It’s easy to fall into the trap of “what ifs”. What would
have happened if I hadn’t needed to spend 10 minutes at every other aid station
re-duct-taping my heel to fend off blisters? What if I had been totally on top
of my nutrition and hadn’t gotten dehydrated and hypoglycemic in the middle of
the race?
At the end of the day, I played smart but aggressively. I
did what I needed to get myself to the finish and did it with enough speed to
take first place overall, break the course record by over 2 hours, and PR by 3 hours
and 49 minutes over my finish time last year.
Not exactly a remote start!
Crewman Terry ready to dish out the tough love.
Crewman G-man ready to chase after me in the Highlander and force-feed me.
It’s cool but not cold, overcast, slightly humid – perfect
running weather. I sneak up to the starting line with a single hand-held water
bottle amidst a sea of hydration packs and the running equivalents of a
fanny-pack: I both look the part of the fool who doesn’t know what he’s getting
into and the minimalist who needs nothing more than a bottle of cola and some
gels. There’s something to be said about racing light, because with fewer items
to worry about, all I can do is plow forward.
The race begins with a brisk but manageable pace up to the
Badger Mountain summit, and I chat with a Catalonian about running in Spain
versus running in America. Here, long distance running is an underground sport
without fanfare. There, it’s a spectator event. Also, the mountains in Spain
make the Rockies seem like child’s play. But we’re running in Eastern
Washington – have you seen these talus jeep trails?
Taking the early lead up the Badger Mountain contour trail.
There’s a group of four front runners – myself and three
other guys close in tow. At the crest of Candy Mountain we’re seconds apart,
but I put nearly a minute on them in the fast, incredibly steep mile-long
descent into the gully at its base. From here until mile 56, I’ll keep the
lead, but only just.
These first few peaks are so familiar, I go into auto-pilot
on the next climb and almost miss the turn off of Red Mountain to the Hedges
Winery aid station at the top of the gently-sloped Sunset Avenue. Each
iteration of the BMC involves some bushwhacking off Red Mountain.
Rolling down the rock-gnarled Red Mountain.
Expanse.
Bushwhacking down to the vineyard.
The next hour of road-running is some relief from running on
gnarly jeep track but it gets monotonous. I marvel at vineyards awkwardly
angled up Goose Hill while I cruise past peeled-paint houses with yards
littered with rusted machinery. I can hear a classic rock radio station and the
sound of trucks rushing by on the freeway. A rooster crows and a dog barks. Not
a person in sight.
McBee aid station, usually a party with all sorts of hot
food and salty snacks, is still just a pile of drop bags when I roll in.
Showing up before the aid stations get set up will be a constant theme, a sign
that I’m either running too fast or having a hell of a race. I refill some of my gels and chews, knock back
some almond butter, and get moving up the incomprehensibly steep McBee Ridge. It’s
here where I start feeling hot spots developing on my heels. Looking back down
the slope I see more than a few figures creeping up behind me. This race is
just getting started.
Starting to feel the hot spots at McBee Parking, but otherwise feeling good!
I put a few more minutes on the chase group on the rolling,
gnarly jeep track to McClelland Butte, and spend nary a few seconds making some
adjustments to my shoe with a volunteer’s pocket knife at the aid station. Before I know it I hit
my favorite part of the course – the long, rolling downhills toward the old
Yakitat aid station. Turning back up toward the high ridge line, I straddle
tilled fields of wheat and jeep track laden with barbed wire and scrub. Let the
loose soil sap your feet or barbs of both the natural and artificial flavor
lick at your ankles. I’ll take a little of both.
As the sun settles in overhead, the clouds begin to break
and I feel the heat. I empty my bottle just before dropping off onto the
primitive jeep trail to the mile 36 aid station. The dirt is lumpy, the grass
in clumps, with piles of rocks, a few dead scrub bushes, and the occasional
rusted-out tractor part. It’s strange to imagine someone ever using this road
for anything but the race.
At Phelps I clean my heels and duct tape them to keep my hot
spots in check. The clouds have cleared and it’s getting warm, sweat soaking my
feet, and my shoes feel too tight – perfect conditions for developing a
race-ending blister. I amble out onto the blacktop road that will take me to
the edge of Prosser, gingerly dodging semi-trucks as I cross Highway 221. The
course doglegs through drainage ditches and undeveloped fields as it meanders
its way around suburban Prosser. A steep, sandy trail weaves around a
dilapidated trailer park before dumping me into a nice neighborhood. It feels a
bit surreal, but that might just be the oppressive sun overhead. I’m relieved
to enter the long, steep uphill to the Lincoln aid station.
