Travel to the Start
I boarded one of the buses for the 2 hour ride from the finish to the start and wondered what the odds were that one of these years a bus would eventually give out on the mountain pass. So of course the clutch blew near the top of the mountain pass. We had to redistribute among the three other buses. And then we were stopped for half an hour because the Forest Service was replacing a culvert under the road. Obviously the race start was delayed, but I embraced this opportunity to transition into the laid back attitude I was going to need during the race.
Start to Blue Lake (12)
Smoke from a fire up near White Pass was billowing into the area. While that took the edge off the sun, it also made for a sore throat as we hoofed it up and over the first climb. I left the start with a 12L Salomon pack with 1.5L of fluid in back and 1L up front in two bottles, plus two hand-held UltrAspire bottles with water for cooling myself off. Every five minutes, I’d dribble water on my head and my shirt. By an hour into the race, my shirt and hair were damp and cool. I absolutely suck in heat and have to go above and beyond to survive in it, and this strategy managed to prevent me from wiping out.
We caught some clouds during the last few miles into Blue Lake, but it was still toasty at the aid station.
Blue Lake (12) to Windy Ridge (30)
I interspersed my bottle/reservoir-filling time with a boatload of watermelon slices, but I didn’t linger long. I was leaving with a lot of real-food-ish gel/pouch things from Muir Energy, Spring, and Huma. Normal gels are nauseating, and these are made with rice, nut butter, fruit, chia seeds, etc., that don’t mess up my stomach. They also tend to stick around a bit longer and behave like real food.
Every year I get lulled into a sense of complacency on the run down to the Toutle River. There’s plenty of shade, a soft trail tread, and some springs shooting out of the hillside. But then as I get spit out into the dusty wash I remember it’s a minor detour on our adventure to the surface of the sun.
The air was still along the switchbacks through the brush. I expected a good breeze on the sand dune hillside up to the plateau around St. Helens, but we were gifted nothing but hot, stagnant air. The only breeze I was going to get was whatever headwind I could make.
As I made my way around the north side of St. Helens, there were moments when I had to stop and walk. It was so freakin’ hot, and I had run out of water to douse myself. I kept eating every so often, but that also necessitated that I walk for a while. So much blood was rushing to my skin to try to keep me cool that I hardly had enough left to process anything in my stomach.
95 degrees and sunny with a running pack, no shade, no breeze. When I finally reached the first of several roaring, ashy creeks, I hollered in joy and immediately got to soaking my entire body with cold glacial melt - rapid-fire with both hand-held bottles, like a water wheel about to rattle itself apart. Rinse and repeat, all the way to the oasis, the final water source before Windy Ridge.
Windy Ridge (30) to Johnston Ridge (40)
I got to Windy Ridge feeling ✰✰✰ s p a c e d o u t ✰✰✰. I think it was mostly the integrated time in the heat, and not dehydration. I spent ten minutes squatting in the shade, drinking some beer and soda. Usually I would’ve puked by this point in any race, but in spite of the conditions I was holding everything together. After a short hike I got back into the running groove and scooted on down the sandy, rocky washes toward Johnston Ridge. I really took my time in the swampy brush at the bottom. For one thing, I didn’t want to add water to hot feet. That would be a recipe for blisters galore. But I also knew this was essentially the hottest, most stagnant part of the course, even in the late afternoon. No point in wasting energy.
I think somewhere around the start of the climb up to Johnston Ridge, I felt confident in myself and my running capability for the first time in years. Maybe it was the realization that the sun was close to setting, I didn’t puke, I wasn’t dehydrated, and I wasn’t sore. Yet.
So of course, as soon as I hit the runnable trail at the top of the ridge, I ate some food and immediately went through 10 minutes of agonizing nausea. It still was just too hot. So I walked for a while. Even though it is some of the easiest mileage in the race.
Johnston Ridge (40) to Coldwater Lake (47)
I drank another beer, this time with more gusto, and ate a sloppy chicken and avocado burrito. Usually I try to walk through this aid station, but I figured I needed to patch up calorie deficits from the heat before I supremely wrecked myself.
As I trotted out of the aid station I FaceTime’d my wife for a bit to tell her I was fine, hadn’t puked, and was going to finish. Once I put my phone away and leaned into the downhill, I immediately launched half of the burrito onto the side of the trail.
