Almost Too Wild & Tough: Three Dawns at Hardrock 100

Q: What’s brown, long, and sticky?

A: First of all, where did your dirty mind just go because . . . EW! Secondly, the answer is a stick. A Stick.

These are the kinds of jokes that propel me along at mile 90-something of a 100 mile race. It’s not in the telling, actually, but in the run-up in the miles before: thinking about delivery, planning for when I am going to unleash my childish humor on my pacer, wondering if they will smirk or eye-roll or chortle at my selection of amusements. I thought about this one for nearly an hour before it tumbled out of my mouth in the darkness of the 2nd night here out on this course, 2016’s Hardrock Hundred, while we are both fighting fatigue and potential failure.

So it goes. I paid good money to be at Hardrock this year, to take time away from the day-gig, to hand over money to local businesses and boarding establishments, just so that I could be cold out in the mountains after dark, falling asleep on my feet. If the Stoics lived now, they would surely say, “first world problems.”

So, then, WHY?

Ultrarunning is something you could call selfish. But so, I’d argue, are a lot of things. Things that are hard and personal and that we crave acceptance for are also “selfish”. Things that we like to get recognition for from friends or loved ones or just our community at large. How much different is it to the greater social population when evaluating one person’s accomplishment over another’s? Let’s say you’ve always had a problem with getting through the written word ever since small, but you worked hard for weeks and finally finished Don Quixote? That’s an achievement to be sure. Maybe you spent some sleepless nights worrying about the fate of the characters; perhaps meals were skipped, meetings missed. You suffered to get that book done. But get it done you did. And now, you can deservedly receive some congratulations.

When I think about it, an ultramarathon might not be much different than the non-reader finishing a great novel, smiling in contentment at their book club’s congratulations. Or standing back and admiring the deck you just built with a circle of friends over for a BBQ. Or completing your first (or 10th) knitted sweater and showing it off to the needle club and your Facebook group of knitting maniacs.

Ultramarathons are something that I personally pay (not a tiny amount of) money to enter, spend considerable time researching and crafting training plans. Then I must travel and ultimately do some literal suffering to complete the task. Afterwards my gait is a little stiff, my immune system compromised, and my ankles have taken a trip to third-trimester pregnancy status. Even my skin is sunburnt in odd places like one little strip on the right arm and a band on each calf. But I’ve done something that required time and a bit of discomfort, even if that something has no meaning to everyone on the planet save for myself and other participants. Getting a high-five from a small crowd of them is pretty awesome.

To the world, an ultramarathon is at worst stupid and at best a personal victory that is still mostly inconsequential. But to another ultramarathon runner (or “novel reader”), it is really something.

The Janked Up Knee: 2016’s Hardrock Hundred Preamble

I janked up my knee at Fat Dog 120 last August. In the bad weather, the cold, and the petroleum-jelly clay-mud, my knee started doing strange things at mile 25: random shooting discomfort, instability, and, most disturbingly, outright collapse. Most of these symptoms I had had before, so I knew them well. But that was years ago. It was the sudden appearance that was troubling.

To make that long story tolerable, the knee worsened from run to jog to walk to hobble to DNF at mile 80. The 8 months of treatment afterwards (including a couple of unfortunate months of stalling) made me think that it might have been a good idea to DNF at mile 50 instead of 80, but in the moment it is really hard to know what’s going to happen in the aftermath…. whether that’s a long term injury or a finish (or both).

2016-07-07 15.13.47

I don’t always camp, but when I do it’s at 10,800 feet.

After my name was drawn in the Hardrock lottery in December, it got real. I doubled down on actually rehabbing my knee (by then a hamstring/glute problem instead) and pondered the coming summer. By March I was doing some medium length runs. By April, days of 25-30 miles were doable, though still infrequent. By June I’d done a 70-mile 3-day weekend and things felt…. stable. This might actually work.

