Dropping to my knees, I roll onto my side, then flat on my back. My chest expands and contracts rapidly, hyperventilating. An unhealthy wheeze escapes my lungs. I begin to wonder if maybe this isn't my day. It's time I got off this beast. Slowly, I get up and then begin my fall off the mountain.

After running Bighorn and Hardrock, I know that Leadville is chancy. Matter of fact, I have decided not to do it. But there are a few friends who know where my buttons are and they push them. I am easy prey. So, I enter and make my plans. It’ll be tough, with little vacation time leading to a fast in and out. Two weeks at Hardrock gave me plenty of altitude, but it’s now four weeks behind, leaving me cold at ground zero. The aggressive intermediate cuts will also force me to go out quicker than I’d like and the final 30hour cutoff will keep me from slowing much. I can run a good pace now and then and I can run at altitude reasonably well, but I can't seem to run fast at altitude. The combination of circumstances seems to gang up on my weaknesses at the cost of my strengths. Still, I am confident that I will find a way. I usually do. I always seem to be able to adapt, to recover. I have to believe it. To think otherwise is to fail before I even begin.

Arriving on Thursday, I feel comfortable at Leadville's 10000ft elevation. It'll feel different once I start running and again and when I start to climb, but that'll have to wait until Saturday. Check in and drop bags go according to plan, and Joyce hooks a ride for crew and pace chores. I spend the day eating well, drinking a good bit of water, and getting plenty of sleep: a simple plan with no stresses or hang-ups.

With a 4am start, our 570 strong herd thunders down the paved road in the dark. Butch Allmon and I go out fast and I quickly fail my first test with simple mathematics. I have 2 water bottles and 1 flashlight, but only two hands. I should know better. I neglected to bring my third hand. I must be getting forgetful or more correctly, just not thinking. My pants have large front pockets, but the full water bottle doesn't sit there well. I try holding the flashlight and 1 bottle with one hand, but my arm gets tired quickly. I end up holding the 2 bottles with one hand, but it's hard to drink. Every combination still leaves no free hands to take my salt or pick my nose. I drink one bottle quicker than usual, just so I can put it in my pocket. That’s about when Butch and I reach the lake perimeter trail, where a guy bangs on a large base drum. It's also when we realize this is too fast and back our pace off just a bit. Butch stops to wiz every few minutes, which provides ample opportunity to test another combination that might work, but does not. Eventually the sunrise solves the problem for me just minutes before reaching May Queen. I stash the flashlight in my other pocket, leaving me with just 1 water bottle in 1 hand and a lot more freedom to scratch every itch. What an idiot!


We reach 13mile May Queen faster than I normally would. Our pace is insane, and short lived too. I feel good, but so far, it has been flat. The jury is still out when we start to climb, but the verdict arrives too soon, and judgment is passed. On Sugarloaf, bad news comes with a whisper. A roughness in my breathing, a wheeze that slips out with each exhale, a very slight rasp. The 2000-pound gorilla is aboard. It’s not a good sign. Quietly, I back off even more, trying to go easier with less effort, but it makes no difference. I'm trying to determine if Butch is waiting on me or struggling also. I tell him to let me be, but he's waited on me before and seems content to do so again. My breathing seems to be getting rapidly worse as I go. We walk up Sugarloaf together, talking up old times, and making plans for new ones. A couple of old fools who know better and care less. We'll take what the mountain give us, and odds are good it will be bad. A tingling in my fingers confirms the thought. The powerline crackling overhead confirms the beginning of our descent, and where I usually get even with this type of course. We do run much of the downhill, but not with the same flair as usual. The last mile leading into the Fish Hatchery is nasty ol’ asphalt that we share with a few cars. I don't care much for paved road, but I have run a bit of it, so I'm surprised how much it seems to bother me. Even though the people in the cars are friendly, I'm irritated by their presence. I must be real low on calories. We're still well under the cutoff, but the telling signs are evident that all is not well.

Joyce is waiting on me, and helps with my drop bag. I trade one of my water bottles for the lightweight Camelback. I've been drinking well, but my stomach is bloated and uncomfortable. My salt caps have been at regular intervals, same as usual. I could be eating more, but I'm doing ok. I begin to wonder if this is another symptom of edema. I try a bowl of hot oatmeal with hope that it'll help. Joyce walks out with Butch and I, handing us a tortilla sandwich with avocado and tomato.

