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Divide and Conquer
Running the San Juan Solstice 50 Miler
June 19-22, 2008
Whos bright idea was this, anyway?
It was a good question here in the chilly early morning of the longest day of the year, four miles into my first 50 mile race. There was a big hold-up at each of the seven major creek crossings in the Alpine Gulch as one person at a time grabbed the ropes and waded across. I'm a reasonably tall and strapping fellow but the water had still crested at mid-thigh level during the first three crossings and by all reports the water up ahead wasn't getting any warmer or shallower. Three people ahead of me, a petite, fast-looking woman in a pink running skirt had both elbows hooked over the safety rope and was flapping in the current like a flag. My legs felt like concrete blocks and I was very much looking forward to getting moving again to warm up the feet... until their next soaking of course. Lather, rinse, repeat. In its own brutal way, it was just plain awesome!
As a first 50-miler, the San Juan Solstice 50 Mile Run may not have been the most realistic of goals. Whether or not it's the hardest 50 in the US is hotly debated, but everyone agrees that it's a strong contender with 12,800' of vertical gain and loss, all of it above 9000' in the high mountains of Colorado. I don't have a lot of distance running cred and fully expected it to be a very hard race but I'd trained obsessively all spring with a set of very talented and dedicated fellow idiots, err, ultra-runners and felt like I'd have a fighting chance.
Off to a Good Start
Feeling fit and feisty, I felt ready for whatever the course had to offer and ready to get underway. But I still had a good case of the jitters as we milled about in the dark waiting for the start. Lake City is not a big place (pop. 375) and this is clearly the largest single event to hit the town all year, never mind at 5 in the morning. Every light in every cabin at the Alpine Village was burning and the Mocha Moose (which opened early especially for us) was doing brisk bean business. Ultrarunning isn't really a spectator sport, but there were even a fair number of spectators turned out to see us off (and then, presumably, go back to bed!)Bang! As usual, I'd resolved to start really, really slowly and run with various friends for the first mile or two, and as usual, that plan failed almost immediately. It's really hard not to go out fast and I had to force myself to slow to a walking pace on the easy dirt road of the Alpine Loop out of town. Ah, to heck with it! There will be plenty of walking later on. Might was well get in some running when I can and beat some of the crowds to the water crossing bottleneck. It gradually got lighter as we wound up the road with impressive rotten cliffs on one side and a raging stream on the other. It was the longest day of the year... and it was a good thing too, because some of us were going to need all of the available daylight to finish.
 And they're off! (photo by Fritjof) |
 Crossing #3 (photo by Eric) |
Thirty minutes in, we reached the Alpine Gulch and started up the trail. It wasn't long before we hit the queue for the first creek crossing. The mood was pretty jovial and everyone was clearly pretty keyed up. It was as shock though when I grabbed the rope and took my first step into the first crossing. Eric, Mike, and I had been up here Friday to check out the first four crossings, so we knew pretty well what to expect. In the 80-degree heat of noon, it was quite refreshing; much less so at a chilly 6am. Despite painfully cold feet, the crossings did get easier the higher we got. After seven roped crossings, our standards for water hazards were greatly altered. We splashed through a couple of mild, ankle-deep ones, then finally could leap across small rivulets higher up.
All this fun and I hadn't even reached the first aid station yet! The brutality and awesomeness continued in equal measure. After the creek crossings we climbed a couple thousand feet up Alpine Gulch where I grabbed a quick nip of Guinness (weird but probably good karma), a few pretzels, and continued on. Chip and I ran together for a mile as we broke through treeline. We climbed through a few more thousand feet, running on the glorious tundra of Grassy Mountain and admired the breath-taking views of the San Juan Mountains on all sides. And to think I nearly left the camera home! Just as I was getting my breath back, it was time for a screaming descent, 4000' in five miles, to the Williams Creek Aid Station and a much-needed change into dry shoes.
 Climbing the final slopes of Grassy Mountain |
 Starting the long descent to Williams Creek (photo by Eric) |
Williams Creek (mile 15.7) is the first major aid point and I'd planned to swap nearly everything for the long middle stretch (Williams to Slumgullion at mile 40). After four hours of wilderness running, it was very nice to see people again. A volunteer with a radio announced my number as I approached and it was like pulling into the pits at a car race. Even without a dedicated crew, I was well treated; a volunteer sat me in a chair, brought me some food and drink, and started pulling stuff out of my drop bag while I multiprocessed like mad. While I changed shoes and shirt, she moved items around between packs, applied a liberal dose of sunscreen on shoulders and head, and got me ready to go. Despite a full change of everything a couple glasses of flat soda and a sandwich, I was in and out in under seven minutes! Wow!
Down to Business
Having completed the fifteen mile warm-up, we started in on the remaining thirty five. Mike Priddy and I ran together down a few hot miles of road before starting up the arduous climb to Carson and the Continental Divide. It was hot and the jeep road was remarkably steep. My energy boost from the aid station didn't last long, and soon I was plodding up one foot ahead of the next. About half way up, I ran into Chris looking similarly haggard and we trod our way up to 11,400' and the Carson Aid Station (mile 22). Carson is deceptive; while it was nice to load up on water and salty foods, the aid station is still a thousand feet and two miles below the Divide. What's more, the Divide is still another thousand feet below the top of the climb, the indistinct summit of Coney Peak (13,334') at mile 25 or so.