I never looked at my training mileage to compare it to previous years: it was less and I knew it. BUT, it was likely more than the first time I finished back in 2004. Those days I ran weeks in the 30s with barely a double-weekend in there for fatigue training. And yet I finished, in a not-horrible time. Although, I was 30 and living at 7000′ elevation, both of which were factors. Now I’m 42 and this is a good thing in many regards. My legs have way more experience with 100s and mountainous trails in general. But, I live at 500 feet these days and have learned that with each passing year I both value and need my sleep hours. With the prospect of a 2nd night out at Hardrock, I was leery.

Heat training occupied my late spring, partly for the planned pacing stint at Western States, partly for the altitude-like EPO effects from increased blood plasma volume. A little bit of time training between 6000 and 10,000 feet helped, too, but nothing at all like actually living there. So I set off 10 days early for Silverton with my work projects in tow and began camping at 10,800′ to make some more red blood cells. Because this course averages above 11,000 feet. Yeah:

Hardrock's Course Profile

Hardrock’s Course Profile

My Secret Sauce for Finishing 100s With Gas Left

And then, quickly, race day Friday morning came and we started climbing and I was right back to how things were in 2004. Up to Putnam basin and ridge, slowly like always as I start races. Honestly, I know a lot of folks who find success at 100s by holding back in the beginning so that they have legs and stamina in the middle and final stretches. Previously at Hardrock and at other 100s, my 2nd halves have been barely slower than the 1st half of the race. What’s my secret? Honestly, I think I don’t have a top gear. No top gear means I can’t go out too hard. I just go at what my speed is, and I can do that speed, more or less, until I’m done. If that’s a secret, it’s not a sexy one.

The women of 2016, 16 of us, had decided that we are all going to finish and make history. The word is passed around the field: no woman drops. I like this pressure. Just a little bit of extra push to keep me going. Not that I planned to drop, but who does, really?

By KT (the first aid station), I was exactly on the same pace as 2004. This is neither a good nor bad sign – if much faster I might have been happy but worried. If much slower I would have *definitely* been worried. When chatting with another runner nearby we talk pace and I mention that I of course plan to finish but that 40-44 would be ideal. At this moment I have the thought of a finish right before the end, something like 47:59, and I shudder. That sounds really, really awful. Two full nights out? Dear gawd.

Then the hike up to Grant Swamp pass ensues and the marbles-on-hard-dirt descent. Along the way, Geoff is taking photos and the flies are biting. Luckily the latter isn’t going to last or else I might go out of my mind in the space of a few hours.

On the way to Grant Swamp Pass.

On the way to Grant Swamp Pass. Photo by Geoff Cordner

Like usual, I’m doing a combination of steady but measured uphills, jogging downhills not as fast as I’d like, passing on the ups, getting passed on the downs. Quite a few folks slip by me on the way down Grant Swamp, where I am as timid as a 90-year-old on crutches. Per Josh Gordon, “That was straight up hazardous!”

Over the next miles I meet a few friends that will spend some back and forth time with me over the next 40 hours: Tina Ure on the way to her 5th finish, Mark Heaphy of a bazillion finishes already, John Horns, Ellen Silva of Santa Fe, Ken Ward, and more. Not all will finish, sadly. But many will do fine. They always do.

Not eating enough: an ultra-only problem

I struggled mightily on a few of the ups, more so than my usual. Enough that it was clear things were awry. Calorie intake in 100s is typically a problem for me, but I don’t always notice it with the ease of other runners who crash on the side of the trail for lack of blood sugar. I’ve seen spectacular bonks in my friends that let them know loud and clear they need more food. With me, however, I just gradually slow down and feel sluggish. Cueing into that should be a key to better race performances, and then not eating the point of gut upset, also a common problem in races. Basically I don’t eat enough, I slow down, I feel slow, I get actually hungry but then I get nauseous because my stomach is empty. It’s a circle.

