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.