Silver Rush 50

Run July 6, 2019

I don’t believe in omens. I don’t think bad things come in threes (at least, not any more than they come in pairs or quadruplets). Good is not always rewarded and bad is not always punished. Sure, there are things you can do to move the odds in your favor but, at the end of the day, stuff just happens and we’re much less in control than we like to think.

That said…

I probably should have seen it coming.

In the last 12 months, I’ve run 4400 miles, completed two marathon prep cycles, run a sub-3, PR’d at 13.1 and 50 miles, and finished several other ultras. That’s a lot, even for a high-volume trainer like myself. Some downtime is clearly in order.

Instead, I’m signed up for my second go at the Silver Rush 50 in Leadville. It’s a qualifier for the Leadville 100 and I’m very much hoping to repeat my performance from three years ago when I scored an invite to the big dance.

The fact that I get horribly sick 10 days prior doesn’t dissuade me. Nor does the fact that I get better just in time to get sick again four days out. Or that I’ve worked 60 hours in the prior week. Or that I lose the transmission in my car the morning I’m supposed to leave.

I wrap things up at work midday on July 3, feeling like my cold is improving and that I’ve left my work tasks in good enough shape that I can take a couple days off without stressing over them. The Camry I’ve rented for the trip is comfortable and gets remarkably good gas mileage (41 for the entire trip, including the mountains). I spend an enjoyable evening in Lawrence, KS with Mike Eglinski and Mary Jones. The remaining drive on the fourth is, well, not super interesting, but otherwise pleasant and I convince myself that things are looking up. In Denver I’m greeted with the typical afternoon hail storm that gets me EVERY SINGLE TIME I drive there. At least I get a pretty sunset on my evening jog. The next morning I find time to round up some more cold medicine and finally head into the mountains.

Aside from failing to hook up with fellow SLUGs Eric Strand and John Sheppard, number pickup goes without a hitch. I’m told I missed a pretty good dinner with them, but I had a good time chatting with some other runners and mountain bikers at Periodic Brewery. After dinner, I do manage to find Eric’s place in Breckenridge and get a decent night’s sleep ahead of an early wakeup.

Eric, John, and I drive together to the start. We’re there in plenty of time to get ready. I tell Eric and John that, if either of them are ahead of me coming back, I’ll give them the car keys. They both laugh saying that’s not likely. I have no idea why they think that but, even if they're right, contingency plans are good.

Spectators trudge up the start hill to watch the sprint

I stash my trekking poles in my pack since the trail isn’t very steep until the first aid station. Well, except for the first 100 meters. That part is insanely steep. There’s a prize for the first person to the top but you can only claim it if you go on to finish the race. Even if I was in possession of that kind of uphill sprint, I wouldn’t trash the rest of my race by going for it. I hike up the hill like just about everybody else.

The next four miles are fairly flat, then we begin the big ascent from 10,000 to 12,000 feet. I run most of the way to the first aid station at seven miles, get out my poles, and hike the remaining three miles to the top. This part of the course used to be a loop, but the excessive snowmelt this year has washed out the lower trail, so this year it’s an out-and-back. I keep a rough count of runners coming back until it becomes clear that I’m well outside of the top 100. Last time I was around 60th at this point in the race, so I appear to be taking it out a bit soft. That’s not necessarily a bad thing; I stay on my pace.

From the turnaround, it’s all downhill to the next aid station. I make it a quick stop; just long enough to refill my bottle and grab a quick bite. We descend a bit more (allowing me to get in my obligatory fall – only superficial damage) and then we start the next big ascent which brings us back to around 12,000 feet. Although I have to hike almost all of it, I feel pretty good on the climb. I’m not gaining many positions, but it seems like a strong second half is possible. From the next aid station, there’s just a bit more climbing and then the interminable long descent to halfway.

I don’t know why this part of the course is so tedious. It should be fun; mostly easy downhill on very runnable gravel roads. It just seems like it goes on forever. I got frustrated on this section last time and ended up pushing way too hard. I don’t make that mistake this time, but I do find that, by the turn, I’m not feeling great. It’s almost as if I have an inverted reaction to altitude: I always feel good at the top of the passes, but in the valleys I go soft.

As I’m entering the aid station, Zach Strand (Eric’s son) is exiting. He stops me and introduces himself. I recognized him from pictures on Facebook, but it is our first actual meeting. He seems to be going quite well. I’m starting to feel like my race might be about to take a turn for the worse.

I’m not wrong.