The slog up Oscar’s at mile 20 was fine. I passed a few folks. After Telluride, however, the climb to Virginius Pass and Kroger’s Canteen was painfully slow and, disturbingly, a little wheezy. But then that climb was over (sketchy final bit done, sketchy snow slide done, sketchy rock/snow slide done, whew) and I was running down the road to Governor’s Basin, and then, Ouray. In the darkness I ran what I could, hoping it was not too early to be doing that. But I made a food mistake while sitting in the warmth of Ouray. Leaving Ouray with eggs in my belly was the wrong approach. Hashbrowns would have been smarter: carbs and a little bit of fat/protein, rather than a boatload of both and no sugar.

Once on the Bear Creek Trail I wanted to stop about every 5 minutes, so I did, breathing hard and then slower and then slower. This is not like me. I typically just grind, grind, grind, passing folks who are stopped for a breather. Now I was the breather girl and folks were passing me. It was embarrassing. Finally Engineer Aid arrived and I realized I need more starch. Potatoes, yes. GU, yes, but yuck. Coke, yes.

Not surprisingly, the rest of the climb to the pass was far better, and the run down into Grouse almost tolerable. Despite being almost an hour behind “schedule”, I felt a bit better and ready to pick up Brenden, my pacer. We warmed up in the tent, pounded down a small amount of food, and set off again into the dawn light. Again I wanted to know if all the women were still in it. You know, just in case I thought I might need to drop and didn’t want to let everyone down. No one had. Off we go. I made it to the Grouse-American pass without too many pauses for recombobulation.

Handies, too, was OK. Slow as I anticipated but not awful. My lungs still felt weird. Not fully “full”. But I was still moving OK, I think. I worried about the descent on the other side, loose and scrappy as it is. But it was far more tolerable than Virginius and that was a relief. We did what I figured was some jogging on the way down to Burrows for more calories. Coffee with hot chocolate? YES. Fried rice (hello, wonderful folks of Burrows!!)? Oh, heck yeah.

For the entire run I took in gels but not enough. They started tasting not so great after only a third of the race, and later on the second day I had to eat each one in 3 stages rather than just knocking each one back in a go. Stay down and digest, digest you little calories! At least they all stayed down. Whew.

The heat on the way to Sherman was noticeable, tolerable. I thanked my hot spring yet again. Then I waited to get to Sherman to ask if any women had dropped. Nope, not yet. Good for all of us! Yet my mind still said, this sucks and maybe you might have to drop, just don’t be the first or only woman. Up the nearly 10 miles to Pole Creek and I saw the aid station in the distance no less than twice before it actually was there in my vision like a mirage. The first time I spotted white and I swore we were almost there. I bet Brenden that the white tent we saw was it.

I lost.

The real Pole Creek consisted of a good literal pit stop, some food, and then we were setting off for Maggie, 4.3 miles that passes like about 43. You’re not yet at that barndoor stage of the race, not with this many miles to go. It’s afternoon and I am falling asleep on my feet, 36 hours into the race. I mention to Brenden that we have at most 12 more hours to get through, which doesn’t at all sound like my idea of a fun weekend.

Nap Time

Suddenly, I wanted to take a nap. The desire was so pervasive and NOW that I think it sounds like an OK tradeoff to just lie down, doze off, and let the race clock run out. This is new. Let’s talk about the past and being 30 and 31, when I first finished this race. How mountain adventures are pretty, well, adventurous. Scree slopes with crazy angles and trails cut into them for a band of runners to traipse over? Awesome. Nighttime storms? Bring it on. Two nights without sleep? Nothing but a few hallucinations and a little surreality.

Oh, but now this body is 42. Sleep is suddenly something of importance for regular functioning. All of those Hardrock “old timers” in their 50s and up who do go the 48 hours without sleep? At this point they are gods. Youthful sleeping habits are surely wasted on the young and the ability to keep standing and moving forward on singletrack trail for two days straight is all of a sudden a fantasy nearly untouchable.

Sleep right at that moment, mid-afternoon on the second day, sounds awesome. So I tell Brenden, “10 minutes. Now.” and set my pack down as a pillow in the low sunlight. For about 3 minutes I am disappointed when sleep does not immediately take over. Then I decide to just get up and keep going and Brenden says, “that was 8”. So I guess there was a little shut-eye, despite my worry. But does it help? Not a lot, and I trudge up the hill.

