angeles crest 100... 28:20:11

...this is a journey, a discovery. a search for something, for everything, for ourselves. it begins with curiosity. what is out there? who am I and what am I capable of? it is pure because it is simple. how far can I go on my two feet? how deep can I dig? ... we sit on a rock overlooking Los Angeles as the sun comes up over the mountains behind us. ordinarily this is a great time to be up in the foothills meeting the first golden rays on a rocky trail just 15 minutes from my apartment in the valley below. But today it all seems wrong. with just 10 miles left to complete a run that began two sunrises ago i had hoped to be finished by now. i know this course to be one of the toughest 100 mile races in the country but apparently didn't factor in the cumulative effect of the heat, my swollen ankle, and blisters from the 19,000 ft of climbing and 24,000 ft of descent(equivalent to climbing kilimanjaro from sea level). Steve, who paced me through the night is next to me. I don't know who starts it but pretty soon we are both chuckling. it's a laugh of humility in the face of these mountains. It is a way of admitting the ridiculous amount of pain we are still going to put ourselves through to finish. After coming so far it would be unreasonable not to. Wrightwood, CA 24 hours earlier... it's dark at 4:00 am, 1 hour before the race begins. I'm sitting in the kitchen of our little rental cabin eating some fruit and walnuts looking out a window into the darkness. mom and dad and steve are catching a few extra minutes of rest. its starting to dawn on me that we drove two hours through the mountains to get here, and I will be returning to Pasadena on foot. My anticipation for this moment exhausted having looked forward to this day for months now I no longer care which shoes I should wear or what pace I should hit or if it's even possible to make it. I just want the journey to finally begin! As we line up in the cold to start a foot race that will end 33 hours later an awareness descends that the start is eminent. It doesn't occur to me until the roar of the small crowd fades into the rhythmic pattering and swishing of a herd of runners that it is still dark. Luckily 1 out of every 3 runners has a headlamp and as the human train spreads out like a string of christmas lights, I have no trouble seeing the road climbing up to the trail above town. The first climb (2150') is runnable and it takes constant restraint to relax and conserve energy for the rest of the course. peppered conversations from veterans of the race warn those around them that it's a long day ahead, especially if you get over-ambitious. the sun comes up as we reach the ridge above San Bernadino heading towards inspiration point, the first place the fam/crew will meet up. our intricate hydration plan has us swapping bottles and spending minimal time in the chaos of aid stations while the legs are fresh. I can see a threatening peak rising out of the ravine to the east which is part of the course. I'm still working out some worrisome aches in my left foot as we pass the half marathon point and begin climbing up Mt. Baden-Powell. Steep switchbacks wind us up to 9200 ft just below the peak. then after a long descent to the next aid station(Islip Saddle 40k) it is already warming up significantly. I feel exhausted and realize that maybe I haven't slept as well as I thought leading up to today. at the weigh-in I am 3 lbs under weight though I have been drinking as much as I can. It's once again a huge emotional boost to see mom and dad and steve who pull me over to some shade and give me an ice bandana to keep cool as the course heads up mt. Williamson. Its a beautiful rocky climb and I try to take strength from my surroundings. it's fully exposed and hot but the wind at the top is cool where 1000+ year old trees mark an inspiring view. on the other-side I meet up with the crew again before a course detour along a grueling highway due to forest fire recovery. then it rejoins the trail down into a suffocatingly hot canyon with black flies who seem seriously ticked-off to find you resisting their advances. the heat makes them disturbingly aggressive but I can hardly be bothered as i concentrate on climbing out of this oven faster then the temp does. back up at 7000ft I take my first seat in a chair and get more ice. my legs cramp from de-hydration and I can feel the sun searing a headache into the top of my head. mom tells me I'm 30 minutes off 24 hour pace which is ok in these conditions. Fresh fruit and electrolytes get me moving again and Steve warns me not to race the heat. You don't have to beat the other runners, just let the course work on them. I'm grateful that there is so much support that makes this run possible. Dad gives me a sweet potato with salt at Three-Points aid station before I head into another hot canyon that connects to a short section of asphalt road. I can tell im getting some sort of blister when a runner catches up to me and says, "when I told Hal(race