Leadville Trail 100 Run - Run

Kool-aid

Through all of the Ironmans and ultramarathons up to now, I’d resisted. I didn’t allow myself to get caught up on the “rah-rah” mentality of the race. I didn’t see the point. Until this time. This race was going to test everything. Distance. Heat. Cold. Altitude. Terrain. Rain. I came here looking for a race to see how far I could push myself, to see where my breaking point might be. This might be the one. So sitting in the high school gym, listening to Ken and Merilee speak to the crowd about family, I gave in. I opened the vault and let this one flow in. Judging from the task before me, this time I was going to need every advantage available. So I drank the kool-aid. I stood with all of the other runners and said the words, “I commit, I will not quit.”
I purposely put loads of pressure on myself to finish something big like this. I asked for help, and my friends came to my rescue. They took time out of their lives. They paid money. They planned for hours on how to make this work. To justify such a sacrifice, I’d have to give everything I had. I’ve let enough people down over the years to realize that I hate that feeling and will do everything possible to not let that happen. I wouldn’t let my friends down. They would tell you that such a thing wouldn’t disappoint them, and I would believe them. But inside, I need to know that I did everything possible to cross that line.
I also spent crazy amounts of money to do this. I’m not a professional athlete, and sometimes it’s hard to justify spending that much money on a selfish endeavor. Airplane flights, renting a house, a car, food, being away for over a week from family. How can anyone tell themselves that it’s worth it all, just to be able to say you finished a race? You need some good reasons and support from you family, which brings us to the home front.
If you don’t have support from your family for crazy shit like this, then you already have one strike against you. And if you do have their support, then you are a lucky duck, and still have the cross to bare of taking money and time away from doing things with them while you are off training for countless hours, and then traveling around the country without them. Doing races like this isn’t just about the day of the race. It’s about the months leading up to that day. It’s about friends and family and so much more. So if I had to finally give in and let that last bit seep in to get this thing done, then so be it.
Where do you start a “story” like this? It’s a RACE REPORT, but the beginning has many different points really. The months of training. The week I spent prior to the race in Leadville, breathing the lack of air. The starting line where the gun went off at 4am. I’d bore you and me if I spent much time writing about the training. I ran. I ran a lot. More than some, less than others. That takes care of the training. If you want to know how I trained for this race, buy me a beer and you’ll see my screwed up way of preparing for a 100 mile race.
I did actually arrive in Leadville a week before the race. I’m a flat lander that lives at 900 feet above sea level most days. Suddenly plunging into 10,200 feet for the town of Leadville, and then running up and down mountains as high at 12,200 was going to be a completely unknown challenge. Having read to many other horror stories about the effects of the altitude, I wanted to give myself a fighting chance, so I blew a weeks worth of vacation and went out 7 days early. I hiked up the steepest part of the mountain one day. I played uber tourist and tried to become a local. Mostly, I just breathed the air. I made a friend from Spain who was also staying at the house I was in, and we did some adventures together to pass the days. Looking back, I doubt I would have finished the race without going out early. It gave me just enough time to do as good as I was able.
So, there I was at 350am with my crew. Jon, Karen, Stephanie and Nathan. 4 friends who were nice enough to take time away from their own families, spend their own money, and put in a load of planning just to give me the best shot possible of running this 100 miles. Guillem, my new friend, was there with us as well. He had come alone, so we adopted him for the race. If nothing else, a friendly face during hard times can make all the difference. We took our pictures, then said our short good-byes as we made our way to the starting area. My first chance to see them again would be at the MAY QUEEN Aid Station, about 12.5 miles away. It felt good knowing they would be there. I doubted I’d need much moral support at that time, but getting me in and out of there quickly was the main concern, and little did I know at the time how important that would eventually become. The minutes and seconds counted down, and the shot gun went off, and away we went. A brisk 40ish degree morning started us down the road, and the hornets nest sound of bees overhead from the drones was the only noise we heard after a mile down the road.