Into the sunset goes the sleepy runner.

Into the sunset goes the sleepy runner. Photo by Brenden Goetz

I went deep into my head here. I realized that a lot of what I was feeling is what I was supposed to be feeling, and what I expected to feel. Including the desire to stop. But that didn’t remove any of the feelings or desires, unfortunately. Still, my brain plotted how to be OK with DNFing, even after the last 36 hours of work and toil, and the 36 weeks before that of training, planning, and hoping.

Deciding to DNF

When did I decide that it was going to be the end of my race? I’m not actually sure. I knew that my lungs felt off and not quite up to par. I knew that my legs felt totally fine. But I worried about my speed. Maybe I was just monitoring everything from miles 40 onward, that awful climb up out of Ouray, watching the clock, worrying. By mile 80 I was definitely concerned. And so I gave myself a good talking to, in which I made the very sane assessment that dropping is OK, if that is what needs to happen, if I have junk in my lungs and I cannot climb. I cried just a little at this realization, because I do want to finish. Maybe that’s a good sign, if the pending DNF gets me all sad. Or maybe it’s just a sad thing and not a sign. I think about the races I’ll have to do to re-qualify for this and for Western, the fall training. All of it occupies me for the better part of 5 hours. It seemed perfectly logical. Dropping seemed like all I could do. How could I finish? I could not. Therefore, I should stop. It seemed simple, even if it was difficult to admit.

And then we hit Maggie, finally. Everyone there is happy and that is awesome. Kristina Irvin is here and I ask her how she deals with being sleepy. She says, “sometimes I wake up in the bushes.” Har, and hmm. Not what I was hoping for. Otherwise, I like this aid station because I feel like the climb out of it is not so bad. But I do always forget the climb is two-fold. The first one is OK. The second one is gnarly. I take it slow and feel the lungs doing their icky thing again. I wonder if I am imagining it. Imagining what pulmonary edema feels like without really knowing. Maybe I’m not so bad off. But then I get sad again.

Green Mountain descent right, Divies ascent left, Cunningham center.

Green Mountain descent right, Divies ascent left, Cunningham center. Photo by Geoff Cordner

For the record, the final descent from Green Mountain is FAR FAR FAR better in the light. Remember that. In the darkness I am reduced to scared tip-toeing down the sliding trail using my poles as legs and generally freaking out nonstop for an hour. In that mess we pass by a huge herd of sheep, bleating in the dark, the yips of their dogs measured and urgent. I thought to turn off our lights and just LOOK through the moonlight to see them, but somehow I never said anything or did it. I regret that. And then I start sliding down the hill again. It ain’t pretty.

Brenden knows what has been going on with me wanting to drop. He is a little resigned about it, too. In retrospect that’s not a great sign, but he doesn’t know me. What is he supposed to do? He is supportive but nudging without being a commander. For the most part, that’s been working. We keep going down, then I get my second dose of brisket for the race. Within a half mile of Cunningham there is someone posted as a trail guardian who warns us about the next stretch and asks how I’m doing. I say that my lungs feel junky and he says that I have “Brisket” and should get down ASAP. Yep, I’m on it, dude.

At the bottom of the trail into Cunningham stood 6 people, silent, with their lights off. It was eerie and a bit somber. Like they were watching our horrible progress and just waiting to see what terrible shape we must be in, what help we might need, what medical attention was required. But all I wanted was someone to listen to my lungs. I plopped down on the chair in the tent and was promptly swaddled in massive blankets, Jabba the Hut style. Two separate med folks listened to my lungs and proclaimed me clean.

Wait, what?

Now that that was resolved and there were 5 and 3/4 hours left on the clock, Cunningham was all business. My friends from Albuquerque set out on their task of getting me out of the aid station and headed up that last crazy mofo climb. But. But… I was done. Quit? Why in the hell would I do that? I had plenty of time (and in fact one of them actually asked me, did I want to take a nap!?) and my lungs were perfect: what’s the problem here? The problem was this: nothing but a whiny ultrarunner who thinks that they can just stop when they want to.