Although I’ve taken my time getting to the halfway mark (30 minutes slower than three years ago), the trudge back up is, if anything, tougher going. I even have my poles with me this time, but they aren’t helping much.

Some clouds move in, bringing a light rain and even a little snow (!) and, suddenly, I’m moving well again. The clouds pass on and I’m back to dragging. That’s not a good sign at all; it indicates I’m overheating and probably behind on hydration as well. There’s not a lot I can do about that until the next aid station on the far side of the pass. Except, there is. This is a trail race and the usual zero-sum rules of sports do not apply. There are other “runners” (everybody’s walking this climb) and a few spectators sprinkled along the course. They don’t know me and have no reason to help except that that’s just what we do in these things. I bum enough fluids off of others to get me over the top.

Just prior to the aid station, John passes me and I give him the car keys. At the aid station, Eric comes through and I tell him I already gave John the car keys. If nothing else, this may serve as a lesson for them to take contingency plans seriously.

After a fairly long stop (20 minutes?), I head back out. The next leg is back down the really steep descent. While I don’t run it hard, it’s so steep that it’s easier to run it than walk. I take a shorter break at the next aid station. I’m feeling just a bit better but I also know what lies ahead: the three mile climb back up to 12,000 that crushed me last time.

Since it’s an out and back this year, the temptation to simply make a hard right and head straight down to the finish is pretty overwhelming. I mention to the course marshals that it would be much simpler to go that way. They aren’t particularly impressed with my logic.

I head up the grade. It’s only 5% on a gravel road; it really shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I don’t even try to fight it. I just walk. About a mile into it, Zach comes by the other way. He asks if I want to know how much farther. “Not really, I’ll just keep walking till I get there.” He wishes me well. John comes by and then Eric. Lots of other folks come by. I wonder if I’m even in the top half of the field (I’m not). At the turnaround, I don’t feel like running back down. I suppose I could, but it would be horribly unpleasant and it’s not like I’m going to save a great finish. I decide to walk it in.

At least it's a pretty walk

Eleven miles is a long way to walk it in. Still, it’s beautiful countryside and I’m not in any real duress; I just don’t have much of an engine and even less motivation right now. With eight miles to go, I’m back at the turn to the finish. I point out to the marshals that I was right: I went all the way up there only to be told to turn around. Again, this fails to convince them that they are doing something terribly wrong.

With four miles to go, we’re back at 10,000 feet. Not that I care much, but the flat terrain actually has me passing people who were able to run downhill, but can only walk on the level. I pass maybe 20 people before arriving at the finish in 12:49 (nearly two and a half hours slower than last time and not remotely in the running for a qualifying spot).

When a race goes this badly, my practice is to avoid introspection and just put it behind me. It’s clearly an outlier. That said, there is a pattern: I really don’t run well in the mountains. The problem isn’t altitude. I’ve done just fine at short races at altitude (by short, I mean 2-4 hours). I’ve also gone to pieces in long mountain races in the Appalachians where altitude isn’t an issue. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong on these things, but there’s some very important skill that I don’t appear to possess. Practice is the obvious answer, but that’s not an easy thing to do when you live in Missouri (the Ozarks are great, but they are NOT mountains). I think the only hope of fixing it is to spend some extended time hiking above tree line. That probably won’t go over big on the home front, so I’ll probably just continue to suck at mountain ultras.

I’m actually OK with that. At least I’ll see it coming.

Shippey 100

Run August 2, 2016.

Just to be clear, it was three beers. But, two probably would have done it. After the disappointment of Silver Rush (yes, the race report for that one is coming), I really wanted to get a more happy experience in my rearview mirror. How 100 miles in St. Louis summer satisfies that is something you can only fathom when you've had a few.

So, there I was, outside Melvin Brewery (which is really good, by the way) registering for the Shippey 100 much to the delight of the Arch City runners who had just sampled the Beaumont trails (and Melvin's beers) with me.

This is the inaugural running of the Shippey, named for the trail system at Beaumont Boy Scout Ranch in Eureka, MO, and the organizers have made several good decisions to maximize the chances it won't be the last. Each 20-mile loop of the course is really five little loops which start and finish at one of just two aid stations that are located less than a quarter mile apart. This greatly reduces logistics and also makes it a bit more interesting for the volunteers since runners will be coming through much more often.

Several distances are offered including a 100K that will run through the night and a 20-miler Saturday morning. The idea is to have other people on the trail during the latter part of the 100 mile (solo and relay) which starts Friday morning. At the pub, Jaime Maher asks if I'm signing up for the 20. I'm not sure what expression I shot her, but she immediately bursts into laughter and says, "I can't believe I just asked you that!" Not surprisingly, there aren't many other takers for the hundred. I'm the seventh and final person to register. Race director Ryan Maher assures me that he has enough buckles if we all finish. I don't think he needs to worry about that happening.