I spend time near the top of the climb re-taping my heel,
all the while watching runners hot on my heels inch their way up the gravel
road. I laugh – figuratively and literally, my heels are hot today. I bust out
of the aid station and continue the slog to the top of the ridge, watching the
second-place runner cruise through without stopping. I jog the mile-and-a-half
over to the start of the downhill at the turn-around. The first quarter-mile is
impossibly steep, perhaps a 40% grade, but soon I hit the runnable dirt road
that will take me 1500 feet into the valley below.
At the turn-around I’m dying. My heels are getting raw, I’m
dehydrated, and all I want is something salty to eat. The aid station has trail
mix, cookies, and other sweet things. And I can see runners rolling down the
road behind me. I chug isotonic solution, eat a cheese sandwich, and have a
volunteer spray my back with water. Shedding my collared shirt, I strip down to
a tank top. The second place runner enters the aid station just as I leave.
I want to feel defeated, but I don’t give in. This is the
sort of pressure I need to keep moving. I end up jogging the entire way back up
the hill, power-hiking my butt off up the steep grade at the top. I’ve put a
minute on the man in the blue shirt. If he wants to beat me, he’s going to have
to suffer more than I do. I hit Lincoln and re-tape for a few minutes. I’ve put
enough time on him running on the top of the ridge that he still doesn’t catch
up to me before I leave. If all I can do the rest of the way is outrun him
enough so that he doesn’t catch me while I’m taping, so be it.
I run the section through Prosser, but it’s painful. The
blacktop is baking beneath my feet, but a few very lost raindrops manage to
fall out of the clear sky. A Chihuahua and some baby Huskies chase me around
the edge of the trailer park while residents cheer me on. As I pass a farm
house on the road to the mile 56 aid station, a family asks how long I’ve been
running. “A little more than 9 hours”. And
I’ve got about the same amount to go.
At Phelps I’m in tatters. My heels are on fire and I can
feel some open sores, while I’m still trying to rehydrate. Gordon dumps some
water on my back to cool me off and I almost pass out. I mumble a few
incoherent words to them while they pack my headlamp; I probably won’t see them
before nightfall so I need it, just in case I really fall apart. I lose the
lead as the second-place runner pushes onward. I want to feel defeated, but I
don’t give in.
Late afternoon sun during the chase to McClelland Butte. You see why I love this race?
Instead, I give chase. For every three feet he runs up the
hill, I run four. For every three feet he power-hikes, I hike two. It’s a long,
hot climb, and by the top I’ve emptied half my bottle. I’ve still got an hour
of running to go before I can make it to McClelland Butte, and that’s if I haul. I’ve made up half the ground I lost taking care of my heels. I slowly
erode his lead over the next hour, inching closer on the downhills and holding
onto him on the uphills. He knows I’m back here, but by holding back a bit I
want to make him think that I’m not strong enough to overtake him.
South of the Horse Heaven Hills, farms extend to infinity. Expanse.
I catch up to him as he leaves the McClelland Butte aid
station. He’s feeling fresh and wants to keep moving. Instead of retaping my
heel, I grab a donut for the road, sip broth, and get my rear out of there and
after him. The rolling dirt trail gives way to talus again as we grunt up to
the top of McBee Ridge. I refill my water as I’m still making up a deficit, but
I’m feeling refreshed. The sun is so low in the sky, even the rocks cast long
shadows. I retake the lead on the long contour road down to the base of the
ridgeline, blasting by the now second place runner. I’m back in the race and
feeling good, so good that I make it to McBee Parking at mile 75 without
needing a headlamp.
The first time I've ever been all smiles at mile 75.