director) that I hadn't trained at altitude or in the heat he said I wasn't going to finish. I told him I wouldn't stop unless they made me". at the next aid station (Mt Hillyer) he sat down and took off his shoes to inspect his blisters. I moved on and later found out he dropped at Chilao. Chilao aid station is halfway home at 52miles. from here the trails start to become even more familiar. I have done some sections in training that are brutal runs by themselves, let alone stringing together the second half of a 100 miler on them. mom tells me I'm now an hour outside 24hr pace. I eat home made banana bread which gives me a boost and I push on to try and make up time. it's another hot dusty section through trails lined with Poodle Dog Bush (poisonous plant native to the San Gabriel mtns) which leads to shortcut saddle aid station where Steve joins me as a pacer. ...we will not go softly into this night... It's refreshing to have someone to talk to after spending most of the day 'alone'. I tell too many stories and have to remember to conserve my energy and breath. he tells me runners are getting beat up from the heat. that if I'm still moving I'm in good shape. although ive gained a few minutes back and it's hard to let go, im slowly loosing grip on the 24 hour finish as the sun sets and we coast down into a massive ravine to begin climbing up the other side. it doesn't cool down much unless there's a wind and I am starting to get nauseous from being de-hydrated. we try to run as long as we can in the fading twilight as bats come out to feed. at the top of the ridge there is another aid station (edison) where I have chicken noodle soup. it's kinda like a 100 mile buffet where you run, eat, then run some more, then eat some more until you swear you'll never eat at another buffet again! for the first time we can see the gridded Los Angeles basin all lit up beyond the farside. we follow a trail which drops towards Chantry Flats aid station(mile 75) there we will see mom and dad for the last time before the finish. I am so nauseous that I can't imagine eating anything although I know that i must. muscles are shot and need any calories they can get. my arms begin throbbing from holding a bottle all day and now as i hold a flashlight through spider webs and river crossings. the final weigh-in at chantry has me just 1.5 lbs below my starting weight. it seems spelion a perfect idea to stop here and go home and get in bed. it would be a well spent day, but a failure. we eat potatoes while mom and dad fill our hydration packs. after sitting for ten minutes I can hardly move. my legs have completely stiffened. I walk like I don't have knees on the way out to continue this damned endeavor. unsure of how i will get myself across the 2 mountains between us and the finish. the body is an amazing machine. pretty soon it warms up and I can move a bit smoother although the pain does not ease up. From mile 75 the course climbs 3100' up mt Wilson (5600ft elev.) then drops into another canyon, climbs 1960' to a saddle before dropping down to Millard camp just 7k from the finish. it is slow going. I'm ashamed to be this beat up and forced to go so slow but I take the pill because I want to finish. sometimes it feels like walking is cheating. this is supposed to be a race! Steve says every step is getting us closer. This is the stuff. I know what he means but in my exhaustion I feel awful dragging mom and dad around all day and now needing to be dragged by Steve up this poison oak lined mountain in a headlamp tunnel-vision. By the time we reach the top and get down to the next aid station (Idlehour 135k) not only physically exhausted I am struggling mentally. The other runners we arrived with get a snack and move on while i find a chair and a volunteer who I know from another race rolls my leg muscles to get the blood flowing. He says that in two minutes I'm hitting the trail and he won't let me stay any longer. I hate him for not letting me rest, I thank him for kicking me outa there. ...the only way out is through... on the way down to the canyon where the final big climb begins i feel my left ankle give. after working it all day on the relentless downhills it finally had enough. every step I feel a nerve pinch and shoot fire up my shin. at the river crossings in the canyon I splash ice cold water on it to reduce the swelling. By now I wish I had quit at chantry. I hate myself for not letting me give up. We push on stopping to rest whenever the pain becomes too much. Resting in the dark on a mountainside in the middle of the night, it's hard not to admire the apparent apathy with which this wilderness regards our endeavor. There are lights which look like headlamps bundling along the distant ridge but Steve tells me they are actually stars and thus stationary objects in the sky, which confounds me. My nose begins to bleed on the climb up to Sam Merrill saddle where the aid station volunteers are dressed up as doctors and nurses in halloween costumes. Appropriate humor at mile 