I was to be ferreted out of the tent and back on to the course without even a peep of recognition that here was the place that I was going to drop. Those sentiments were just not heard. When it seemed true that I *was* continuing, I still could not wrap my head around it. I even said out loud, “I just talked myself into being OK with dropping fro the last 4 hours!” To flip that around was excruciating. But according to the folks in that tent, nope, not gonna happen at this aid station. We’re mile 91 and everyone leaves here with a solid chance to kiss that rock. So shove food in my maw they did. Change my socks they did. Instruct me on how to cross the river in backup shoes so that I could put dry shoes on after I crossed and then throw the wet ones over to them. Dang, those guys were genius.

So I guess I’m going…? This is happening. We left at 12:45, a full 4 hours after I left in 2004. I have 5:15 to finish, and I know I’ve done it in 4:50 but that year I felt pretty good. This time, what’s going to happen? I’m going to bust out the poop jokes, that’s what. Brenden brings out his knock-knock joke:

Knock Knock.

Who's there?

Britney Spears.

Britney Spears who?

Knock Knock.

Who's there?

Britney Spears.

Britney Spears who?

Ooops, I did it again.

And we carry on up the hill. That awesomely steep climb I did 4 times in the last 10 days as part of my testing and training. We get up it in 2 hours, the same as in 2004. I am massively relieved, because I know the downhill is ugly. And scary. Some of the singletrack high up has slide areas that make me almost whimper in fear. I make Brenden watch me just in case he needs to stick an arm out. I make it across them all, shaky.

I go back into my head on this downhill, where I ran with my brother 12 years ago. I think about what is happening. What my body and brain have been doing to me. Where does the physiological meet the psychological? In the realm of the psychosomatic, that’s where. In an ultra it explains everything perfectly. Why the lungs didn’t seem to be at full capacity, but there was nothing actually wrong with them when listened under stethoscope. Why the stomach rebelled at the idea of food but then usually would digest what was eaten. Why the arms became sore, why the achilles tightened and moaned, why the ass chafed: because they are SUPPOSED to in a race like this. It’s expected.

In the pre-dawn tinge, Brenden and I still didn’t know how far to the finish. I told him about 2 miles. He says, “it’s 5:15 and I’m worried. Do you think you have another gear?” So I run. Or it feels like running but I’m quite sure it is a 14 minute per mile gimp-jog. The light begins to appear. We bust out above town, bumping down the hill to the ski hut and I see Geoff waiting. We jog. Another runner is coming behind us. I hope it is the doubler guy (Alan Smith), but it is an unexpected treat: Kris Kern, friend and president of Hardrock’s board of directors. He’s had a rough 2 days, too.

We run the last few blocks together before he lets me go ahead—after I tell him he is welcome to the caboose award train tickets with a grin. Knowing we’ll be the last few finishers is dawning on me. The dawn, too: that’s dawning on me. Boy, my brain is fried.

Before this weekend began, before the unraveling mental state, there was that baseline expectation: a finish. It comes.

A hat-head hanging heavy.

A hat-head hanging heavy. Photo by Geoff Cordner.

So That Happened.

And, the surreality. 16 hours after finishing my third Hardrock 100 I have had two “sleeps”, two meals, and one awards ceremony and none of it seems like it actually happened. I’d been planning on Hardrock for a long time, through injury and training and thoughts of a decent time despite any setbacks. And yet, here it had JUST HAPPENED but you could have told me that that was just a dream and Hardrock was still weeks away and I would have accepted that. The brain is a strange animal, in coexistence with my animalish body. And I love that.