My feet are killing me but I don’t care. I’ve got the lead
and I’m not taking the time to retape them. I break into full stride on my way
down the road to the dirt turnout that signals the worst part of the course –
the “rolling”, doglegging trails that hug the side of Goose Hill. The jeep
trails are dusty and sandy, cutting V’s into the hillside as they sharply drop
and climb 50 feet. I stuff my water bottle into the pullover tied around my
waist and crawl on my hands and knees. As darkness falls I turn on my headlamp,
keeping it on low so that the runners behind me can’t see where I am. I talk to
Brandon at Orchard – he just gotten it set up before I arrive, and he rushes
off to set up the Dallas Road aid station. The front runners are crushing the
course, well on record pace.
I finally make it out of the insanity and onto the gravel
roads that wind their way through the Goose Hill vineyard. I know the way to
the frontage road and Dallas Road aid station from here, so I shut off my
headlamp. The farther ahead that the trailing runners think I am, the better.
My breath fogs up and I slip on the pullover. It’s relaxing to just lean
forward and run in the darkness, stars overhead.
Dallas Road is rushing to get their aid station set up as I
roll in. I sip broth and quickly nibble on a few odds-and-ends before heading
out. I stumble through alfalfa fields, keeping my focus on the hill in the
distance. The flagging takes me through scrub that scratches my legs, but I’ve
run 87 miles - all of my physical and emotional feelings blend into one, and scratches from a few bushes
pales in comparison to all the rest. The climb up to the top of the hill is
steep and sandy, sapping my energy with each step as my feet keep slipping
backward. On the way down I nearly miss the turnoff into an orchard; my mind is scattered, so I better eat another gel. I’m
relieved to hit the dirt road on the side of the alfalfa field that will take
me back to Dallas Road.
I tape my heels for the last time at Dallas Road. Mile 91, 9
more miles to go. It’s not a great feeling because these are going to be the
longest 9 miles of my life. I fight back thoughts of resting in a warm bed and
eating food, instead focusing on the pain in my heels. That’ll force me to
finish faster.
As I jog off up the frontage road I see Megan Hall and
another runner hot on my heels (my heels, so hot right now). I tell myself that I have to run all the way to
the base of Candy Mountain, the second-to-last climb. I can’t stop for any
reason, at all. I haul for nearly 40 minutes, sometimes slowing down but always
keeping one foot off the ground. Feeling queasy, I eat some almond butter to
try to settle my stomach.
Dropping down into the ditch and entering the culvert is
like journeying to another world. My footsteps echo around the corrugated metal
wall as mice and beetles scurry about. It’s soothingly humid. I can hear the
rumble of cars on the freeway above. What would the drivers think if they knew
someone was running a 100 mile race right under them? I can see the end of the
culvert, the blackness absorbing the light from my headlamp. Just before
exiting I pass a pair of red panties.
I emerge onto the steep dirt trail up to the top of Candy
Mountain. It was so easy running down almost 17 hours earlier, but now it’s
painful as my heels press into the back of my shoes. A brilliant, bright yellow
moon rises in the distance and paints the dark hillside an eerie dark orange.
Suddenly my chest tightens. I lean over and paint the soil
my own shade of sickly yellow, spending the rest of the climb vomiting. I must
have eaten too much over the last road section. I keep making relentless
forward progress and force fluids down. By the time I reach the top of Candy my
legs are shaky but I break into a trot down the steep hillside. Without
switchbacks these hills are quad-killers.
Ambling into the last aid station, I sip broth and soda, eat
some oranges, and get moving up the west side of Badger. My heels are on fire
while my ankles are chafed to hell from the duct tape, but what’s another half
an hour? Within minutes I hit the contour trail at the top of the mountain and
begin easing into the long downhill to the finish. I can see lights from the houses of
Kennewick sprawled out to the north, lights from the vineyards, alfalfa farms, and wind
turbines filling the expanse to my south, lights from the farm houses and
freeway exits like islands in the abyss. I can see a faint headlamp near the
Goose Hill vineyard, and some headlamps dancing near McBee ridge in the far
distance. At peace with everything, I don’t want this race to end.
I have run 100 miles. There is nothing left for me here. I will go off into the West...
Please amputate my feet. And give me food.
No matter what race day deals you, you measure your success
by how you overcome it. I had far from a perfect race, falling apart in the
middle 15 miles and fighting off hot spots and chafing in my feet nearly the
entire way. But they don’t matter, because I came to Badger Mountain to conquer
myself. Slowly, race by race, I'm learning how to do just that.
Hanging around at the start of the 15K (later) that morning with Scott. Go Terry!