85 although I didn't catch the complete irony until this writing. The next section of trail is a steep technical rocky descent which I am looking forward to. It's a beautiful single track I train on regularly and it is already light enough to see without headlamps. I repeatedly clear my throat from the blood now draining out of my sinuses, drink water, grunt from pain and keep going... remembering all these people that helped me get here. People that have inspired me, friends I haven't seen in months because of training, grandpa left alone for the weekend so mom and dad can be here, people that didn't understand at all but wished me luck anyways... we all struggle everyday to keep up the good fight. And that's what this is, a struggle. All i can do is to keep suffering just a little bit more. then a little bit more. Even though this suffering is by choice it teaches me that the best way to overcome hardship is by changing how you think about it. ...only when we decide to look up do we stop looking down... We're halfway down when I realize that either the blisters on both feet have apex-ed or someone filled my shoes with nails. At a trail junction we sit on a rock and I dump the imaginary nails from my shoes. Both pads on my feet are completely bubbled. I joke that I've evolved Nike airs to cushion my steps. It is here that we chuckle looking out over Los Angeles then slowly we grunt and begin moving again with sleepless silly smiles. You can do this, Steve says. Every step. Stay strong. This is the stuff. I don't have the energy to respond but I silently hope he keeps up the positivity. I'm starting to think that some pain isn't just mental. That there are 'walls' too big. That sometimes the sacrifice outweighs the achievement. We are getting down into the neighborhood trails and Sunday morning joggers/hikers watch us go by. I imagine their baffled faces but don't have the strength to make eye contact. "Did you run a marathon?" someone asks. "100 mile" I mutter without pause. It feels good to let someone know that we have been out struggling all night and that we refuse to give up. I hear their silent but obvious question... why? As we move out of the last aid station and climb another big hill before hitting a gorge with vicious little rolling climbs and descents it suddenly hits me that every step is actually getting us closer to the finish. We've been saying it all day but now the end of our adventure really seems within reach. Soon we break out of the gorge onto a fire road that goes past JPL and up to the surface streets that take us to the finish. These trails connect all the way to my home past the Rose Bowl stadium. I have trained here many times imagining this moment and wondering if I would ever get here. I always said that if I could make it this far there would be no doubt about finishing. ...it took everything you had, and you gave it... Dad stands on the sidewalk at the edge of the park whistling. His familiar voice and silhouette nearly break me into exhausted grateful sobs right there. I see him waving to mom that we are on the way. I'm so lucky to have them here. For the last time I tell myself to save my strength, with 100 meters to go. When I cross the finish line Hal shakes my hand and says, "it took everything you had, and you gave it." i am relieved but i can hardly believe we made it. i doubted so many times that we would even get here that now it seems illusary. having come so far there is no sudden revelation as I might have expected. No great relief to speak of. In fact, physically I hurt more when I lay down then during those last few miles. Yes I tear up. Yes I cannot believe we made it. Yes I have never been so happy to be with my parents and brother, and yes the tea tastes a little bit sweeter then it did yesterday. But I'm somewhat shocked to find myself feeling... disappointed? Can it be? Although I didn't make it in 24 hours like I had hoped I know I will forever be ecstatic to have accomplished my first 100 miler on this difficult course. After weeks of reflection and slowly regaining both mental and physical strength I am still trying to understand it. I've had these moments before in my life, and I know that the greatest highs don't last. They are often followed by an inevitable low as the mind recovers and readjusts to the 'everyday' world. But the greatest feeling of happiness didn't come where I had expected, at the end of the race. It happened the day before in the excitement and anticipation of the event. Although I tend to focus so much attention on the elation of breaking the tape, I'm learning that the finish line is really just the end of a celebration that begins at the gun. It is the starting line where a path that determined so much of my life up until the moment I crossed it ends. As I get back out onto the trails everyday I realize that the race was a celebration of the is constant struggle and effort to answer the obvious question. Why? Surprisingly it's great to know that I still have long ways to go...