Standing on top of Hope Pass on the outbound leg at mile 45, you feel elation at making it up the 3400’ climb to 12,600’ and dread at the fact that you know in a little over ten miles, you get to do it all over again. The view from the top is exactly that. You see Leadville, Twin Lakes and even Turquoise Lake 30 miles away on one side of the pass and the descent down to the Winfield ghost town on the other – all places we travel through. Below is an alpine meadow with alpacas grazing on the tundra around the Hope-less aid station. Shrouded in the mist, it’s almost like a dream. There are prayer flags rustling in the wind and it’s a brief, special sight that I’ll never forget. But then it’s time to get down off this beast.
Starting off the day, I had mixed feelings about being in the race. A nagging voice kept asking if I deserved to be in this race. I had gone for a few runs that left me breathless during the week. On Thursday, I did a short run at race pace and felt OK but not great. I generally have a down day before races from tapering so this didn’t overly concern me. Standing at the start, all 468 of us, you know that only 40% or so of us will finish and you wonder “Am I good enough? Am I tough enough? Can I keep it together?” That’s the question that will be answered over the next 30 hours.
The gun goes off at 4:00am and we take off down 6th street. The first 1⁄2 mile is a gentle down hill and I settle in behind Joe. At the bottom of the hill, there’s a gentle rise and I struggle to hold on the Joe, who continues running. I quickly decide that’s a mistake and start walking. I’m breathing hard and have to run my own race. The ride out to May Queen is mostly flat with a few rollers thrown in as we near the aid station. We trek around Turquoise Lake, on single track at a nice clip and I arrive right on plan at 6:30am. Not bad for 13.5 miles at 10,000 feet.
Out of May Queen we do the first real mountain- Sugar Loaf. It “only” goes up to 11,500’ from about 9700’. The route up is a dirt road and not particularly steep. It’s the first real test of the race and I give myself a “B” as I crest the summit. Coming down into Fish Hatchery is a blast on a mix of jeep trail and rutty single track. I pull into Fish Hatchery at 8:40, again right on my plan. At the aid station, Joyce and Margo buzz over me to get me stocked. I see Joe in the aid station and am a bit surprised. I thought he’d be well ahead of me by now. Joyce stuffs my pockets full of Gu and a turkey sandwich and I take off. I settle into a nice power walk to digest and take it easy for a bit. Joe catches up with me and we play tag for a while. Finally, Joe tells me to take off if I have it. This gets me off my butt and moving. The course is mostly asphalt with a little dirt road mixed in and not fun at all. It’s either too hard on my feet or too dusty but we move on.
I get into Half Moon, mile 30.5, around 10:30 feeling good with no big issues. Six and a half hours to do a 50K at altitude ain’t bad for me and I’m not working hard at all. Joe shuffles in and as we leave I settle into a nice power walk up the mountain. I pull away from Joe and realize something must be wrong with him. But, we have to run our own race, so I continue on. The section between Half Moon and Twin Lakes was one of my favorites. We’re on the Colorado Trail, which is rolling single track on the foothills of Mt Elbert in the trees with a few challenging climbs/descents thrown in just to keep you honest. Through mountain streams, conifer forests and the occasional aspen grove we pass and finally descend into Twin Lakes, mile 39.5, at 12:30. I see Joyce and tell her Joe is falling back and I think he’s having trouble. She takes care of me and within a few minutes, Joe pops in. I figure he must have blasted the last downhill into the aid station.
From Twin Lakes, you go through a marshy area and then start the ascent up the beast- Hope Pass. From the base, I can see the top covered in clouds and wonder what the weather is like. Margo and I did a drive through Independence Pass the previous week and ran into a full blown snowstorm and 40mph winds. I have plenty of clothes and am prepared for the worst. The gentle rain in the valley can turn into a nasty storm at the top. Once, we’re across the valley with a stream crossing and lots of water hazards, we start the climb up Hope. I figure this is an average of a 20% grade. Think of 3.5 miles of Ladera Norte while holding your breath. It’s also a very lonely time for me. I’m just concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. I curse my altimeter as it tells me I’m going up at 25’ per minute. With my limited math abilities, I figure I’m going to be climbing for more than two hours. Two hours! Two hours of just being happy to put one foot in front of the other, of wondering if you won’t get blown off once you get to the top, of wondering how in the world you’ll ever make it back over. It also tells me I’m now at 9700’. I’ve climbed 500’, have another 3000’ to go and I’m exhausted. This was my low point in the race.
I need company to get me through this and thankfully, a bee landed on my gaiter. It was a big bee at that. Not some flatlander sissy honey bee. About half the size of a bumble bee, this was a MOUNTAIN BEE. It LIVES up here and knows the ropes. The bee comforts me and I start paying less attention to my troubles and start enjoying the misery. It is beautiful up here. Cascading streams, trees and alpine meadows go by slowly and I start to see my way to the top. 10,500’, 11,000’ and then 11,500’ drop by slowly. Back to the original question – “Am I tough enough?” – I finally accept that I am tough enough and deserve to be on the mountain. Eventually, we break out above timberline and the bee leaves me. I wish it well. Its life is below timberline so I don’t hold a grudge. At 12,000’ the climb actually starts to feel easier. Finally I can see Hope-less aid station. The hardy folks there fill me with soup, water and a few brownies and wish me well. I don’t know who these folks are; but I’m jealous of their aid station. They must have some of the best stories to tell and I’d love to hear them.
