Run July 10, 2016
Watermarked photos used with permission
There was a time, not that long ago, when a person could simply sign up for a 100-mile race. That's still true for most of them, but the increased interest in ultrarunning in the past decade has required many of the most prestigious events to engage in lottery systems to determine who gets to run. While I recognize the necessity of such things, I've always hated them and generally look for ways to get around them.
In marathons, it's pretty easy. Any race big enough to need a lottery also has an automatic qualifying time that I can beat. The variances in difficulty make any sort of trail qualifying time pretty meaningless, so the big 100's generally only hand out automatic spots to those who place in a designated qualifying event. In the case of the Leadville 100, there are three such races, one of which is the Silver Rush 50 (which also starts and finishes in Leadville, CO). So, off it was to "The Top of the Rockies" to run only my second mountain ultra ever and try to snag a shot at the big one.
I'd still like to get some idea of what the course will be like. The aid station is positioned at the end of the only stretch of paved road on the course (about half a mile). As we're cleaning up, I confirm with a few veterans that the section of trail heading out of the aid station is fairly representative. I jog about a mile of it and come back. The surface has a lot of loose rock and the trail is moderately steep. St. Louis locals would find it very reminiscent of the Chubb heading up from the river to the picnic table on the bluff. As I run the Chubb once or twice a month, this is familiar ground. Familiar enough to have gone down pretty hard on more than one occasion. Late-race lapses in concentration could be pretty expensive on this course.
We get back to Leadville to find that our hotel reservation is messed up. As everything in town is booked solid, there's not much the hotel can do to fix the problem. Fortunately, our day of volunteering has put us in the good graces of the race organizers. While camping at the start/finish is technically not allowed, they suggest that we stay the night there as "security guards". I immediately jump on the offer as camping at the start is always my preferred way to spend the night before. We do have to have the tent all packed up ahead of the 6AM start, which makes for a very early wake-up, but I never get much sleep the night before a race anyway, so it's all good.
As with all large trail events, the start carries with it the importance of getting a decent position in the field before getting crammed onto the trail. The SR50 organizers have made this a very simple calculation: how much do you want hurt in the first minute of a 10-hour race? The start heads straight up a steep hillside strewn with loose rock. Just for fun, they've even thrown in a pair of automatic qualifying spots for the first male and female runners to the top of the hill. I know better than to go for that prize, but I do push enough that I'm not completely mired in the field. I'm the 60th runner onto the trail (in 75 seconds, 20 seconds behind the leader).
The next few miles are basically flat (the only part of the course that can make such a claim) and then we begin the long opening grind. At 2000 feet spread over seven miles, it's not particularly steep, but it's enough that interjecting a few short walk breaks seems prudent. Halfway up, Yaya is spectating at the Black Cloud aid station since she won't be needed at her assigned post for another hour. I give her a smile and a thumbs up but don't bother getting anything as the weather is still quite cool and I'm sure the 32 ounces of water I have with me will get me to the Printer Boy stop, which is the station we worked yesterday. I get to the top of the climb in just over two hours, which seems alarmingly fast for 10 mostly uphill miles. I relax on the gentle grade down to Printer Boy, hoping I haven't overcooked things, but really feeling quite good. Some of the volunteers at the aid station are repeats from yesterday and offer me extra encouragement when they recognize me.
I have no idea where I sit in the field other than, "a lot further back than usual." I expected this, of course. While we do have some exceptional trail runners in the Midwest, the depth of our fields is nothing like what the mountain states produce. Besides, I'm still working on my transition from "racing" to "participating" so, being well off the lead without despair is a good mental exercise. I continue without a pace adjustment, mostly running on my own, but taking the opportunity to extract course information from any runners I find myself with.
Once such tidbit does prove useful. While the course profile would have you believe that the second big climb is just a shorter and steeper version of the first, it's really one ridiculously steep mile with some easier grades on both sides. Knowing this helps pace the effort. Everybody walks the steep part, but the rest of it is runnable. The last mile into the Rock Garden aid station is gentle and, as we're above treeline, affords some very nice views.
Yaya is working this one today. Seeing her is a bit of a pickup, though my spirits are pretty good anyway. I'm still keeping food down pretty well, so I grab a few snacks while she fills my water bottles. I'm currently on a 9-hour pace, which again seems way too fast for this course, but I don't feel like I've been going too hard. From the aid station, there's another half mile or so of climbing to the first of the twin summits. We then descend a few hundred feet circling around the mountain peak and then tackle the slog up to the pass. It's a grade I'd ordinarily run but, between the thin air and blistering sun, I have to walk it.
Just over the pass, Michael Aish comes up the other way. He's apparently managed to run the entire ascent back up from the turnaround, which goes a long way to explaining why he's in first place. It's so steep on this side, I can barely run down it. I start keeping count of runners coming the other way, but once my count gets into the thirties with no sign of the Stumptown turnaround in sight, I decide I should be watching my footing more and other runners less. The descent to Stumptown seems really long, though I'm sure that's just my own expectations at play. When you say the "the aid station is at the bottom of this hill" in Missouri, you mean you'll be there in three minutes, not thirty.
I jog into Stumptown at 10:36 AM, still right on 9-hour pace. While I don't ask, if someone had bothered to tell me that I was in 75th place, I would have been only mildly surprised I was that deep. I saw a lot of folks going back the other way. So far the "event" rather than "race" mindset seems to be working pretty well and, while I'm now feeling like I probably should have walked more on the opening climb, my spirits are pretty good.
