The Cascade Crest Classic starts at 10am, so we arrive at the fire station by 8am to sign in, deal with our drop bags, have breakfast, and hear the pre-race briefing. 10am sharp, we start on a relatively warm and sunny day. George and I run just a little at a very relaxing pace. The mood is laid back and easy, while the road is dirt and very dry. A fine powder dust rises from it, filling the air. A mile or more of this before we start up something a bit steeper. After Hardrock and Leadville, it feels nice to be able to breath this well while running. We reach the 1st aid station at the Goat Peak Trailhead. After only 3 miles, there is nothing I need, so I turn off the road and start up the trail.

I had hoped to get out of the road dust on the trail, but we remain inside of it. The trail looks fresh cut such that the pack I'm running with continues to raise dust even as we rise up towards Goat Peak. George and I hang together, making good time, and talking with our neighbors. I stop a few times to take pictures, but still continue to run and feel well. George pulls ahead during one of my picture breaks and then we summit and I get ahead of him when he steps off trail for a pee break. I feel great. The uphill went real well and the downhill goes just as well. I don't realize George is behind me until I stop and he catches back up. We roll along the summit with a few nice up and downs. George gets ahead of me in here and gone.

My legs start to feel a bit rubbery. I begin to trip a bit, I think because I can't seem to lift my feet. I wonder if I'm low on fuel. I had a good breakfast but I eat some hammer and continue to drink well. The sun has come out strong and I begin to feel the heat. I roll into the next station at Cole Butte to top off both bottles and then try some melon and a sandwich. With only 9 miles done, I'm surprised at how poorly I feel. I don't feel well at all and walk out trying to solve the problem: heat, calories, water, salt, sugar, altitude?

The starched white road surface on this high ridge seems to reflect the sun such that the suns heat and glare come from both directions. I’m surprised to find myself completely alone now. The road turns are not so obvious such that I have to stop at a few turns to find the ribbons and my way. My eyesight has been getting worse these last few years. I wonder about my ability to find my way because of it. A bit of breeze feels nice, but I wish for more. How about a bit of that famous Seattle rain or maybe even some cloud cover? I can't get my body to move well, even on the long downhill. I'm barely 10 miles in and already it feels like the late race downward energy spiral. I spot somebody running well below on the road across the bottom, which allows me to believe I’m going the right way. This helps me relax and run a little faster.

The dust rises from the road as I walk into the Blowout Mountain aid station at 14 miles. It’s sitting out in the open, baking under the sun. I refill my water bottle, eat some melon and start back out. The road quickly turns uphill into the glorious shade of a single-track trail. As soon is I slip into the wonderful coolness of the deep shadows, I step off the trail and sit down. Sweat pours off my head, running down my arms and back, drenching my clothes. A steady drop off one elbow creates a small mud puddle on the ground. Disoriented, I watch the muddy spot grow while a few people pass by. A couple slow to ask how I'm doing. If I look as bad as I feel, then I must look pretty bad.

The next climb is a long slow head-hanging sweat drenching struggle. I tough it out as best I can, attempting to not look too bad as people come by. It’s a tough job trying not to look bad, and I’m sure I fail miserably. Once on ridge, I roll along a fun trace of a goat trail with breath taking views all around. The route twists about a bit before it finds the Pacific Crest Trail. A sharp right turn drops me into a deep old growth forest, cool and very soft. Not much sunlight gets through to the ground, but does light up an occasional low hanging branch in a brilliant blend of light & color. Majestic displays of natural art decorate the forest walls, making me wonder if art studios study the deep forests to see how to present rare art. Getting out of the heat and my own misery for a bit does wonders for my legs. My cooling core temp gets me going again, but it’s the natural of my surroundings that lifts my spirits. For the first time in a while, I pass a few people, rolling into the Tacoma Pass aid station with 23 miles behind me.

I'm surprised and happy to see Joyce waiting here for me. This was not part of her crew plan. She loads me up with some ice-cold drinks and a sandwich of avocados and tomatoes. She asks how I feel and receives a negative evaluation. It surprises her because she's not used to hearing anything less than perfect from me. I hope for better, but I'm honest with her about how things have evolved up to now. The iced down drinks work their magic and I begin to feel much better quickly. The calories will work their magic later.

I feel much better and life is good when I leave. A gentle rolling climb starts me out and the deep forest soon thins to a high ridge where Hans-Dieter joins me. I don't have near the energy I'm used to, but I hope that soon it will return. I stumble along, hanging onto Hans as we roll off the summit and then start the next rolling climb. I have given up on trying to go easy. Instead I try to force the issue, to hang with Hans, and steal some energy. But, the heat and the hills quickly bring me back down to reality. My dexterity and grace gone to hell in a hand basket, I continue to force the issue. It's getting late in the day and although I do have a flashlight, I'd as soon get to Stampede before dark. The Snowshoe Butte aid station at 28 miles sits on a high single-track trail in the middle of nothing, three people with water and a table full of goodies. Hans gets a quick refill and goes while I take a bit longer to fill my camelback. I try to catch back up but each time I get close, he pulls away again. We pass through another of the deep old growth forests followed by a series of clear cuts. Regardless, my muscles have deteriorated, my energy deficit enormous, and my endless drive emptied to nothing. I seem to be slipping deeper and deeper into a big hole.

I come into the 33 mile Stampede Pass aid station a few seconds after Hans, but well before dark. Joyce tells me I look like hell but I've made up a lot of time from Tacoma Pass. I don't have much to say. I have a cold drink or three and a sandwich. I swap out of my funked up nasty shirt and start shaking in the process. George has been through and gone. Jan is here with Joyce, crewing for another George, and still waiting for him to come in. Hans changes his shirt and heads out, while Jan gets me some hot broth and then offers some hot chocolate too. Other people come and go while I continue to sit.

Do I want to continue to beat myself up? With 70 miles to go, my doubts and the questions become a high-speed spin round my mind. I'm not even close to recovered from Leadville and the edema. Hardrock and Bighorn took more out of me than I want to admit. But I don't want to quit! I still have plenty of time and Joyce wants me to keep going. She's ready to continue, but I do not. It'll be dark soon and I'll be much better now that the sun's not roasting me. I have been struggling with finding the course, mostly because my eyesight is so bad, but I wonder how much harder this will be after dark. They are all bad excuses and none of them valid. I've rarely heard one good enough to warrant quitting, yet here I am, sitting down, and knowing that I am done. I have no energy and no longer wish to drag my butt for another 70 miles. The joy is gone. I am no longer having any fun. I tell Joyce I am done. I take off the cow-tag number and give it to her. Jan's friend George comes in on a bum leg and calls it quits also. Joyce takes my number down to the station and comes back with another runner who has dropped. We offer Mike a ride back to his car at the start. He doesn't have a place to stay because he also had planned to run all night, so we offer him George's bed for the night. It is done. We climb in the car and follow Jan to the highway and the hotel. Pizzas and beer do little to ease the gloom from the dark cloud hanging over all of us. No warm fuzzies here, we each slip off to bed and a restless sleep.

In the morning, we go for breakfast and then settle in to wait for George. He comes in with an excellent time for his first mountain century run and a qualifier for Hardrock. He looks used up and sleepy, but extremely pleased for beating the dragon. His smile tells it all. I am very happy for George but I can’t help but feel some envy. I miss what he is feeling right now. I feel the urge to beat myself up for this but I cannot. George deserves his finish and what it brings. I got what I paid for. I attempted a very rugged set of century runs and it kicked my butt. I gave it a go and it went. Time to move on to recovery, then rebuild, and plan the next grand adventure.