I’m something of a puking connoisseur. There’s two types of puking. The uncontrollable, non-stop puking I used to deal with, until I realized I need about twice as much salt as the average person, and then the kind where I’ve just made a minor error and eaten too much. I can’t even begin to describe how easy it is to puke and immediately recover when you’ve eaten too much, versus the uncontrolled, ruined-stomach kind of puking. I finally fixed an affliction I’ve had for years. I found it comforting to drink soda and eat a gel immediately afterward, like it was nothing.
Plus, I really love this section. Not because it’s a gimme - just 6 miles, downhill, with some forested ponds at the bottom - but because of the nostalgia. I had a field trip to St. Helens in sixth grade and walked this same trail with my science class. It’s a bit like a homecoming. Yeah there’s lots of little ups and downs, but to me this section is where I reconstitute myself after the ash wastes.
The only thing that was strange was this feeling in my left heel. Like, a kind of pinch on the side? It wasn’t very bothersome, but I made a mental note to check it at Coldwater Lake. Maybe I was getting a hotspot.
Coldwater Lake (47) to Norway Pass (65)
No, not a hot spot - a full blown blood blister the size of a couple of quarters. I have some callouses on the sides of my heels, and slipping around with sweaty feet for the past 47 miles must have bunched up my skin. What a bummer!
I had it lanced and patched over by a volunteer while I ate a burger and drank a hot chocolate made with heavy cream. Thank you Selina, and every other 200 miler veteran who volunteers at these races - you know exactly what we all need! I spent way too long at Coldwater, but I really wanted to make sure every other part of me was all set because my heel was already getting wrecked.
I never get blisters, so imagine my surprise and angst as I jogged along the shores of Coldwater Lake with a dull sting every step. Somewhere just before the big climb it kind of mellowed out and I was able to put in a good effort up through the trees. I hiked with Mika for a bit and took a few minutes to eat half of a burger, after which point I encountered no one else on the rest of the section.
Usually I get to the top of the climb and feel spent, but this year I was moving with strength. The only let-down was that at midnight, it was still about 70 degrees. There were moments where I would catch a breeze traversing one of the many breaks in the ridgeline. Somewhere a few miles before Mt. Margaret, I took advantage of an unusually steady breeze. I just plopped down in the middle of the sandy trail, looked up at all the stars in the sky, and gave myself five or ten minutes of peace. I’d close my eyes for a minute, and then realign with the stars. Total silence. Total solitude. Brain reset. Let’s go!
As I summited Mt. Margaret I could see some headlights way off in the distance behind me. That was a little kick in the pants to get up some speed on the downhill into Norway Pass. My blister wasn’t super happy, but I figured the pounding would mellow it out again. In spite of the heat, there was still a north-facing snowfield a mile before the aid station. A cool, humid little escape from the mildly oppressive night.
Norway Pass (65) to Elk Pass (76)
Norway Pass, being in a drainage below the little snowfield, collects a lot of cool air. There was an inversion that can’t have been much higher in height than a person is tall, but it felt amazing. Like dipping into a cold lake. I ate a hefty amount of mashed potatoes, had a lot of hot cider, and sacked out on the ground for about 10 minutes. After this drive-by sleep session, I got myself a-rolling out of there just as the folks behind me were trickling in.
This is another one of those sections I love. There aren’t any monumental climbs, but there’s a lot of super runnable trail - you just have to get through the overgrowth, blowdowns, and crappy stream crossing first.
Up and over the first little hump in the trail through the overgrowth and I could tell this was going to remain a warm night. Usually the little valley on the other side is frosty with dew, but tonight it was just dank. I took a hot second at the broken-up bridge to get my bandana wet (at 3am, no less…) and soon began the blowdown dodging. There’s only 10, maybe 15 tops, and only a few present a real obstacle.
I hit the contour trail at the top of the main climb and enjoyed watching as the morning twilight highlighted all of the mossy, bubbling springs spilling across the trail. After crossing the road, I entered the promised land: the far western section of the Boundary Trail, which is certainly the coziest stretch of trail in the entire race. I managed to get to Elk Pass around sunrise.
