having Nate comment on this made me give an extra push and put this competitive edge into overdrive.

On the way up to Virginius Pass, with Nate reminding me that Karl would be running this climb hard, he told me how Karl passed him at this same spot, like he was standing still, when a few years back he himself had raced against Karl.

So up we go on this monotonous dirt road towards Governor Basin, mile 64, with Nate playing games to get me to run. “We’ll start running at that rock.” “We’ll run to that tree.” I think it’s still early in race to push, but Nate is motivating me. However I do still listen to my body and hold back some, and at other times push harder than he requests. This is very important to do as taking a pacer some may let them start to dominate the pace. As a racer, I’m reminding myself I’m still responsible to respect my boundaries and make sure I don’t ruin my race, knowing there’s so much left.

And a lot there is. Four passes of almost 13,000’ each. This next one demands respect. We climb over 4000’ out of Ouray when we make it to the last couple pitches of Virginius Pass. It’s a mix of snow and scree, definitely not what I was anticipating. I thought it was going to be all snow and surprisingly snow would have been better. As our feet and hands punch through what snow there is, we find it shallow, a mix of mud and scree. We lose a half step for every one. Nate makes it look easy and several times up the last pitch I have to pause to let in more oxygen. It’s only a couple hundred feet to the aid station at the pass, but I’m literally and figuratively crawling through a mix of snow and mud, at an angle of 40 degrees. Nate tells me to look back. Seeing Karl’s lights less than ten minutes back helps me to find the energy that didn’t seem to exist a few minutes earlier.

We stop quickly at the Virginius Pass aid station, which is lodged between two spires. There is dry lightning off in several directions, but thankfully the weather isn’t bad like it could be up here. Heading off the pass would be another test for my ankle. After running 67 miles, these next few into Telluride are steep and technical, now with darkness adding to the mixture of proprioceptive demands. Surprisingly my ankle fares well and we cruise, knowing that on this downhill I need to put time on Karl if at all possible.

It’s awfully quiet as we run through the downtown streets of Telluride into the 72 mile aid station, where there’s also not much happening. Here is where the night shift takes over. I thank and Nate and pick up my trusty pacer, Dusty, for this graveyard shift. Dusty tells me that when he’s told Karl that a guy with a sprained ankle is beating him, Karl’s reply has been, “Race doesn’t start ‘til Telluride!” I know this as in most hundred mile races it’s the case that the last 30% are some of the most crucial miles.

With the vision of Karl charging after me out of Telluride, I run most of the two-track climb to the start of the Wasatch Trail. Dusty’s out ahead of me slightly, unusually quiet, seeming pretty focused and businesslike, being sure we’re following the course. Unlike many courses, marking is on the lighter side and there are no glow-sticks, so you need to watch for your light to bounce off the reflective markers. The Wasatch Trail climbs steeply up to Wasatch Saddle and we powerwalk strongly with Dusty reminding me of our old Nordic ski days of dryland training. This climb out of Telluride is a long one, almost 5000’ of gain. There are runnable sections I take advantage of, trying to pick up bits of time. As we make our way up the switchbacks to the basin, we see Karl’s light 1000’ below us. It looks like we may have put some time on him. However not much to feel comfortable. I’m ready for a fight to the end.

Next up is Oscars Pass and the downhill I’ve been a bit worried about. We pick our way through the boulders that are twice the size of bowling balls. The ankle and brace holds up well but it is tedious and slow, until the path starts to smooth out (by Hardrock standards). Dusty looks back a couple times to see if we see Karl’s light, but he doesn’t spot it once on the way to Chapman.

When we arrive, I look at my watch and am surprised to see I’m two hours ahead of course record pace (counter clockwise direction). Leah and crew are there, graciously staying awake through the early morning hours. I grab my food and gear and we are off into the dark towards Grant Swamp Pass. Like the climb out of Telluride, I run when the grade lessens, but at 12,000 feet and with over 81 Hardrock miles on my legs, it is a much larger chore. Looking back, we again see no lights.

Finally we make it to the famous last pitch of U.S. Grant-Swamp Pass, full of loose scree on a steep pitch for 200 feet. In training I was assuming when we reached this point there would be a hint of daylight, but we were ahead of anticipated times. Now running this section in the dark, it is difficult to pick the best line, one in which an occasional boulder can momentarily hold my weight before I step up to the next foothold. Seemingly spinning in place, gasping for breath on this scree treadmill, making very little forward progress, it reminds me of crawling up gravel and sand piles as a kid.

Finally topping out at the pass, Dusty laughs having been waiting for me. “Thought you fell down to the bottom!” The pitch dark descent off Grant-Swamp was slow going, careening down the initial scree field and picking our way through the lightly traveled and technical trail down to the 88 mile mark at Kam’s Traverse. We were early, but in Hardrock style, the aid station was ready to go! Dusty asks them how far back the next runners were at Chapman and they respond that there were no runners through yet.

Karl must be having some troubles, but we can’t slow down. I think I might be able to break 26 hours and maybe even 25:30, but little did I know what was up next. I had seen 1.5 miles of the upcoming section to Putnam, but I was planning do this section during the final week before the race, but the ankle sprain shot that. However Dusty had done it a few days before so he was ready to lead the way. The first light of Saturday starts to show itself as we say goodbye to the trees on the climb to the pass.

I am trying to push as strongly as possible, but the Hardrock miles and terrain have added up and make the next gear hard to find. This special course tears me apart like no other, peeling away the outer layers, making me dig deeper into those deep recesses of body and soul. Nothing else matters at this point, just the task at hand and that is to get to the 94 mile point at Putnam, now just over the next pass. On this unseen part of the course the top never seems to come. False ridge after false ridge go by and I keep chasing Dusty, searching and for that extra gear. Every 20-30 minutes I put down a gel. Sunrise provides some respite from the discomfort and soul searching, lighting the valleys and mountains. Peek-a-boo views of the Grenadiers pop out between the passes and cut into the surrounding mountains that stand watch over Putnam Basin. Like most hundred mile trail runners know, the sunrise of the second day can breathe new life into the body and I start to find the extra gear as we crest over the ridge and wind our way into the Putnam aid station.

It’s great to finally see the aid station volunteers, but we can’t stay for long. I am racing against the clock, now focusing on break 26 hours. There’s lots of downhill ahead, yet the first couple of miles are not what someone who has run already run 94 miles wants to see. More boulder fields and rocks, seemingly strategically placed, grab ankles and catch toes. Not feeling my ankle and forgetting my legs are screaming, I just stay in the present moment, trying to tap the ground and float down the hill.

After these quick downhill miles, we hear the sound of the highway and Mineral Creek, signaling just a couple miles to go. I let out a holler to those that have come to catch me cross the creek, then make my way up the climb. I try to run, but manage a combination of running and walking. Chasing the clock to break 26 hours, I get to the dirt road leading to the shrine above Silverton, realizing sub 26 will not happen today. Still running hard to the top of the road, I see many spectators have been awaiting my arrival into Silverton.

Down below Silverton looks like paradise and I chase down the hill to the finish line and meet Leah for the final five blocks to the school. Making my way to the finish, then giving “The Hardrock” it’s kiss, I am elated for the win and time, but mostly for the journey and experiences I have gone through. I also think of the journey just three days ago that made many think it would be impossible to even start.

My lessons: Just when you think you have dug as deep as possible, you can go DEEPER. Fitting for this race since the Hardrock Hundred is a tribute to the Hardrock miners that traversed these mountains. Oh, and don’t play soccer the week of a big race!

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 7th, 2007 at 11:33 am and is filed under Racing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.