It was kinda crowded for the first several miles as everyone began to spread out. Only one moderate incline met us before we started around the lake. This part of the path was narrow, and passing had to be done carefully, or not at all as you just seeded yourself in the wagon train of people and took whatever speed everyone else was doing. I checked my watch, and my average speed stayed acceptable, so I mostly just went with the flow. Now and then we’d encounter one person who was slowing down the train, and a group of us would pass together. It was small up and down parts of the trail around the lake, and we did most of this section in the dark. Only our head lamps were lighting the trail. That was fine. If I didn’t want to trip and fall on a root or rock, my world consisted of the 7 feet directly in front of me. This is what it was mostly like for my entire race. If I ever looked away to enjoy the scenery, I’d trip on something nearly every time. I was glad we had ran and hiked part of the trail earlier in the week so I didn’t feel to cheated by missing my surroundings.
With most of the lake part finished, the sun started to come up and I could actually make out the lake to my left. We were on a trail just a few feet away from the water, but sometimes several yards away. It really didn’t matter other than to mark a section of the race. Finally finished with the lake part, we headed towards May Queen which was about a half mile away. I rolled in after about 2 hours and 39 minutes and the team was there to meet me. Everyone wanted to help all at once. We had talked about what needed to get done during these points, and they all were ready to rock. We wanted to make sure my quads got “the stick” treatment, since that’s what usually tried to kill me first. My water bladder was refilled with Infinite. If I needed GUs replaced, that was done, but I hadn’t used any yet. My feet were ok and no clothing needed changed yet, so this first stop was pretty quick. I don’t think I even sat down at this one. In and out. They weren’t going to cut anyone off at this check point, but theoretically, I was 35 minutes ahead of their projected “cut off” time. Now that the people had spread out a bit, I wouldn’t be subjected to other peoples paces. I was running my own show now, for better or for worse.
Now came our first real climb, over Sugarloaf Pass. This 1000+ foot elevation climb over the next 5 miles was the first test of things to come. I was happy to be on relatively fresh legs still, and I did every trick I could think of to keep the damage to a minimum. I didn’t have my poles yet, so I used my hands to push on my quads to help me climb step by step up the steep incline. There is very little running up these inclines, at least for mortals like me. There was just a couple of short places to do any actual running, so I did my best to walk/climb as fast as possible. There were time cut offs to be met, and there was a fine line between going fast enough to put some time in the bank, and to fast and destroying myself for the later miles. I was trying to use some strategy here.
The top finally came and now I wondered what my legs were going to be capable of doing on a downhill. I started running at a good clip and it felt fine. Again, I knew that long downhills can destroy legs pretty fast, so I was doing what I could to minimize the pounding of the next 7 miles down. Eventually, we came to a road that would wind down past the Fish Hatchery and eventually take us to the next aid station at Outward Bound. I turned around backwards on the road and “ran” like this for a long as I could. It helped stretch out my calves and took the pounding off my quads. I looked stupid, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to do what everyone else was doing, because a great deal of these people weren’t going to finish and if I had to do stupid shit to cross the line, then sign me up.
I took a right of the roadway and into a field that was “Outward Bound”. The crew were ready to rock. I still didn’t believe I needed a sock change, but a quick foot rub was in order, as well as a quick use of THE STICK on my left calf and both quads. The team were a bit more organized this time. Bladder refilled, Gu’s refilled and I hit the aid station for coke and potato chips, which would become my GO TO supplements. I also started taking my DRUGS. I’d pop 2 Tylenol every 4 hours. I started before the pain so I could get ahead of it. It wasn’t like I didn’t know it was coming. I think we were keeping me pretty close to the 5 minute mark, and off I went. I was looking forward to when someone could pace me later, but I didn’t feel to beat up yet, after going 23.5 miles. Almost 25% done in 5 hours and 5 minutes. That felt like a pretty decent time considering what I’d done so far.
Guillem also met me as I was getting ready to head out of Outbound. He had been ahead of me for most of this part of the run, so I was surprised to see him. He looked like he wanted to hang together for a bit, and I was more than willing to have a buddy to share the miles with. What we now had was a slow, steady climb over the next 12 miles up to Mt. Elbert. Another 1,100ish foot climb, with some minor ups and downs thrown in for good measure. We would have an aid station called Half Pipe in about 6 miles, but wouldn’t see the crew for about another 14, until we hit the Twin Lakes stop. Just as we were leaving Outbound, it started spitting rain, and a mile later, it was a full blown event. We each pulled out our trusty travel rain jackets and put them on. Getting a chill up here could destroy the entire day, so we took precautions as best as we could. The rain let up about an hour later, and we shrugged off the jackets to let them dry as best we could.