Elk Pass (76) to Road 9237 (91)
This was a pivotal aid station for me because I realized I was in for some hurt. Not super bad, but bad enough that I was going to need to adjust my expectations. I popped my sweaty shoes and socks off and lo-and-behold, I had some juicy new blood blisters on the bottom of my feet. They were too deep under the skin to lance without inviting an infection. And my sweaty pack was rubbing into the bottom of my back. A great medical volunteer taped my back so well that the tape stayed on until after the race. He also re-lanced the giant blood blister on the side of my heel and built a moat of tape layers around it to take the pressure off. I enjoyed this spa treatment while drinking a lot of coffee and eating a giant breakfast plate.
Hello darkness, my old friend? Not this time. Unlike my past encounters, I enjoyed this section of trail in spite of the dirt bike ruts and swarming flies. It was a hot morning, and my feet weren’t particularly happy, but I think I could project forward that yes, I was going to make it to the finish. So I looked around and soaked up the scenery. Alpine lakes, ridgeline views, giant rock outcroppings. A few dirt bikes passed me somewhere in the middle of this section. I will never understand how they manage to avoid flying off the steep mountainside on these rocky, switchbacked trails.
Things started to get a little too hot once I began my descent down to Road 9237. I’d say it was like descending into hell.
Road 9237 (91) to Spencer Butte (103)
Once again, the air was still and it was over 90 degrees. And here I found myself chugging another beer and eating the most greasy grilled cheese I’ve ever had. Were those good choices in this heat? I again popped my shoes off, and this time found my big toes both had black toenails and were quite swollen. At this rate I was going to lose my feet to gangrene before the finish line. What new horrors would I discover in the miles ahead?
After a bit of quick foot care I was off down the trail and into bright sunlight that beat me into a pulp. I’ve run this section before. It’s great fun. But the heat was so insane that I had to walk. In fact, I walked a good chunk of the descent. It was just. Too. Hot. When I got to the bottom and started the steep ascent up Cussed Hollow, I realized I was overheating. I had tingles on my neck and felt panicky. So I did the only thing I could do. I took off my pack and my shirt, laid down in the bushes, and drizzled some water on my body. I laid there for a long time. Ants were crawling over me. I was so messed up that I only processed this minutes later.
At some point, I realized my body temperature had dropped back down, so I suited back up and eased into the climb. Very slowly. I told myself I wouldn’t run, at all, for the next hour. Even when the trail was flat. So I just plugged along, content in this sauna of a forest, and kept eating and drinking.
After a few quick up-and-overs through several creek drainages, the trail turns abruptly upward and starts a solid 2000 foot grind to the top of Spencer Butte. It’s not particularly steep, it’s just relentless and often rutted. And before the top of Spencer Butte, I ran out of water. But hey, at least it was now 90 degrees without the sun directly overhead.
I was skirting dehydration, and if I didn’t run with good form I was inviting all but certain quad damage on the descent toward the aid station. So I played this game where I’d see how smoothly I could run. When the bottles in the front of my pack would start to bounce around, I slowed down to a walk. I could increase my speed every ten seconds if I wanted, but I couldn’t slow down. Did this work? I actually think it did. When I got to the bottom of the butte, my legs weren’t trashed. My brain, though, had left the building long ago.
Photo by Anastasia Wilde.
Spencer Butte (103) to Lewis River (110)
I speed walked into the aid station and said something like, “Mountain Dew, iced, I’ll just chain a bunch”. The volunteers were rightfully worried, but I knew what I was dealing with: sort of dehydrated, sort of low on calories, sort of overheated. Ice, liquid, calories, all good. I probably drank 4-5 cups of Mountain Dew, ate a chicken and avocado burrito, and promptly shuffled off down the road. Somehow my stomach managed to process all of that and spare me from any nausea.
Photo by Anastasia Wilde.
The descent down to the Lewis River is, objectively, an asshole. The trail turns straight down a river bluff and plunges 2500 feet in something like 1.5 miles. There’s a “rolling” bit at the bottom but it’s more like “tumbling into the butt crack of the hillside”. And it’s overgrown with so much crap that you often lose your footing because you can’t see the trail underneath the brush. I had my poles fully extended, and I was putting so much weight on my hands that they were getting blisters, but I just kept running down and letting all of that nonsense wash over me.