Dawn of the Shippey

The Friday start comes less than 12 hours after the first event in the Alpine Shop/Castlewood series, which is always a favorite of mine. A 4-mile trail race on steep terrain isn't the usual shakeout run for a 100, but I do it anyway. I keep my effort at around marathon pace and don't feel like I did anything to hurt my chances.

I camp just a few feet from the start line and am up well before the 7AM start. That's partly because I never sleep very well the night before a big race and partly because I think the race starts at 6 (I have it confused with the 100K start, which is 6PM). At 5:50, I observe that nobody else seems very ready to go and get Ryan to clarify the start time.

The morning is downright chilly by August standards but, it's still August. Plus, I can see my breath, which means the dew point is at least in the low 60's, if not higher. I decide I'll stick to my plan of running the first loop firm while it's still cool and then back way off as the afternoon heat fills in.

The chapel

At the gun, the first few relay teams blast off at 10K speed. That actually makes sense as the first leg is just over five miles long. I settle in with some of the slower teams with the rest of the solo field close behind. The first mile is mostly uphill, but I have no trouble running all except a steep section near the top. Then it's a mile of easy running along the top of the ridge before dropping down to my favorite part of the course, about a mile of very narrow trail through thick forest along a stream. Then it's another long climb back up the ridge, a bit more along the top and the final, very steep descent to the Chapel aid station which, as the name implies, is set up in the beautiful outdoor chapel surrounded by towering cedars.

With the exception of leg 1, the start of each leg heads back the way the previous leg came in. As I trudge back up the steep ridge, I see the rest of the 100-mile field come by before leg 2 splits off onto its own trail. After some more running atop the ridge, we have a steep down and up crossing over to another ridge. We then run along the far eastern edge of the ranch (we can easily see the houses just outside the woods) before getting to the toughest part of the course; a series of short, but steep climbs that lead back to the Chapel. While this leg is a mile shorter than the first, it takes almost as long due to the climbs.

Powerline

The next two legs are the shortest and least hilly of the loop. I decide to treat them as a single leg, taking enough food and water that I can blow through the next aid station, which is at the Start/Finish. On my way out on leg four, I'm dismayed to find that I apparently have a hole in one of my pockets and the gels I had taken for lap four are no longer there. Fortunately, I spot one of them on the side of the trail before leg 4 separates from the end of leg 3, so I don't have to go through the leg with nothing to eat. Halfway through the leg, we leave the woods and climb along a powerline. Aside from the Start/Finish area, it's the only part of the course that's exposed to the sun. It's not hot yet, but it will be. Fortunately, the trail heads back into the woods after just a few hundred yards. Leg 4 ends with a long descent down the spur from the ridge terminating at a rockface that is sufficiently steep that a rope is provided. From there, it's an intentionally circuitous route through the campground to the finish which gives support crews and relay team members a better chance to see who's coming in.

Alpinist skills optional

Leg 5 heads right back up the spur, the rope again proving useful. The trail doesn't branch off from leg 4 until the very top, which means I see most of the solo field coming in. It's way too early to care, but it looks like we have a real race on our hands. The next three are all less than 10 minutes behind me. After the big climb, the rest of the leg is all easy running along the ridge or gently descending. Just for fun, they route us back up above the rockface at the end so we get to use the rope a third time and then come in through the campground as with leg 4.

I finish the loop in just under four hours, which is about what I was expecting. I stay on that pace for leg 1 of lap 2 (getting to the chapel right at noon) and decide it's time to adjust pace for the afternoon heat. Since leg 2 is the hilliest, I stashed my trekking poles at the chapel figuring I could turn a tough leg into a recovery section by walking most of it. This is a strategy on which there is some disagreement. Some runners prefer to push hard on the tough sections to limit the time they're going really slow. I used to be in that camp, but I've found that deep efforts, even for short periods of time don't work well for me in ultras, so I've taken to using hills for eating, drinking, and recovery and try to keep a decent pace up everywhere else.

Despite the slow hike up to the up the ridge, the next 100 runner, Tim Landewere, doesn't come the other way until just before the split, 12 minutes after I leave the aid station. It's still too early to be reacting to others, but it does relax me a bit knowing that I can do a fair bit of hiking this leg without giving away all of my lead. I walk about a third of the leg. Back at Chapel, I ditch the poles and again grab enough food and water to skip the station between 3 and 4.