From the top of Hope Pass, we do a 2500’ descent onto the road into Winfield over 2.5 miles. The single track down is twisty, a little technical and reminds me a bit of going down Bear Canyon at Guadalupe except longer. Down on the dirt road, I get a little cranky with the all the cars speeding by and kicking up dust. Joe and I had talked about this before the race so I line up a few other runners to walk on the flanks and the middle to force people to slow down. It helps and gives us something to focus on. A bit before Winfield I see Moogey and ask him what he’s doing back here. I notice he’s limping and he tells me he’s having issues but won’t go into details. I expected to meet him somewhere on Hope and am disappointed that he’s having troubles.
Winfield is a small ghost town tucked into the back of a canyon. It was a small mining town at the turn of the century with a population of 1500 people. There’s very little flat land here and it must have been a harsh, crowded existence. I make a comment to myself – “What some people will do for gold” and then laugh at the irony. Anyone in the race would probably fit right in. The surrounding mountains give me a enclosed feeling and I hurry to change my socks and put on a fresh shirt and leave. I leave about 5:15pm, 45 minutes ahead of the cut off and 15 minutes behind my plan. I meet Joe on the road out and figure he’s just skating the cut offs. He looks like he’s struggling and we commiserate for a moment. I’m happy to see a friendly face and the moment lifts my spirits.
My plan for the race was to use two water bottles between each aid station and then drink more at the aid station if I ran out. This had mostly been working through the day; but as I slowed down, I went for longer and longer periods with no fluids. It’s a balance between carrying too much weight and taking care of yourself. I hadn’t thought about it, but this also affected my calories as you can’t consume Gu without water.
At the base of Hope, a friendly spectator filled up my bottle and we started the ascent. Soon, I had a string of eight people behind me. I constantly asked if anyone wanted to pass with no takers. Everyone just wanted to keep their head down and let someone else lead up the mountain. It felt like a bike pace line, I went for as long as I could and then dropped off at a switch back. Someone else would take over and then they would drop off. Eventually, the group broke up as each of us found our own limits. Cresting again, I look down on clouds in the Winfield valley and out to Turquoise Lake and Leadville. I know the hardest part of the course is behind me and feel like I’m reeling in a finish.
Descending down into Twin Lakes, the night envelopes me and the course takes on a new flavor. There’s not a glow stick in sight. This makes me nervous; but, I know this is the only trail around and as long as it’s going down, I can’t go wrong. At least that’s what I keep telling myself – for an hour. Finally, at the base, where there are turns and crossing trails, I pick up the glow sticks leading me into Twin Lakes. I hear coyotes on either side of me off in the distance. I can’t tell if they’re just talking to each other or stalking me. I settle on the first since they’re so far off and the second option isn’t that pleasant.
Pulling into Twin Lakes, I’m feeling like someone dropped a bomb on me. I feel like I’m dehydrated an low on calories although my weight was fine at the med check. Margo pushed pizza in my mouth every time I opened it to talk. I drink, eat, put on a dry shirt and warm gloves and steel myself for the night. Margo tells me Joe dropped at Winfield which doesn’t surprise me and I learn Moogie is only 15 minutes ahead of me which does. Margo finds a pacer to keep an eye on me as I leave. George has a lot experience pacing and is doing Cascade next week. I feel much more comfortable having him along and we take off for Half Moon at 9:45. The single track that was so nice in the morning is not as forgiving on the return trip. What were gentle hills on the outbound leg turned into nasty peaks. In the dark, you loose all perspective of distance and the ridges are silhouetted against the night sky. I keep hoping that we’ll turn before we have to go over them but it doesn’t happen. Up and down we go for hours. I run out of water and George gives me some of his. We’ve had some similar experiences in the military and conversation helps pass the time. The cut off at Half Moon is 12:45. At 12:23, we turn off the trail on onto the jeep road to Half Moon. It’s mile down to the aid station. On a normal day, I could easily do this descent in seven minutes. But, I have 69 miles behind me and we roll in just seconds ahead of the cut off.
Coming into the aid station, I begin to make an honest assessment of if I should go on. I’d been arguing since the turn off and still hadn’t decided going into the aid station. One side of the is pure ATT-bull-headed-don’t-stop-until-someone-kicks-you-off-the-course-TUDE and the other is a rational assessment if it’s advisable to go on. Going into the stop, the ‘TUDE side was winning the discussion. As I sat down, I was breathing a bit hard; but I’d just put in a three hour slog and wasn’t worried. However, as I sat, I noticed my breathing didn’t slow down. I continued, eating, drinking and prepping to go out and still it didn’t go down. After a few minutes, I was getting concerned. I was breathing like I’d just done a 100 yard sprint and it didn’t stop. I soon switched from worry about the race to making sure I’m not a candidate for the hospital. The nurse, Amy, led me to the medical tent, took my blood pressure, pulse and oxygen saturation. Everything seemed to be normal except for my breathing rate. The doc came over and checked out my lungs and told me they were OK. I sat there for a few minutes thinking about it and faced the facts.
Finally, it came down to it. He said “what do you want to do?” Never saying the word “drop” or pushing me either way, he left the decision completely in my hands. In the end, I admitted defeat. My legs were tough enough, but my lungs weren’t. Back in the hotel, after I lay down, my lungs filled with congestion and I coughed up junk for hours. Kinda like a big hair ball. I had been depressed about the drop; but realized then that I made the right decision. I had left everything on the mountain, run a good race and quit before I did any serious injury. An athlete can’t ask for anything more.
Will I try it again? Maybe. Was it worth the effort? Absolutely.