More asphalt and traffic lead us toward Half Moon. Cars whiz by in both directions as we run & walk while we eat & talk. There are a lot of runners and a lot of cars on the road. A few miles, but way too much for me. I'd like to rip up this road and make it single track. My Achilles flare up on me more on roads than it does on hills now a days, and I can feel it starting to talk to me again. At the turn off the main road, the asphalt continues but with enough shoulder for me to escape. Butch and I hook up with Mike Riggs to share the road, along with quite a few others. We should all be quite a bit faster on this flat surface but nobody in this crowd appears either fast or happy. Are we all cussing the asphalt road? The heat seems to be up a bit, making me wish for a good storm right about now. If I had any piss in my vinegar, I'd pick up the pace to get off sooner than later. But, my piss and vinegar seems to be mush right now. Still dragging my legs, I watch as Butch manages an ambling run to pull ahead and slowly disappear. Mike also seems to have good energy, and has one heck of a fast walk. Watching him, I realize he's holding back, waiting on me. I suggest he unhitch me and get on down the road. I'm in a bad funk and he dare not wait on me. This seems to galvanize him as he quickly changes gears and speeds ahead. He's a good friend and I'm proud of him, his power walk paying big dividends. I seem to be in a middle zone, somewhere between good and bad, half awake - half asleep. Is this normal for altitudinally maladjusted individuals? I assume it must be, but I still need to eat and drink, so I do. Half Moon is a wonderfully shady roadside pull in. Two kids assist with my drop bag and cold drinks while I sit. I leave with Mike but again can't hang on. He's only walking but quickly disappears down the road. Even after some food and rest, I still can't get the motor going. I’m all sputter! I try on a few good memories and test a few high-energy songs in the back of my mind, but nothing seems to put the bop in the bee. I have no choice but to wait it out, as I have done before, but I do this while moving forward down the road, albeit painfully slow.

We finally leave the road for a wonderful single-track trail and I'm thinking this has got to help. It starts with a good stiff climb, but I like this and get into a rhythm as I climb. Ascending slowly, exhaling evenly, I pass a few others, and start to get that really good feeling back again. A hint of a smile begins to creep back onto my face. I pick up a rock now and again but usually just ignore them until one works itself into a position with the pointy end up. As much as I hate to stop, one of them does find that painful position, so I stop and remove it. Standing back up almost knocks me out. Seeing spots, I sit down and lean on a tree, breathing like a dog, rapid breath and edema rasp. The hyperventilation lasts much longer than I would have thought. A few minutes, then I'm up again, but moving slow again. I try to dial in a pace that allows me to move as fast as possible without stopping, a speed where I can breathe without going anaerobic. The pace I eventually find will kill my chance of finishing if I'm forced to stay on it. Past the steepest part of the climb, I start running again. It aint too fast or pretty but at least I'm running. The trail and the woods through here are gorgeous: my favorite part of this course. A tad cooler here in the shade and it may be that my body cools down some, giving me more energy. I don't really know for sure what it is, but I am starting to have some fun again. The final section into Twin Falls is a long downhill, so I give it a try. There are eight of us bunched up in a line and we soon discover we're in reverse order to our downhill speed. As each one pulls over, those following go faster. In this manner, I slowly get faster and faster as each person steps aside until I sprint past the last fellow in front of me on the jeep road leading into Twin Lakes. I pass Butch on the final turn just before hitting bottom. I walk into the Twin Lakes station in time to hear Mike tell Joyce that I'm falling back and may be awhile. He's surprised to see me and I am too. I'd never have believed that I'd catch him, and Butch too! For the moment, I feel good. But the joy flies quickly and fades to something else. Still, my time is good despite my condition. I've made all the cuts so far with plenty of time to spare, but I know that my condition is rapidly deteriorating. My energy's been a rapidly descending sign wave that should flat line somewhere up on Hope Pass.

A light rain is falling as Butch and I walk out. Accompanied by a stiff wind, we cross the river marsh. The race leader passes us coming in, and we decide that it's impossible that he's in the race! Multiple stream crossings sting our legs while the rain continues to fall. I'm quite comfortable in shorts but I pull on my rain jacket just to keep my clothes from getting saturated. The water feels great on my legs, even though it’s a stinging cold. The open marsh turns to trees soon after the last water crossing and quickly begins to climb. Butch waits patiently on me for a bit longer and then finally turns me loose. He seems to be climbing well or least a lot better than I am. I try to dial in my best possible climbing rhythm but it's well short of pathetic. My cautious lazy pace cannot repair the difficulty of my breathing. My labored ascent quickly spirals down to a crawl. With Mike and Butch long gone, alone I focus on my breathing. I try to get my mind around it, but for nothing. I attempt to leave my body, escape into a comfortable place in my mind. It seems to work as I wonder about in my memories, but I come back to find that I'm standing still. My toes start tingling, so I back off even more, if that's possible. Runners are sprinting by in the opposite direction, wondering, I'm sure, why I'm standing still. I attempt to get out their way with little success. Hell, the sweat on my face is moving faster than I am. The Hopeless station comes with little relief and then much later, the summit. Takes me four and a half hours to get from Twin Lakes to Hope Pass and I'm exhausted. A false BM adds to my discomfort and body confusion. I lay down on the summit and it's an enormous mistake. My breathing rapidly accelerates: a hard, heavy, raspy wheeze that lasts until I sit back up again. I need to get off the mountain and quickly.