Half Pipe eventually came into view and it was a welcomed site. 6 miles on a regular day happens almost in the blink of an eye, but in this environment, it was it’s own event. We had almost 30 miles of hard running and hiking on our legs now, and this station was perfectly timed. The sun was blazing on the rain that just fell, so it was steamy out. We quickly got our goodies and filled up our bladders at the station. Guillem found another guy he had met during the week while in the aid station tent, so we all decided to push on together. Still going uphill, we took off at a good walking pace. We all introduced ourselves, and spent most of the next hour talking about our jobs and where we lived. These long races are great for meeting new people and becoming “running friends”. Sometimes you have a friend for life, and sometimes until you cross the finish line. Eventually, we made it to the top of Elbert and started our 4 mile run down the other side. When you’re a kid and you run down a big hill it’s a blast and exciting. When you’re a 53 year old guy and you know you still have over 60 miles left to go until a finish line, not so much. You may not feel the damage immediately, but it’s there, and the pain is just waiting to jump up and bite you in the ass. It’s never a question of if the pain is coming, it’s a matter of when, and how long you can delay the majority of it. Twin Lakes was my goal. You have to eat these beasts one bite at a time. If you focus on the entire meal, you start to crumble.
We finally reached Twin Lakes Aid Station, and we each went our separate ways in search of food, liquids and help. My crew found me immediately and started their magic. As soon as I sat down, Jon asked if I wanted a new pair of socks. I said, “no, but a foot massage would be awesome!”. He took my shoes off and my big toe was sticking through my toe sock. He said, “are you sure you don’t want new socks?” We all laughed and I had a new pair of socks on in a few more minutes, as well as a new shirt. Bladder filled and poles in hand, we regrouped our little band of friends and took off towards Hope Pass. The monster that awaited. Guillum and I hiked up and ran down this mountain 5 days ago, and it had taken all 5 days to recover from that little recon event. This was gonna hurt, but since it wasn’t going away, off we went.
For whatever reason, I blew up on this part of the race. Maybe it was how incredibly slow I was going, or nutrition or some other force, but I was sweating to much, and felt wore out. I kept telling myself this would eventually pass, but I knew that I’d have to get over the top of this thing before that could ever happen. I eventually told Guillum to press ahead without me, because I wasn’t feeling the mountain today. He looked like he felt bad leaving me behind, but I didn’t want to jeopardize anyone else’s race because I was having a low point. When you’re feeling this shitty during a race, you wonder how it is even possible to pull yourself back together enough to eventually run again. I’ve done it enough now to know that it happens, and to just hang in there until it does. That was all I could depend on here, because I was feeling mighty low. There are certain parts of this climb that let you know how far along up this mountain you are. At the lower section, you are in a forest. The trail is littered with rocks and roots. Eventually, you come to a few meadows where the trees begin to break up into sections. After that, you make your way above the tree line and into fields of rocks of every size. This is when you know you are getting close to the top. However, this is a top you can’t actually see until you are almost standing on it. You just keep going back and forth on a series of seemingly unending switch backs. Thank goodness I had an idea where the top eventually was because it can fuck with your head. A few hundred yards from the top, you get a much needed break and treat. A brave group of people load up a herd of llamas to pack up tents, food and supplies to a near flat section. They build a fire and put on a full blown aid station. You get to get your shit together here, both physically and mentally, before pushing on that last little bit before hitting the top. I needed that bad. I didn’t take long, but I had a few quick snacks, glanced at the llamas for some good mojo, and took off up the last remaining switch backs.
