My training this spring has been solid, peaking at around 70 miles per week with a lot of vert. That training may have actually carried the day.
I kept the pace relaxed off the line, cruising up and over Horsetooth with little effort. While it wasn’t that cold, I came in heat trained, so I had a pullover on until the second or third hour. Everything was clicking until shortly after Towers at mile 14. I decided to fill my bottle with VFuel drink mix - I gave it a test and it seemed pretty mild. I’ve never had it, but I figured if it didn’t taste salty it was probably fine.
By the time I got to Arthur’s, I was feeling totally nauseated and puked shortly after the aid station. I don’t know if the mix was stronger than normal, but I switched to pure water and that immediately alleviated the nausea. Unfortunately, my stomach was refusing to budge. Everything I put down would come up within a minute. I’ve done 10 long runs this year in the 20-30 mile range, without so much as a touch of nausea, and here I was 18 miles into my usual spring tune-up race and I was floundering.
You wouldn't know I vomited twice in the previous five minutes. This photo is by Erin Bibeau, who has been to every single Quad Rock.
I generally only drink water during training, and even races, lately - I find I don’t need salt, at all, unless it gets really hot and then it seems to help with digestion. Actually, after ditching that one bottle of VFuel, I never ate any salt for the rest of the race except for a couple of sips of broth at mile 40. I think I went with the VFuel because it seemed like it had very little salt, but I think that because some of it is in the form of sodium citrate, it’s harder to detect by taste alone. Big race strategy error: do not deviate from what keeps you happy, unless something’s already broken! Plus, I was heat trained, which means that I needed even less salt than normal. Double duh!
I was feeling terrible coming into the turn-around and thought about dropping, but a few sips of Coke gave me enough of a boost to want to get back out there. Of course, I continued to vomit for the rest of the climb up and over Arthur’s Rock and Westridge. I was deep in Shitsville at mile 30, having absorbed essentially nothing since mile 14, and my muscles and tendons were getting painfully tight. A friend I had been running with heard me griping and passed me an anti-emetic pill. That was just what I needed, and by the time I got to Arthur’s, my thirst and hunger were roaring back. I parked myself on a bench and chugged Coke for about 10 minutes, and then waddled on down the valley trail, burping along and letting this awkward mass of fluid seep into my system.
Once I hit the meat of the Mill Creek climb, I found a bit more energy and started to power hike like I meant it. I managed to pass a few people before Towers, regaining some of the places I had lost at Arthur’s, and continued to push it up and over Horsetooth. There was a low point here where the wind picked up, the sun went behind the clouds, and I found myself getting chilled to the bone on the ridge surrounded by snow drifts. It wasn’t that cold, but the lack of food and remaining dehydration didn’t give me a lot to work with.
There was plenty of power-walking on the way up to Towers from Horsetooth aid, but I had stemmed the tide and wasn’t ceding any more ground. I nearly ran out of steam right at the top, but I took a minute to sip broth and get my head back for the final bone-rattling descent down Towers. Four folks came into the aid stations and rolled through just as I headed out. That was enough to convince me to suck it up and press on. Stout trail at the bottom of Towers just about killed me with its short, steep rollers, but when I got to the creek valleys on Loggers and Mill Creek I picked up the pace a bit and almost enjoyed myself. The final few miles from Arthur’s back to the finish hurt quite a bit. The constant vomiting in the middle of the race - 15, 20 times - had strained my chest muscles and left me completely drained of energy. Fumes were all I had. I still almost caught someone right at the end.
I think my training gave me the ability to keep moving, sans water and food, for almost half of the race, and still just barely run my slowest time. Even a year ago, I would have taken the hint at the turn-around and dropped if I started vomiting on the first lap. Puking early in a 50 is as sure a sign as any that the race is already rolling toward the gutter. But I think it was worth it to hang on and see how I could fare. It was a bad day, but it was also a great day.
Sitting on a reclining chair by the finish line, bowl of chicken tortilla soup in lap and beer in hand, I fluttered in and out of sleep as the occasional shower drifted in on the breeze. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so challenged by a 50 miler, but I also don’t think I’ve ever been as satisfied by a 50 mile finish, either.