When I finally hit the bottom I took a moment to make sure my testicles were still attached. Once I was sure they were still there, I ran the rest of the way to the aid station. The Lewis River trail is mostly flat, often wide, and has just a few short uphill grunts. You’re wasting it if you don’t give it a good effort.
The reroute to the new aid station location up the gravel road is a turd.
Lewis River (110) to Quartz Ridge (127)
I got here early enough that sleeping felt like a dumb idea, but I was going to do it anyway. Two days in the heat and I could barely concentrate anymore, especially after only 10 minutes of sleep. I ate a couple of plates of food, had some hot chocolate and hot cider, and then waddled over to the sleep tent.
Sleep was not going to be easy, even though I was well past tired. It was 8pm and it still felt like it was 90 degrees. An extremely nice volunteer brought me an ice pack to put under my neck. I opened the tent flap, took off my clothes, and slept naked. I did pull a dry shirt over my crotch so that I wouldn’t totally scare someone away if they walked by. Somewhere during the waking up process I realized the shorts I had been wearing, that I had placed next to my head in the tent, smelled like vinegar and hot butt. Rather than re-engage with them, I stepped into a fresh pair. And somehow, despite the absurd heat, I didn’t have any chafing. That’s a true miracle.
I really could not wait to get the hell out of this aid station. I felt like the entire race had shown up while I was sleeping. My first few trots down the gravel road felt terrible, but by the bottom my blisters were punched back down to size.
Having done this race a few times, I was mentally prepared for what was ahead. 6000 feet of gain, with 3000 feet of net gain. Mathematically, that means it’s a big climb but you get robbed of your hard-earned gain along the way.
And in the dark, it’s totally disorienting. You really have no idea where you’re going. Suddenly the trail is going steeply up - so steep you can reach out with your pole and touch the trail. And then suddenly it dumps you down through a thicket of bushes and into a wide creek crossing with lots of boulders, long since worn flat, that water sheets across in a thin layer. And then you meander through a lumpy stretch of forested ground, avoiding giant 5-foot-diameter trees that keeled over ages ago. And then you start going up again. If you come ready to grind, it’s fun. Just trust me on that.
Around the last creek crossing I filtered two bottles’ worth of water. This turned out to be an excellent strategic decision because it was warm and humid, and there was still a lot of ground to cover. When I reached the “top”, where the trail intersects our steadfast friend, the dusty, rutted Boundary Trail, I mentally noted to myself that the “top” was still almost 1000 feet above me and a few miles ahead. A marshy lake more or less marks the “top”. Kind of. The reroute to the new aid station included some (meager) bonus vertical up to yet another summit.
As I kept descending the new stretch of trail, I expected to see the aid station behind every curve. 10 minutes went by, 20 minutes went by - oh boy, I have to march back up all of this? I had a moment of spiritual reawakening when I saw parked cars around the corner and realized the aid station was finally here.
Quartz Ridge (127) to Chain of Lakes (144)
A few things bummed me out at this aid station. One, I realized my sunglasses were not in my pack. Two, I realized my visor was not in my pack. Both were probably somewhere at Lewis River, lost among all the gear detritus. The next two sections had a decent amount of sun exposure, so I needed to figure out a solution. Since my brain was not able to do that, I drank a lot of coffee and ate a few burritos instead.
At some point, I realized I would not be able to summon a hat into existence, so I decided to get going back up the hill, along the road full of parked crew cars, and ask each car full of crew if they had a spare hat that I could borrow. Imagine my surprise when the second car I asked said “yes!” Thank you Mr. Booth, I took the greatest of care with your Bryce Canyon finisher’s hat. It meant a lot to me and saved my nose from certain death.
Hat now on head, I powered up the climb out the aid station as the sun cooked my rear. I wasn’t pissed off, just fiery and ready to lay waste to some ruts. Cruising past the old Council Bluff aid station, I realized - shit, it’s another really hot day! Third in a row! Not boiling like the last two, but hot enough that I’d still put it in the running for hotter than any other day at any other Bigfoot 200. At the top of Council Bluff itself, I took stock of the situation. Toasty. Sweaty feet. Blisters and toenails hurting. Let me just slowly start this rocky downhill. Oof, not good. But on the plus side, I’d rather be running painfully downhill than painfully uphill, and I wouldn’t be running any uphills for the rest of the race.