Going back to my real life is too fast, even now, a week later. I want a slower on-ramp. I want an easier chute into the hubbub and meetings and deadlines and expectations. Again, to hear the Stoics in my head is therapeutic:

“Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.” – Marcus Aurelius

The postscript and material stuff details:

Gear: Ultimate Direction AK pack circa 2011 or so. Altra Lone Peak 3.0 for first 40 miles, then Hoka One One Speedgoat. Both had excellent traction and crappy water drainage. Tech t-shirts, arm sleeves, Target running shorts that have finished at least 3 100 mile races so far. Switched into Pearl Izumi 3/4 tights in the first night for extra hamstring support. Black Diamond Polar Icon headlamp, Fenix E25 handheld. Black Diamond Z poles. Tailwind drink, GU gels, various real food. 

Total eaten during the 48 hour stint: 12+/- gels, 1 cup instant potatoes, 2 cups coffee, 2 cups hot chocolate, 1 cup hash browns, 1 cup soup, 1 cup instant mashed potatoes, 1 handful M&Ms. 1 bite of brisket that stuck to the roof of my mouth for 10 miles. So…. not a lot. Oh, and 2 scrambled eggs which, as mentioned, were a lead balloon in the gut.

**Brenden was a 4-star Yelp review kind of pacer. He packed everything he would need in this tiny little vest, from pants to jacket to foods to extra lights. Why not 5 star? Only one niggling little thing; nothing I fault him for. He took a quiet wait-and-see approach to my idea that my lungs were janked up and I would not be able to finish. It ultimately worked out fine. Next time he paces me I’ll ask for a little more dictator kind of handling if needed. Thank you, Brenden, for the company and the pushes when we were on our way in!

The packed-up gear pile ready to go home.

The packed-up gear pile ready to go home.

Tuesday Tribute: Katie DeSplinter

Hi kids. I’m back on the posting wagon, finally, with another Tuesday Tribute. The schedule goes back to weekly from now until eternity or I run out of amazing women in my life. That could be awhile. But now, on to Katie DeSplinter, ultrawoman of mystical powers. She doesn’t break bad, she breaks excellent.

Katie downhilling a not so technical trail. (from iRunFar.com)

Katie downhilling a not so technical trail. (from iRunFar.com)

Me: “Holy shit you’re running amazingly fast!” Katie: “Not as fast as those guys!” Me: “No one runs as fast as those guys. Seriously.”

Those guys were Dominic Grossman & Co, screaming down a loose cannonball run of babyhead rocks next to a steep creek drop-off on the way towards Grouse Gulch on the Hardrock Hundred course. It was a training day, but it seemed to me that Katie was getting some serious turnover practice for future racing days ahead.

Katie is a new person in my circle, but one of influence in just a few encounters. She’s learning her way around racing ultramarathons in one of the most open and generous and patient ways I’ve seen. She blogs about her successes, her worries, her failures, and the intersection of all three. Case in point, AC100 this year was planned to be a dream race, sub-24, with everything looking pretty good. Then, worries about training load (too little) and previous issues with kidneys (too much) and finally, she just went and did it. The write-up is pretty spectacular and takes a meandering course through angst, joy, flow, bloody pee, and rain in Los Angeles. Yep.

“The only thing I honestly feel right now is everything.” – Katie

Just read it, already.

Are ya back after reading that? Good. Now, let’s talk about AC in general. She’s part of the overly-feared next generation of young ultrarunners. Young ‘cuz she is only 31 – the age at which I knocked off from ultras and went down the marathon rabbit-hole for 5 years, losing all sense of moderation and some of my bone density in the process – and yet she is capable of winning races. A few for now, but more to come I’m sure. Her generation (really a sub-generation, but whatever) is overly feared by some in the long-standing ultra camp who think youth entails enthusiasm at the cost of respect. But in many young runners, as well as many older runners, the respect and volunteerism and community are part of the ultra life. They give back. They volunteer and crew and pace with abandon. They do trail work. They organize their own races (hello Nick and Jamil), adding to the pool of awesomeness out in the country and world.

But enough about other runners. Katie’s getting the podium today. I ran into her, not quite literally, on the PCT outside of Los Angeles last weekend. She was running with a friend, as was I, in opposite directions. The four of us stopped to chatter about everything under the warm sun, only finally disbanding when we all realized we probably should get back to our respective days. She sported a hat that can only be pictured to be appreciated.