It's quite warm now and I've soaked all my clothing through. At the start/finish, I take a slightly longer stop to get enough to drink. The trudge up the ridge on leg 5 is quite slow, but I have no trouble on the rest of the leg. I end the lap at 3:23 PM (4:25 split for the lap) which is, again, pretty much what I was expecting. There's just one problem.

I'm not feeling well.

My legs are fine, but I can tell my insides are shutting down. It's awfully early in the run to be experiencing that. I'm going to have to slow down even more because I won't be able to go the rest of the race without eating (and, if I keep pushing, I might lose the ability to keep water down as well, which puts a quick end to any forward progress).

I have a decision to make. While I rarely set time goals for ultras (there are just too many weird things that can happen to let the watch dictate your pace), there is a certain cachet in finishing under 24 hours. Particularly with such a small field, it seems like that would give the win a bit more validity. The problem is, pushing for a sub-24 could result in a complete meltdown and I end up failing at both. I've run sub-24's. I've never won a 100. I'm at least two hours in the lead (nobody else has even started leg 4). I decide to forget about the time and make sure I don't go to pieces.

I walk more of leg 1 and much more of leg 2, trying to take in fluids and food in small quantities. Nothing comes back up, but not much goes down, either and my forward progress is certainly slow. Legs 3-5 feel better as temperatures are dropping, but I'm still way off the pace. By the time I finish the lap, it's getting dark. Fortunately, my pacer, Brandon Tiek, has arrived. After forcing down some noodles and broth, I take the risky step of sitting down to let my stomach settle. I tell Brandon that he absolutely has to pull me back out of the chair in five minutes regardless of what I say when that time arrives.

It's a very long walk up the ridge on leg 1. We do run the ridgeline as well as the trail along the creek, but the rest of the lap is walked. At Chapel, I again take my time getting down some more broth and sit for a few minutes while it settles.

Leg 2 seems to take forever. Aside from running the ridge after the first climb, we walk pretty much all of it. I feel bad that Brandon, who is quite capable of knocking out fast miles on trails, has been reduced to a hiking companion, but he seems quite happy to serve in whatever way is helpful. Back at Chapel, I'm only able to sip some ginger ale. I hate these long stops, but I learned at Heartland a few years back that, while forward progress is always the goal, if you know you're in trouble and leave too soon, really bad things can happen.

We're now at 70 miles. This is usually the low spot for me and today is not the exception. I ditch my poles for my big handheld light and we do manage an easy jog for most of leg 3. Brandon has to work in the morning and had promised to stay with me until 2:15AM. We get to the end of the leg at 1:15 and I tell him I doubt I'll get the next leg done in under an hour. He decides to press on regardless. I'm glad he stays because, after trudging up the powerline, I actually manage something that passes for running down the spur to end the leg. It's 2:30 and he's not going to get much more than a nap before getting up for work, but at least he got some real running in.

Back on my own for leg 5, I take it easy up the big climb but again manage to find a decent jog the rest of the lap. It's been an atrocious loop, taking over seven hours, but it's done, I'm still in the lead, and I know the worst is behind me.

Leg 1 is still slow, but the nausea is gone. My improvement on leg 2 is significant enough that the aid station workers at Chapel comment on how much better I'm looking. With the sun coming up, the three remaining legs flow easily. Since I'm not carrying lights, I keep my poles which help not only on the climbs, but also add some confidence on the descents as my motor skills are getting a bit vague.

As I wind my way around the campground for the last time, I try to let out some sort of victory shout but, twenty six hours of heavy breathing have taken a toll on my voice and I can barely manage a whisper. Nonetheless, I'm spotted a ways off and get a hearty round of applause and cowbells as I approach the line.

I underestimated the course. While the total climb is not particularly high, it comes at you in pretty severe chunks. The excessive rainfall we've had this year resulted in a lot of downed trees. They weren't hard to hop over, but when you're doing that a dozen times per mile, the effect adds up. And, while it was a perfect day for a picnic, it is summer in St. Louis and the humidity was noticeable anytime I moved faster than a walk. At any rate, I was pretty happy with the effort even if the clock wasn't in the mood for flattery.

Adding to the pleasure of a well-fought win was the fact that the race organization was spot on. I tried to come up with some constructive criticism but really couldn't think of anything. It's a low-key local event for sure, but one that is exceptionally well run. It all adds up to the happy experience I was looking for.

That said, it might take more than three beers to get me to run it again.