The gravel roads over to Chain of Lakes were bathed in sun, but because they’re on a gentle downhill I was able to cool off in my own headwind. I poured some water on myself and got my body temperature down a bit.
Suddenly a very large hornet started harassing me. I tried ignoring it, but it actually started divebombing me. Dude, I am running in the road, there’s no way I bothered your nest - what’s the deal? I started running faster. And faster. When I thought I had shaken it, it showed up again. The psychological abuse broke me. I screamed at it and started a full-on sprint toward the final stretch of hot asphalt. Apparently this part of the road was too hot even for the hornet. Pyrrhic victory.
The two miles of trail over toward the aid station really buried me. The trees were locking in the heat and the sun was directly overhead. I walked a bit to keep my body temperature at only a concerning level.
Chain of Lakes (144) to Klickitat (161)
This was another “Iced Coke, I’m going to chain a bunch of cups” moment. I think I drank four big cups of Coke within a minute. Sitting in the shade of the tent, I realized I wasn’t going to spontaneously cool down without some intervention. Volunteers brought me ice packs for under my armpits and threw a cool towel around my neck. I tried eating a burrito, but I realized I was still too warm because I couldn’t produce any saliva. I went back to the Coke.
I think I finished an entire two liter bottle and then entered the most blissful sugar coma. Kicked back on a cot, ice packs all over my chest, drifting through waves of heat and emptiness. Eventually I cooled down, came back to reality, and ate some real food. A volunteer entombed my swollen, black, nail-floating-off-the-nailbed toes in Leukotape.
As I rattled down the rocky, rutted trail toward the first of several creek crossings, I did legitimately worry about what was going to happen to my feet if they got soggy. So I made the decision to do barefoot creek crossings. At each creek I’d remove my shoes, remove my socks, lash them onto my pack, and then wade across with my poles. On the other side I’d scramble up the dusty wash, dry my feet, wick the dirt off with a dry bandana, and then get my socks and shoes back on. This added at least ten minutes to each creek crossing. But I thought it might save my feet.
The first creek crossing had a bridge, but the second did not. It was swift and deep, almost to the top of my thighs, and really cold. It took my breath away, but it did feel amazing to instantly cool my legs down. After getting my shoes in order, I ran most of the plateau and descent down to the Cispus River, where I repeated my barefoot crossing and filtered some extra water for the climb up Elk Peak.
This is where my feet went to shit despite all of this heroic effort. The climb is steep, and that meant I was putting extra pressure on my heel blisters. But if I tried to take pressure off by using my forefoot and toes, it felt like I was ripping my toenails. So I just split the difference. By the time I cleared the last false summit I was hiking gingerly out of necessity. I took a few minutes at the summit to collect my mental strength because I knew the downhill into the aid station was going to hurt.
I spiraled into a spiritual darkness.
Klickitat (161) to Twin Sisters (180)
When I arrived at the aid station I felt like dropping, but I translated that thought from tired-brain into English and knew it meant I had to eat, sleep, and fix my feet. I ate a bunch of meatballs with cheese while airing out my feet. My big toes were weeping a lot of purple fluid, and my blisters had swollen and were deforming the bottom of my heel. A volunteer taped some padding around my heel blisters, and I decided to sleep with my shoes and socks off to let my feet air out a bit.
Bad decision! I woke up and when I tried to get my feet into my shoes, I physically couldn’t. I sat and stewed about this for a while, and then told a volunteer, who out of nowhere procured a set of pneumatic leg sleeves that could progressively compress my toes, ankles, and legs to help drain the excess fluid. So I laid back down on the cot, drifting in and out of sleep, while this contraption squeezed my legs like a boa constrictor. I’d wake up and have some food handed to me, eat a bit, sleep a bit, eat a bit.
After a few hours I was able to get my shoes on, but my feet hurt terribly after 8 hours of rest. I told the volunteers that I was never so terrified to leave an aid station. My feet had taken such a turn that I was worried they’d completely fall apart during this next stretch, which is notorious for its difficulty. So they told me that if, after ten minutes, I didn’t think I could do it, I should turn back. I asked what place I was in. “Somewhere around 40th or 45th”.