It's my kind of narrow track downhill, but with meager room for two bodies to pass, and full of runners coming up hill. There are so many people I can't get into a rhythm. Most are generous, moving over to give me room, while others barrel right through me with nary a nod. I'm not sure who has the right of way so I watch each one and react accordingly. I fall a few times as I struggle past one after another. I know many of these people on the 25hour bubble, and they're in a hurry to summit and move on. My breathing seems ok on the descent but it usually is. Still, it takes me way too long to reach the road.

On the dusty road to Winfield waits the 50mile turn-around. I move my bandana up to cover my nose and mouth, shove my hat down to block as much as I can, but still able to see the road. Cars are going both ways, most attempting to be considerate, but some not really giving a damn that they dust everybody on the road. The bandana makes it even harder to breath but it does keep out most of the dust. I try a few times to run but manage no more than a fast walk. I stop only once, when I see Butch, to lend him a flashlight. He's going to need it and I have another at Winfield.

The cutoff is 6pm and that's when I arrive. They're very friendly and attempt to hurry me through so I can make the cut and keep going, but I don't want to hurry. It's starting to rain. I ask for my drop bag and sit down to eat, but they can't seem to find my bag. I need warm clothes and my flashlight for the return.

I’m completed soaked with sweat and the cold rain is causing my body to shake just a bit. They're still trying to hurry me, but I know better than to go out without fuel and warm clothes, so I have some soup while they continue to search. Kathy comes over to help and finds my bag. She's asking me questions that I struggle with the answers, so I go off to change my clothes, before I answer. She's trying to gauge my status and I'm not doing too well with the answers. She says I have three and a half hours to get back over Hope to Twin Lakes. I tell her it took me five and a half hours to get here. She looks concerned and scrunches up her face but doesn't say a thing. I haven't felt well all day and I'm pretty certain my pace won't improve any time soon. The rain continues to fall and my body continues to shake. I can still hear the rasp in my breathing and begin to wonder about my health. It would be so foolish for me to go on, get half way up the mountain, and then lose control of my core temp. No way could I keep my body heat up at this miserable pace, not to mention at what point my breathing problems would become dangerous.

I don't have a medical background, relying more towards what feels right or wrong, and usually ignoring that. But this time, maybe it's time for me to stop. I wonder! I roll it round in my mind for a bit, then walk over and have the medical team cut off my band. It seems the smart thing to do.

This is not my first DNF. The first one felt awful for a long time. The second one wasn't much fun but I didn't dwell on it for near as long. This time, I just feel empty. Maybe I'm getting good at this! I want to beat myself up but can't find any good reason to do so. I'm not confused or disoriented: Just tired, bone tired! I can't seem to breath. I'm sure it's just the altitude I hitch a ride back to Twin Lakes where Joyce is waiting for my return. When I get there, I'm not sure where to find her, but I do see Butch's wife, Donna. I climb out of the truck and immediately begin to shake uncontrollably. I rush over to Donna and ask if I can please sit in her car for a minute. I can barely climb in as the shakes overwhelm my body. Joyce arrives with a lot of concern and a warm change of clothes. Everybody we know is waiting on somebody else, so for the moment, we're stuck right where we are. Joyce eventually talks a stranger into giving us a ride back to our room in Leadville. A warm shower and a night's sleep does wonders. By morning, I'm still exhausted, but my breathing is better. Only a bit of wheeze remains. I suspect it'll be days before my lungs recover.

Mike arrives at the hotel around 2am. He's staying in the next room but the walls are paper-thin, so I can hear his breathing is about as bad as mine. He made it as far as 70mile Half Moon before the edema took him also. Butch didn't quite get back over Hope before he started blacking out. Every time he stood up, he’d start to see spots, so he sat down just below the summit. The sag found him there and helped him over and into the Hopeless aid station. He spent the night under their care, eventually getting off the mountain in the morning, while Donna waited. Moogy made it to 77mile Fish Hatchery. He tried to push his body past all the issues that eventually overwhelmed him. They had to cut his ring off because of the swelling, and his leg was numb, but it was the edema that got to him.

Turns out, it was just a 50 mile training run at altitude. I have another race next weekend and precious little time to dwell on what went wrong. I have done better, but such is life. We learn more from our mistakes, I understand. I wonder about that. I had a great time hanging with Butch for most of the day and the weekend with Mike. Another grand adventure regardless the outcome. There will be many more, I am certain of that.

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We skip the awards ceremony to wash our dirty laundry and then start our drive back towards Denver for our evening flight home to Austin. Even with a direct flight, we arrive home well after midnight. I get to work by 7am, trying desperately to keep up with my projects so that I can escape again on Friday. All week long is insane, including the unpacking and repacking on Thursday night. Joyce and I drive back out to the airport again at 5am on Friday, arriving in Seattle around noon. George Hitzfeld is waiting for us at baggage claim. We drive downtown for lunch and then an hour more out to Cle Elum for our hotel. Our travel plans go without a hitch. We are now ready for the next one… I hope!
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