 Chris summits Coney Peak. |
 Running along the Divide |
Strangely, the higher I got, the better I felt. I caught up with Chris and Tom again shortly before the summit and we admired the view for a few moments before hustling onward. While it was, on average, all down hill from here, there were a lot of little ups and downs to accomplish in the next five miles which took quite a toll on me. The trail was generally pretty good, but running at this kind of altitude is incredibly challenging under the best of circumstances and I'd already been through a lot today. The snow was mostly gone except for occasional patches, but there were still a few snowfields and quite a lot of marshy ground to dodge around. Around mile 28, I finally switched on the iPod for additional stimulation which helped immensely. Chris, Kari and I all ran, well-tuned, down through the shrubs and trees, eventually arriving at the Divide Aid Station at Friends Yurt (mile 31) where I refreshed on turkey sandwichs and ramen noodles. Yum!
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Things got... strange... after the Yurt. We tramped up another broad hill feeling reasonably okay but a bit beat-up. Somewhere in there, I encountered a particularly good song on the iPod (unfortunately, there's no way to predict these things ahead of time) and took off like a track meet, dropping about nearly three miles in the length of time it takes to get through one 10 minute song twice. The terrain was pretty boring at this point, so I didn't mind getting it over with. Once the thrill of audio synchronisity faded and my speed returned to something more normal, I tramped through Ramboulett Park for a while with Chris and a local runner named Jason for a few miles.
At mile 36, we started paying the price for all that uphill we'd done at Carson. The four mile drop to the road and the Slumgullion aid station was steep, loose, and pretty well trashed whatever quads I had left. Plus it was getting hot again and I was clearly reaching my limit.
Hitting the Wall
Twelve hours and 40 miles after splashing up Alpine Gulch, my shiny optimism had been replaced by a grim dread. The course so far had lived up to its reputation as being amazing, inspiring and every bit as tough as I'd expected. The final 1700' climb through Vickers Ranch, with the afternoon sun filtering through the aspen trees on fields of dwarf iris, should have been a mere formality after the previous 11,000' on much higher and more challenging terrain. But my knees hurt, my quads were completely thrashed, my stomach was sour from too many popsicles, and I was running on fumes. It was a "runner's low". Why on earth had I paid good money and invested hundreds of hours of training to do this to myself?
 The spectacular climb up Vickers Ranch would be very enjoyable if it weren't 42 miles into the race! (photo by Chris) |
 This pretty well sums up the last ten miles of the race for me. |
But after some indeterminate self-pity time, for no discernable reason, I got back on my feet and just started shuffling foward. I was going to see this thing through, because, if I didn't, I'd have to come back and try it again! And, slowly, things got better. Somebody's pacer came by and said a lot of encouraging things to me. The big climb finally ended. The scenery got even better and I started to be able to stomach the thought of whey protien and maltodextrin again. Runners I'd been playing leap-frog with all afternoon struck up conversations and we became comrades-in-arms (or is that comrades-in-legs?). Sure, none of us was running very much anymore and my 14 hour finish goal looked like it was slipping out of reach. What's a half hour in an all-day race? At least we were making progress.
The final drop down the Waterdog trail to Lake City would be challenging even on fresh legs and I had long since given up any pretense of running by this point. Like all challenges, it ended eventually and I limped along the mile of city streets, maybe even ran a little bit when it looked like somebody was spectating. I even managed a half-hearted sprint across the town park to the finish line where I collapsed on the soft, cool grass and stared at the sky for a while. Done! Time for rest, limping, foot maintainence, a shower or two, and cold beverages shared over tall tales amongst friends, old and new.
And that is why we pay good money for this.
 This is what it feels like (photo by Eric) |
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OK, Now What?
With finishers coming in at all hours of the afternoon and evening, it makes sense to give out the awards the next morning and combine it with a scrumptious breakfast as well. We were a creaky and slow lot when we made our way to the park at 8:30 on Sunday morning to learn the results. Out of 164 starters, 130 had finished which is a pretty impressive completion rate (80%). The course record (of just under 8 hours) stayed safe for another year, but seven people managed a sub-ten hour finish and were awarded red "mutant" hats, despite the unprecedented water levels on the course.
 The crew gathered for the lazy Sunday morning awards brunch and raffle. Note that almost everyone is sitting down. |
Our crew of Idiots did quite well. Fritjof (11:19) and Eric (11:28) lead the pack and were awarded the sub-12-hour blue "Cannibal" hats. Matt Miller (12:36) and Pete Stevens (12:41) both finished in the twelves (green hats for the "Survivor" category) with Mike Priddy, a last minute addition, finishing in 13:25; all in the same pair of shoes, wet for 47 out of 50 miles! After dropping me on the Vickers climb, Kari and Chris finished hand-in-hand at 14:02 with Alan Smith (14:15) close behind. I limped in at 14:22, close enough to my 14 hour goal to be content. Tom Masterson and Chip Tilden finished at 14:46 and 14:47, respectively.
Many, many thanks to all the volunteers who organized this fantastic race and supported us along the way. Kudos and thanks as well to all my enthusiastic fellow racers who stepped up and accomplished great things in the mountains of Colorado.
San Juan was probably the hardest single thing I've ever done. Training for it was a rewarding and exhausting process but made the difference between a challenge and an impossibility. This was the big race of my season and I have nothing further recreational on the horizon. Next year... who can say? I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. In the meantime, I look forward to regaining some balance in my life, both recreationally and not.
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