The first few minutes were sobering. I was occasionally having to hobble to take the edge off. Around ten minutes into my hike, I stopped in the middle of the trail. I looked back. I looked forward. Fuck it. What if I try running? Will that really pound the blisters back down and hurt less? Will that actually shift the toenails back into place?
So I starting running. As morning crept through the trees I stowed my poles and picked up the pace. There were all sorts of blowdowns to hop over, but my blisters hurt less with each step. I passed a couple of runners before the climb up to Mission Mountain, and that gave me some extra confidence.
After a quick, steep descent through overgrown ferns I reached St. John’s Lake, where a pile of runners were sitting having breakfast. I kept up a running pace from here until just before Jackpot Lake, passing someone every 20 minutes. Around Jackpot Lake things started to heat up so I dialed back my pace, hoping to conserve a little bit for the climb back out of Twin Sisters. Just as I was heading up toward the final climb, someone behind me started shouting and was clearly getting stung by wasps. A few seconds later I felt a hot sting right on the side of my mouth. As I was operating on pure logic, I instead shifted into an aggressive pace up and over the last climb and down into the aid station.
Twin Sisters (180) to Owen’s Creek (196)
I got into the aid station around noon, devoured a bear claw, a burger, and some fruit, and started a fast hike back up the trail. We finally had a pleasantly cool day and I was going to milk it for all I could. Patchy clouds were rolling by overhead as I trudged over fresh blowdowns on my way to Pompey Peak. These were nastier than usual, still full of needly branches that snagged me as I lofted myself over and under trunk after trunk. The trail off Pompey is perched on an impossibly-steep hillside, so it was slow going all the way down.
I was ecstatic once the trail dumped me onto the six mile contour grade to the aid station, but it was a short-lived celebration. Every 100 feet there was pile after pile of blowdowns. There’s piles of thick young trees lining both sides of the trail. Lots of fodder for wind storms, I guess.
I’ve given this section a name, the “Green Mile”. It’s a logging road that’s slowly being reabsorbed by nature, so it’s exceptionally verdant. But also, like Michael Duncan’s character in the Green Mile, it’s magical: it goes on forever!
I finally cleared the last of the blowdowns and enjoyed three or four miles of uninterrupted running through grass and berry bushes.
Owen’s Creek (196) to Finish (209)
I had no intention of stopping, now. I chugged a cup of iced Coke, grabbed some candy, and jogged out of the aid station. The gravel road tilts slightly downhill, but becomes much steeper once you take a right toward the Cowlitz valley. My feet were all right when I was running down, but then…
…I took my first few steps on pavement at the bottom and immediately started walking. My toenails were wrecked and my blisters were stinging like crazy. I’m not sure if it was the downhill, the cumulative 9 miles of non-stop running for the first time in days, or just the hardness of the pavement, but I had to walk for a couple of miles.
Another runner, Casey, could have passed me, but she decided to walk with me for a bit and motivate me. At some point, the pain started to subside, as if the blisters had shifted around and found a new equilibrium. I announced that I was ready to haul it in, and we started running again.
We ran together for those last five or six miles, taking in the sights and sounds of rural Washington. An old camper trailer with lights strung all around a clearing in the trees. Hay fields with white fences. Puppies running around a pen in the front yard of an old farm house. The trestle bridge over the milky Cowlitz River. People sitting in lawn chairs in Randle, cheering us on as we began our final mile-and-a-half stretch of road under a darkening, misty sky.
It’s good.
83:05:21, 25th, 111 finishers, 199 starters.
Photo by Anastasia Wilde.