Katie says 25% of people get it. I'm surprised it's that high. (by Geoff Cordner)

Katie says 25% of people get it. I’m surprised it’s that high. (by Geoff Cordner)

It’s a snarky hat from a snarky 2008 youtube phenomenon, but underneath the hat is a good dose of earnestness. Without the dippy video, this could actually be Katie’s motto. Do what you like and give zero Fs to those who stand in your way without reason.

That’s why she is here. Another woman making me rethink what it means to be solid in your own self.

—————————–

**Tuesday Tribute is my way of showing off the women in my life who have done something to influence me for the better, through direct advice, great example, resilience, strength, bad-assery, or any number of things. Every week. Every Tuesday.

Tuesday Tribute: Charlie Thorn

[A NOTE ABOUT “TUESDAY TRIBUTE” and it’s beginnings]: a few weeks ago my mind went off a-wandering during my run. As it often does, it strayed into the realm of songs I’d rather not play on repeat, what the weather might be like today, did that car just wave at me, and wouldn’t-it-be-cool-if ideas. Ideas like Facebook memes. I thought about how nice it is to see gratitude posts directed at a certain person or community, someone that made a difference even if they didn’t know it. I thought about those 52 week challenges to leave little notes for strangers or smile more. I decided on a new challenge for myself: I will take every Tuesday to highlight someone from my life, past or present, who has changed my outlook or given me reason to make a positive change.

There is only one guideline, and one caveat: First, I must have interacted directly with this person. Authors or public figures that have had positive effects in my life are not candidates if I do not know them well enough to call them an acquaintence. They might collectively have their own post(s) in the future, but this series is for my direct circle. Second, those I choose to highlight are in no particular order. There is no implicit hierarchy or chronology. That is all.

TUESDAY TRIBUTE #2: Charlie Thorn

charlie thorn

Charlie Thorn, in front of his house, gathering for trail marking.

It was 1998 and I was an avid participant in this email group called the Ultralist. I had recently started doing 50Ks back in the Midwest and now, living in Albuquerque, I was jonesing for good trail running and connecting with whatever ultra community was around. Trouble is, there wasn’t a lot in the way of races in New Mexico. Like, none. Sure, there were trail runners, ultrarunners, and lots of trail fun runs – you just had to find the right people to hear about that stuff.

Up in Los Alamos there were a bunch of folks who thought about two things: physics and ultrarunning. One of them owned a house in Silverton and went up there a lot to run and stuff… that’s as much as I knew. On the Ultralist came a notice of some trail work being done in Silverton over Memorial Day weekend. I had nothing better to do, so I contacted the guy organizing it, Charlie Thorn, and he offered me a spot to crash at his house, even. Off I went, into these totally new-to-me mountains north of Durango, and had quite a hard time actually finding these guys as they did trail work. Luckily I found them the next day (Sunday) as they were constructing a totally new trail for some ultra event that summer. That trail was the Nute Chute (named for Chris Nute), and it removed a few miles of road from the course. That course, of course, was/is the Hardrock Hundred Endurance Run, and Charlie was one of the founders of the event.

On that Sunday – and the next day when he and his wife Andi Kron took me up to Cinnamon Pass half on bikes and half on foot – Charlie told me about Hardrock. I was impressed, obviously. The run didn’t fill up in those years, so Charlie told me I should enter. I thought he was joking at first, and then completely nuts. Had I entered then, who knows what would have happened with my Hardrock “career”. I ended up pacing a new friend instead for about 40 miles and had a really enjoyable and tough time. Sometimes I think Charlie wanted me to enter to see how badly I would blow up. With aid stations and support, I wouldn’t have been in danger, but it might have been an interesting experiment.

Charlie, in his many years on the Hardrock board of directors, has been a voice of reason, humor, snark, and sanity. He has a boatload of Hardrock finishes – TEN, that’s 1000+ miles of Wild & Tough! – and has arguably spent more miles on the course than anyone else still traipsing the trails.

Thanks Charlie!