Every video I’ve watched shows the top of Hope Pass to be in a constant category 2 hurricane force wind. The day Guillum and I went to the top was no different. You had to take each step carefully, because the wind could push you around. Today was worse. I got to the top and the winds were howling. I needed a minute though. Just a moment. The view from here is incredible. Mountains all around you as you stand on one yourself. I went down on my knees to stretch for a second. I needed this reward for reaching the top. I knew the other side was all downhill, and I wanted my legs to be able to run every chance they could. The march up this bastard had taken a toll and I had to get myself ready for what was to come for the next 6ish miles. 2.5 miles of straight down, then 3 miles of up again and another short down to meet the gang at Winfield aid station. This would be the 50 mile turn around. This would be where I’d pick up Stephanie and have a pacer. First I had to get off this mountain. It had taken me 11 hours and 8 minutes to get here, so somehow, I was still an hour and 7 minutes ahead of the cut off time. After that sad climb, I wasn’t sure how. Maybe my crappy climb was the average. Geez!
I started down the mountain. Sometimes it was so steep I had to walk, just so my legs wouldn’t get away from me. Loads of people were coming back up already, so we had to be careful passing each other. One could easily fall off the path and not be able to stop falling for a very long, rocky time. It was amazing to see how many people were that many miles ahead of me. I knew I was a slow ass up the mountain, but these people were hauling the mail! Well, I was still ahead of the cut off, so I didn’t feel overly bad. I went as fast as I felt was safe. When I could run fast, I did. When I had to slow down to save my legs or my life, I did that too. Down and down some freaking crazy rock fields. It didn’t feel like I was on planet earth anymore! Back into the trees, and finally to the bottom, which was extremely short lived, because we immediately started back up a hill again. Step, pole, step, pole, on and on and freaking on! Then one more down hill and into Winfield!
Winfield was like a party! Hoards of people running around. Tents everywhere. People cheering and yelling. The crew found me immediately, but the first stop I needed to make with the porta potty. I had been out there for 12 hours and 58 minutes, and it was time to make the BIG STOP. It’s not a fun stop to make, but if things are moving in that direction, it means your guts are still doing what they were designed to do, and haven’t closed up shop and gone fishing. It would cut into my time slightly, but it wasn’t like I could wait either. That job done, I cleaned up, found some coke and food, then sat in my crew provided chair for the team to go to work on me. All told, I wasn’t there much over 6 minutes, and then Stephanie, I and Guillum were heading back up the hill. Guillum had showed up a few minutes before me, but decided again to wait for company. That was cool with me, as long as it didn’t hamper his race. We headed out of Winfield with 55 minutes to spare on the cut off. A bit closer than I like for my comfort zone.
Stephanie added just the right amount of zing back into the equation to liven things up again. The seemingly never ending hills and mountains can begin to deflate your drive, but having someone excited to be running and seeing these sights was a help. At first it was less running than hiking. The first 30 minutes was all uphill, but then we were able to run a little bit before heading back up to Hope Pass. 3.5 miles and 90 minutes later of stepping and poling, we were at the top again. The winds were even stronger, and any thoughts I had of taking a 2 minute break were literally blown away. As beautiful as it was, all we wanted to do was get over the other side and down far enough that the cold winds weren’t trying to kill us.
Down and down and down we ran. Finally, about 15 minutes later we came back to the llama aid station! God I needed that! Hot broth….coke….chips….pee behind a tent. We were out of there. Down and down the mountain we ran. I’d walk through the rock fields if I felt like an ankle break was coming, but we ran for the most part. I must have whacked the toe of my shoe 30 times and wondered how many nails I’d loose by the time this was over. Some of them felt like real doozies. From the very top to the very bottom, it took us about an hour and ten minutes. Not blazing fast, but it had gotten dark, and my legs weren’t to be trusted trying to negotiate rocks and roots at to quick a speed.
About 9:13pm we pulled back into Twin Lakes aid station. Steph had done her job well. She had kept me motivated for over 4 hours. I wasn’t in my best of moods after this many miles. Unknown to me at the time, she was suffering the last 30 or so minutes with altitude sickness. As I collapsed in my chair to let the team put me back together, she as about to barf, and was apparently nursing a exciting headache. She was a super trooper to never let me realize what was going on with her. She was better a few hours later, but I never found out about this until well after the race. The team re-outfitted me, used the stick on me, filled up my Infinit and gu’s, and sent Nathan and I out into the chilly darkness, 6 minutes after Steph and I had arrived, but now only 40 minutes ahead of the cutoff. Crap! Going back up Hope Pass had really cut into my time bank.