Gear I wore/used/carried
La Sportiva Mutants
Icebreaker socks
Patagonia Strider Pro 5 shorts
Random shirts from Patagonia, Mountain Hardwear
Moeben arm sleeves
Salomon Advanced Skin 12 set pack with quiver
Leki Mario MCT Vario TA poles/gloves
Steripen
Black Diamond Icon headlamp
Outdoor Research Helium II jacket
Ultimate Direction rain pants
Two Salomon 500mL soft flasks
Salomon 1.5L hydration reservoir
Two UltraSpire Iso Versa hand held bottles
Headsweats visor
Tifosi Slip sunglasses
Straw hat from Dorfman Pacific
What I ate/drank
Skratch drink mix (~50 satchets)
Huma Chia gels (~15)
Muir Energy gels (~20)
Spring Energy gels (~30)
That’s about 11,500 calories of trail food, and I’d guess I ate another 6,000 calories in aid stations. So about 17,500 calories. I estimate I burned about 33,000 calories during the event (running + living). That means I should have lost 4.5 pounds of body fat. A week after the race I was down 4 pounds, so that’s not unbelievable. I think I need to eat a lot more! I didn’t have much gas in the tank past 140 miles. That’s when I slipped from my steady-state ~10th place throughout the first 2/3 of the race.
What I applied to my feet
In my experience, blood blisters are a bit easier to deal with than regular blisters. They’re more of a dull ache, and I think they must be due to frictional sliding over a shorter distance but with more force. I used Run Goo during the race and I think that saved me from the worst of it, although I had to use up most of it during the first two days. I did not develop any regular blisters, even on my toes - just the one blood blister on the side of my heel and the two on the bottom of my heels. The ones on my heel were very deep, almost in the heel pad, so they took a while to become painful - and they still haven’t fully healed.
What I will do differently next year
The Mutants are great shoes for mountainous terrain, but I think they are way too structured for Bigfoot. They have a solid midsole, but it isn’t particularly soft or cushioned, and while they’re built to get the absolute crap beaten out of them on ultra-rocky terrain, that also means they don’t breathe well. I think I might try Hoka Speedgoats next year. While I’ll miss the absurd grip of the Mutants, Bigfoot is not technical enough to warrant the tradeoffs, especially over 210 miles.
More Spring Energy gels. They were so easy to eat and didn’t sour my stomach. McRaecovery, Long Haul, and Awesome Sauce brought me a lot of joy.
Higher carbohydrate drink mix. Skratch makes a 400 calorie/bottle drink mix called Superfuel that is supposed to be easy to digest. I’d like to use that during the day when it’s hot and gels/solid food are unappetizing.
Caffeine pills and more canned coffee. I will put a canned coffee or two in every drop bag next year. I only put a single can in a few bags, but I drank them all. A Doubleshot out on the trail tastes amazing! Caffeine pills for the trail would be helpful, too. At night I would leave an aid station and be wired for a couple of hours from the coffee, but then I’d crash in the middle of a section.
Tetrapaks of cream. The two times I was able to get it, hot chocolate made with whipping cream really settled my stomach - and it’s also an absurd amount of calories.
Pre tape with Leukotape in spots where I suspect I could have issues. Around the heel, big toe, and little toe. The toes themselves, interior to the sides of the foot, seem to be fine with Run Goo. No idea about those blood blisters on the bottom of my heel - maybe a more cushioned shoe will help? Again, Mutants are great but I think past 100 miles they’re a hard sell unless it’s super technical.
Ditch the poles except for Chain of Lakes to Klickitat, and maybe also Spencer Butte down to Lewis River. I had them stowed in my quiver for most of the race, including a lot of the climbs. Bigfoot does not have many steep climbs or descents - the 45,000 feet of vertical gain doesn’t come in short bursts, but instead through steady climbs/descents. I do find the poles slow me down on everything except the steepest, nastiest terrain. The drop down off Spencer Butte, in dry conditions, could be done safely without poles. It’s not scree and it’s not sandy/dusty. But if wet, it could be nasty. I have two pairs of collapsible poles, one of which is barely functional. I think next year, I’ll pick those poles up at Spencer Butte, leave them at Lewis River, and pick up my quiver + good poles at Chain of Lakes. It would be nice to have them for the rutted descents and steeper parts of the climb up Elk Peak.
In the middle of a long race, a lager tastes absolutely amazing. A savory drink is a nice break from hydration mixes and soda. I’ll throw a Rainier in each drop bag next year.
An HDX box for my drop bag at Coldwater Lake/Klickitat. This bag has to hold two pairs of shoes, a lot of clothes, and a lot of food. Both are pivotal aid stations before a long section. It’s too hard for me to manage everything in my normal roll-top dry bags.
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