That takes a bit of a change on the climb back up to the pass. Even on the first couple miles on the gravel road, which are not at all steep, I'm having to walk more than I'd like. When I get to the brutal final mile, even walking feels terribly labored. With the turnaround over a thousand feet above the start/finish, this is a course where you should run negative splits. I'm quite sure that's not going to happen for me today.
It took an hour to get from Rock Garden to Stumptown. It takes an hour and a half to get back. Yaya looks at me and her face registers concern. I don't hesitate with the explanation: "that's just about the toughest ten miles of trail I've ever run." I don't sit down (ultra mantra: "Beware, the chair"), but I do linger just a bit to get my head together before setting out. In the valley below, Leadville seems tantalizingly close. But, the trail back isn't exactly the direct route.
Meanwhile, I just need to focus on forward progress. With the sun directly overhead, there's not much shade, even when the trail finds the rare stand of trees. Most of the way to Printer Boy is downhill on really bad footing. Staying alert counts for a lot. I've been eating gels with caffeine and drinking Coke at aid stations, but I decide to supplement with a 200mg pill. It helps and I get through all the descending without a misstep. While I ran it easily on my exploratory jog yesterday, I make no attempt to run the final uphill mile climbing to the Printer Boy aid station.
John Novak rolls into the station at the same time. He and I have been trading positions ever since the turnaround, with me doing better on the descents and him gaining on the climbs. He's a only a year younger than me, so it's quite likely we're vying for the last qualifying spot in the 50-59 age group. Reminding myself that I've really taken care of that with the volunteer hours, I don't fight him when he manages to run portions of the three-mile grade out of the aid station. Maybe I'll catch him on the descent, but right now I'm just hiking as best I can.
I reach the summit just before 2PM. If I can run back down the mountain as fast as I came up, I'll finish in under 10 hours. That seems like something worth doing so I set into an easy jog. The first few miles of the descent are the steepest. I relax and let gravity do most of the work. I reach the final aid station at 2:30 and top off fluids. My stomach is no longer accepting food, but that's not much of concern at this point. I'm certainly tired, but not low on fuel.
Out of the aid station, I'm below tree line. While it's nice to have some shade, it's also casting a dappled light on the trail that makes it difficult to see the rocks. I've already had two minor falls today, so I try to focus on clean technique. Despite my efforts, a mile outside the aid station I trip.
If falling while descending a rocky trail is one of those bucket list items you just haven't gotten to, I wouldn't fret over it. There are worthier pursuits. The impact is more along the lines of bike wreck than typical trail fall (I've had enough of both to know the difference). My right forearm and shin take the brunt of the impact, the skin on each yielding immediately. True survival skills seem to function even when fatigued and I manage to get my head to strike my arm rather than the rock underneath my arm. It's still enough to set off a blinding headache. Not wanting to leave the rest of my body out of the action, I tumble onto my back to give the sharp stones some more work to do.
I get up quickly then take a few deep breaths to make sure I haven't broken or dislocated anything. It appears the damage is limited to blood and bruises, and neither are particularly severe. In a fresher state, I might be concerned about the headache, but I'm sure it's just my brain being hot, tired, and generally pissed off at poor working conditions. Still, it's a pretty nasty fall and I decide that it's time to remind myself that this is an Event, not a Race, so we're going to walk it in rather than risk further damage.
The remaining six miles take nearly two hours. I jog a few short sections, but generally I'm content to keep hiking. Surprisingly few people come by; I lose only 10 places between the fall and the finish. I do muster up a run for the final stretch. My finish time is 10:27, which is about what I was expecting; though I had hoped for more even splits. The announcer is very animated as I stride in, telling everybody that I'm "Eric Buckley from that city on the river with the big white arch." Really?! I knew they were working on the grounds, but I didn't think a paint job was coming. I don't bother telling him it's stainless steel.
Nor do I protest when a Leadville 100 Qualifier coin is pressed into my hand. Apparently, one or more of the runners ahead in my age group didn't want theirs and it rolled down to my 4th-place finish. I suppose I could have let it roll further down, since I'm certainly not going to run the 2016 race in six weeks and getting into the 2017 event is already a done deal. But, somehow, the coin makes it feel like the race had more of a purpose, so I decide to hang on to it.
Field quality and qualifier status aside, it's clear that I don't quite have this mountain ultra thing down yet. I'm not really sure where the problem lies. It's certainly not altitude. I've never had an issue with that in shorter races and today I hardly noticed it at all (and altitude was definitely not the cause of the UROC debacle which was in much lower mountains).
It could be that I'm too heavy. People tend to guffaw when I say that because I look a lot lighter than I am. I don't think I could get much leaner even if I wanted to, but 170 pounds is a lot for an ultrarunner, even of my height. Maybe there is such a thing as being big boned.
It could also be that I'm really bad at hiking. I've not noticed this up until now because in Midwestern ultras, I usually only walk for a few minutes at a time. Hiking the longer climbs today, I was getting blown away by the folks around me, losing minutes rather than seconds. If I remedied that, I might be more inclined to walk steady grades in the early going rather than trying to run them. I'm not sure how one becomes a better hiker other than the obvious: hike more. I suppose it's something I could work on over the next year.
Finally, a few words about the race itself. Much has been made about the evolution of Leadville from a homespun event to a full series of professionally managed races. While I can see how some might pine for days when things were simpler, I don't see how you could get this many folks over a trail this remote without the kind of professionalism exhibited by the race staff. And, yes, that means that money becomes important. Professional organizations do have to tend to the bottom line if they are going to remain professional organizations. I'm not sure why making a profit off a great event is considered a bad thing by so many amateur athletes. I liked the fact that everything was done right and I'm more than happy to pay for that. I can only hope the 100 is as well produced. I guess I'll find out in 13 months.