Back up to Mt. Elbert we climbed, and as we did, it got colder and colder. I had dressed for the cold, but not for what happened next. It started to rain. Cold rain. It was so cold I was amazed it wasn’t just snowing. I had left my rain jacket with the crew to let it dry out, so now I was screwed. I wasn’t wearing a hat, just a BUFF, so I adjusted it to be more like a hat to take the rain off the top of my head. The rain was coming down hard and heavy, and I knew I wasn’t going to last long with what I was wearing. I told Nathan I needed a jacket, and just then he remembered he had one in his pack! Holy Shit! This one thing alone saved my entire race. I wasn’t going to last long in that rain with no jacket. I would have been freezing and soaked to the bone within 10 more minutes. His light jacket with a hood was just enough to keep me dry and warm until the rain finally stopped and we got back to the gang at Outward Bound.
Between the rain and Outward Bound, we had the uncrewed aid station of Half Pipe. This was a quick in and out, but again, much needed. Just taking a couple of minutes to put some real food inside you makes all the difference. We kept pushing on. Nathan would encourage me to drink and run constantly, but never in a pushy way. You could tell he wanted me to finish this thing, and was doing everything he could think of to speed me up and keep me moving. Thank goodness most of it was downhill, because when he told me to run, I ran. 4 hours and 7 minutes later, we pulled into Outward bound. Nathan had pushed me just the right amount at the right time to put some time back in the bank, which I desperately wanted and needed. I now had almost 90 minutes to spare, and 25 miles to go. Whew.
I’d been running just about 21 hours and 33 minutes, and I only had a marathon(ish) to go. With 8 hours and 30 minutes to get this done, the only thing that stood between me and the finish was the Sugarloaf Pass climb. Jon was ready to rock his part now. He was dressed and looking to take me to the finish line. I knew this was going to suck for him. Being ready to run and then having to walk most of 25 miles wasn’t exactly something to look forward to. For the next 7.5 miles we would climb about 2500 feet, and it was going to be a gut buster. I’m sure it was a great joy for my crew/pacers to watch me trudge up these mountains step by step for hours at a time, encouraging me the entire way. That alone can be draining on a person. You not only have to get your own ass over the mountain, but then keep telling your runner to “keep on trucking” the entire time too. Also, they have bounds of energy still to be able to tackle these sections, but the runner (me) is dead on his feet. Walking sucks, running hurts and the clock don’t give a shit.
We walked up the roadway and actually missed our left hand turn into the forest, but not by much. We were about 30 yards beyond our turn when runners behind us yelled for us to come back. Whew! Much further and that would have sucked. Off into the woods we went, and soon up the mountain. A few hours later, we reached the top and started down the other side, with 5 miles until we would reach May Queen aid station. We were able to run most of the downhill section here, only slowing down to not trip and fall on rock and roots. This only lasted about 3 miles until it flattened out and we hit one more small uphill. Even the small hills were killers now, but this one was fine, since I knew the aid station was barely a mile away. We pulled into May Queen at 5:30am. I’d been doing this for 25 hours and 30 minutes. I had let about 30 minutes slip away from my buffer bank, and was only one hour ahead of the cut off, but that was more than enough with only 13ish miles to go. There wasn’t any horrible uphills between me and the finish line, just a lot of small ups and downs. Half a marathon. Four and a half hours. It doesn’t seem hard does it? I tried to tell myself that too. Loads of time. Right? Barely.
