For me, running a 50k for the first time was a little like
being pregnant—I was looking
forward to it more before it actually happened, I spent way too much energy
just trying to stay upright, and at a certain point I just wished like hell it
was already over.
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| Near the beginning of the trail |
My husband and I chose the Baker Lake 50k for our second
attempt at an ultra-marathon because the course is an out-and-back, so there
were no double loops to tempt us to quit at the halfway point. It is located in
a beautiful region and the course was supposed to be easy, with relatively
little elevation gain. It is also just a 50k, that is no 25k or 50 or 100
milers are held on the same day (therefore, if I wore my race shirt there would
be no question of which distance I completed). Superficial of course, but you
should never underestimate the power of a good race shirt. In fact, I’m wearing
mine right now and might never take it off.
Another benefit of the location near Baker Lake, Washington
is that the campground where the race started offers free sites after Labor Day.
We ended up missing the early start time by a few minutes because we were still
breaking down our campsite when the horn sounded about 10 minutes early. The
sun hadn’t completely risen yet, so we weren’t that disappointed about not making
the early start because the visibility was still a little poor. We spent the
hour before the regular start time generally being intimidated by the other race
participants, nearly all of whom looked like they usually run 50 kilometers
before breakfast.
There would be only one aid station, so we both wore
hydration packs loaded with sports drink (Nuun for me, Gatorade for Aaron) and
plenty of gel. I also carried a carb/protein drink (Perpetuem by HammerNutrition) in a handheld water bottle. We each packed an extra shirt and socks
as well as more gel and some Body Glide in our drop bag that would be driven to
the halfway point for us to use at the turn-around.
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| One of the numerous bridges |
The starting horn sounded and we were off, generally staying
toward the back of the pack. We ran up a paved road and across a dam. I’m not
necessarily scared of heights, but I still found myself avoiding looking over
the edge to the bottom so far below. After we crossed the dam, we went up a
gravel road for about a mile and then turned off onto the single-track trail
and were instantly enveloped by thick forest. The trail was padded with pine
needles and undulated lazily through the woods and over many wooden bridges.
Fortunately, wearing the packs allowed us to carry our
cameras and we took plenty of opportunities to take photos—before it started to rain. Yes, it
started raining about an hour into the race, and it wasn’t just the omnipresent
Pacific Northwest misty sort of rain, it was pretty much a downpour. The canopy
of trees tended to shield the trail in most places, but it was still wet and getting
wetter. At this point, we were about six miles in and feeling pretty good about
our 12 minute per mile pace. Although we told ourselves and everyone else that “finishing
is winning’” we both really wanted to finish in between six and seven hours.
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| Me leading the way over a river crossing in the mist |
The trail became slightly more treacherous and rockier at
about this point. It was also punctuated with many stream beds to cross, some
with flowing water that soaked our feet no matter how careful we were. The
foliage along the trail become significantly thicker, obscuring the ground for
large stretches at a time making it difficult to go much faster than a walking
pace for fear of tripping. It was difficult to settle in at a comfortable pace
and keep it steady for long because of the constantly changing terrain. I lost
my footing several times and recovered, except one time when I actually fell.
My water bottle broke my fall with a wheeze, prompting me to compare it to an
airbag for runners. I was none the worse for wear and quickly scrambled up and
kept running. If I had tripped any later, I would have been a road hazard
because we ran into the first runners coming back the other direction about a
minute later, four miles from the halfway point.
We stopped to let others pass many times in the next hour,
stepping off the trail because it was so narrow. Aaron stepped into a patch of
stinging nettles at some point and spent the mile before the aid station with a
burning sensation on his left calf. One thing that was hard not to notice was
how pleasant and courteous all the runners were. Without fail, everyone who
passed us or whom we passed offered a kind word. I’m not sure if this is common
among trail runners in general or ultra-runners in particular, but I suspect it
has more to do with the distance; these people know what it takes to push their
body past limits that seem inconceivable to most people and understand that
sometimes a friendly word is all that is needed to get through the next mile.
We finally reached the turnaround about three and a half
hours into the race. We refilled our packs and I changed out of my soaking wet
shirt, used the bathroom and we were on our way once again. This time Aaron
took point and pretty soon I wasn’t able to keep up with him. After Haulin’Aspen, we agreed that we would both run our own races at Baker Lake. Of course,
I expected this to mean that I would beat him with no hard feelings, but I was
feeling pretty wrecked already and was actually pleased that Aaron hadn’t started
to physically break down yet, as he had in other distance races. Normally, my
super power is endurance and I typically have negative splits (where I run the
second half of a race faster than the first), passing many other runners in the
last few miles, but for whatever reason I was merely mortal today and feeling
pretty grim about the next twelve miles.
Those who know me know I never waste a downhill, but I found
myself walking the downhills on the way back because I was in quite a bit of
pain. I actually walked a majority of the last half of the race, only running
when I was sure I could go for a significant distance without having to break
my gait because of a steep patch or a creek. Every rock seemed to rise up out
of the trail like a whale breaching the surface of the water—surprising and dangerous. The
combination of the rain and the footfalls of other runners had caused the trail
to degenerate into a muddy morass in several places. I stumbled less on the way
back, but only because I was going slower and selecting my foot placement with
excruciating care. I hadn’t felt this bad in a race since my first marathon and
I hadn’t even gotten to 21 miles yet. I knew I had to keep eating and drinking,
but the gels made me gag (in the best of times they aren’t great) and even the taste
of my own sweat from where the nozzle of my hydration system had been resting
against my chest was hard to take, but I chocked everything down anyway and I’m
sure I would have been worse off if I hadn’t.
I overtook a few people on the way back and our brief conversations
were a welcome distraction, but I was essentially in complete solitude for the next
several hours. I alternated between hoping I would come across Aaron so I would
have company and hoping he had already finished. My Garmin had given up the
fight at about mile 24 when it got so
wet running through the overgrown section of the trail where I held up my
forearms to ward off the wet blows of the branches. My Nike Sportband was still
going strong, but because it’s a pedometer and doesn’t connect to GPS, I knew
the mileage could be significantly off. I got something of a second wind around
mile 26, which was probably a combination of knowing I was nearly finished and the
fact that the trail became significantly easier; knowing at this point I was
going further than I had ever gone before was also motivating. As per my usual technique,
I kept mentally breaking the course into tiny fractions (five sixths complete!),
but I had to constantly revise my math as my mileage (according to the
Sportband) kept increasing but I hadn’t yet reached the road I knew would start
about a mile and half from the finish. I finally popped out of the trees at
what I thought was 30.25 miles hoped that my recollection of how long the road
was had been incorrect. The Race Director waiting there quickly dispelled that
notion when he told me I had one and three quarters of a mile to go. I stopped
to chat and have a drink since my pack had run out. I took a cup of what I thought
was Gatorade but that turned out to my Mountain Dew. I don’t think I’ve had
Mountain Dew for 20 years and it is just as nasty as I remembered.
I started running again before my stomach rebelled, and this
time I resolved to run the rest of the way without interruption. I passed one
more person on my way in and just after I crossed the dam I saw Aaron waiting
for me and cheering me on. He ran me in for a ways, but I have never half-assed
it across a finish line before and I wasn’t about to start now—I took off and sprinted across the
finish line at 7:44:40—exhausted
and sore and happy, kind of like at the end of a pregnancy. And one more reason
why the two are alike: I didn’t get a medal when this one was over either.