It was one last, quick stop to resupply ourselves and let the team work their magic on my sore muscles. Finally, there was nothing left to do but put one foot in front of the other and finish this thing. Jon was a trooper. He’d pick out small goals for me to reach and we’d run 50 or 60 yards, then walk. He’d pick trees (one’s he only knew of) and we’d go running until he said we reached that tree, or rock or woodlyn elf. Later, when the sun came up as we rounded the lake, he’d pick little pieces of tape that hung from trees to guide us back and we’d run to them. Finally, we came to the long roadway that lead into town. I was beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. We kept trying to determine how many miles were left, but one fact usually remained, I could pretty much walk the next 3 or 4 miles and make the cut off time to the finish. So we walked. The couple of times I actually gave in and attempted to run, my brain told me to “stop that shit” and just walk. Why put yourself through that kind of pain just to finish a few more minutes early? There was no good reason. Eventually, between Jon pulling out his phone to confirm our mileage, and a local girl giving us her two cents, we confirmed that walking would get me to the finish just fine. I was ok with that. I could tell Jon wanted to run, but I was done. If we were cutting it any closer, I could have convinced myself to run, and deal with the pain, but there just wasn’t a good reason, so we walked.
With less than a mile to go, we turned left off of the dirt road and onto the pavement, then we made a quick right on 6th street and headed for the finish line. I had 30 minutes to go ¾ of a mile. There were people beginning to cheer us on along the street and from their houses along the way. We had decided to run the last 30 or so yards into the finish line together. The whole team. It really was their accomplishment as much as mine. I wouldn’t have been there without them. It’s not just a nice thing to say. It’s a fact. Whatever you need to be made of to do this without a crew and pacers, I’m not that person. But I never intended on being able to do it without them either. It’s good to know you limitations and depend on your friends to help you accomplish goals. Sharing success is better when you can do it with others. High fiving yourself isn’t nearly as satisfying as doing it with your friends!
The closer we got to the finish line, the more the crowds were cheering. It’s wild to think these people were cheering for the rear of the pack runners! With a few yards left, the rest of the crew met Jon and I and started walking with us. Karen was recording and we were all laughing and talking. Finally, my brain decided we were close enough, and I said we could finally run. Crowds yelling, the finish line with a red carpet was just in front of us. I crossed the line and tried to soak it all up for a second. I bent over and put my hands on my knees to steady myself. Going forward was easier than standing still. When I looked up, Merilee was standing in front of me, holding my medal and ready to put it over my head. I laughed and let her slide the medal on, then stood up and gave her a hug. Everyone gets and hug, and I wanted mine too! Ken was standing beside her signing an autograph, so I waited for a moment there so I could shake his hand and tell him “thank you”. When he finished signing, I stuck out my hand, but he took a step in and gave me a big hug as well! Family don’t shake hands, they hug, and these two had told us we were “family” from day 1. They had hugged over 300 sweaty, smelly runners, and I wasn’t complaining. I still thanked him for the great race.
The crew and I gathered up, and headed back to the house. I just wanted to sleep, but we needed to be back at the high school in 2 hours to get our finishers belt buckle. We wondered why they weren’t just giving them out at the finish line. We got back to the house and I was somehow able to take a shower. I just wanted to lay in the bath tub and let the water rain down on me, but I’d fall asleep for sure, and I still needed that buckle. Cleaned up and dressed, I took a super quick cat nap, then we headed to the school. We sat through the awards ceremony, and after it finished, we were told we could pick up our medals upstairs. We made our way to the cafeteria, and I stood in line. It was then that we found out that we were getting “finisher’s jackets” too. AWESOME! But still, why didn’t they just hand this stuff out at the finish line? When it came time to get my buckle and jacket, I found out why. Each jacket had the runners name and finishing time on the sleeve! Holy cow! In the last 2 hours, they were able to get this put on the jacket!? It made the trip back to the high school well worth it! This was a class act of a race, from beginning to end. The race officials weren’t just enthusiastic because they had to be, they genuinely sounded like they meant what they were saying about family and how grateful they were that we were here helping save their community by participating in this event.
Leadville was more than a great race. For a week, I was able to insert myself, just a little bit, into their community. I had a small taste of what it was like to begin to become a “local”. I liked how that felt. The history of the town, and how nice the people were, was a reason to come here even without the race. I look forward to coming back one day with my family to let them experience it as well. 29 hours. 36 minutes. 55 seconds. 52 % of the starters were finishers. I am thankful to be one of them. Thank you team! You ARE the best!

more hill training. More walk training.

See Run Comments


More hill training.


Awesome race. Great location. Wonderful people.