Subject: RE: HR report
Date: Thu, 22 Jul 1999 10:28:23 -0500
From: "Curiel, Tyler" <tj.curiel@baylordallas.edu>

My career in running has been shaped by a few pivotal events. When I was in
the fifth grade I saw Marti Liquori power to a mile run victory over Jim
Ryun on our small black and white TV set, and thought maybe running could be
my sport. Then and there I laced up my black high top Chuck Taylor All Star
tennis shoes, and headed out the door for my first run, a three-miler. I ran
for fun for a few years before the next significant event: puberty. The
question was "How to get the babes when I was 5' 4" and tipped the scales at
90 pounds?" I was too small for football, and too spastic and uncoordinated
for basketball or baseball. But I could run. I tried out for cross country
and made the team! (Still didn't get the girls, though). For the next decade
I progressed as a runner, focusing on road races. I thought I was tough
stuff because I could rocket through a 10K in 32 minutes and peel off a
sub-2:30 marathon.
Then I moved to Colorado in 1990. I learned about the wonders of trail
running, and over the next five years gave up the roads as a regular
endeavor. I thought I was tough because I could pound up and down rough
mountain trails, and run self-supported for four or five hours. Ultras came
next, with the LT100 my premier. I thought I was tough because I could come
home with the big silver buckle. Then came the Grand Slam and I thought I
was tough, and a seasoned runner to boot. However, all was merely prologue,
and paled in comparison to what came next: Hardrock. This is a race whose
name means something more than a run or a race or an ultra. It is an event
that needs no hype. It is a transcendental running experience, though not
for everyone. Allow me in some feeble way to attempt to recreate the majesty
of the course and its awesome power.
You know in many different ways, some subtle, others bludgeoning that you
are in for something out of the ordinary when you run Hardrock. First is the
course description, which goes on for 10+ pages of tiny weenie print, with
occasional sections marked "ACROPHOBIA" or "EXPOSURE". Another phrase
describing mile 93 caught my eye: "A slip here could be fatal." Then there's
the reaction of friends to your entry. The usual exchange runs along the
lines of "I'm running X in a few weeks." And the reply will be "How do you
feel?" or "Do you have a place to stay?" I bumped into Marge Hickman in
Leadville the week before Hardrock. When I told her what I was up to, she
placed her hand gently on my shoulder and looked me squarely in the eyes.
"Tyler, dig deep into that well when you're out there." When I ran the Hope
Pass double crossing the next day, I met a former Hardrock runner at the
summit, catching some rays with his dogs. "Yeah, kinda makes the Leadville
course look pretty mundane" was his reply.
If that weren't enough to get your attention, consider that to mark the
course, they have trail marking parties that last two weeks, due to the
logistics of getting to the more remote locations. Simply getting to
Silverton takes nerves of steel if you come in from Ouray. You must go over
the million-dollar highway, which quite literally hangs on the side of the
mountain with thousand foot sheer drop-offs. There are no guardrails as they
would "spoil the view" as more than one Silverton resident pointed out to
me.
I drove in from Montrose, where I caught my first glimpse of the San Juans,
thrusting themselves high above the surrounding plains, sheer walls of rock
bedecked with patches of white snow enveloped in a light mist. It was
intimidating and exhilarating to think we'd be running through them.
My biggest fear was getting lost on the course, and wandering aimlessly for
hours, dashing hopes for a finish, or increasing the likelihood of spending
two nights "out there" which I also desperately wanted to avoid. I never had
gotten the opportunity I had wanted to come out and learn the course, which
is highly recommended. I really needed a pacer for this one, but none had
materialized. I had e-mailed Gordon Hardman to see if I could tag along with
him, as he looked to be running about the pace I wanted -- 35-36 hours --,
and he was a seasoned Hardrocker, but I couldn't reach him. Kirk Apt didn't
have pacer suggestions, but recommended I stay at the Wyman (which was a
great suggestion) and that I carry plastic tent stakes to help get across
difficult snow sections. Suzi T. wanted to pace but had a social obligation.
She recommended I pack a toothbrush for Sherman, to start the second day
right. Silverton has a single paved street; the other roads being well
graded gravel byways. Because it is so small, I immediately bumped into
Gordon the day before the race. He graciously said I could tag along.
Came the morning of the race after a mercifully good sleep. It's always a
little surreal to be creeping around a strange hotel room in the wee hours
preparing your gear for a 100-miler. I did the necessary and went to
breakfast at the French Bakery. Karl Meltzer looked quite somber, munching
on a piece of dry toast in the corner. We exchanged greetings and wishes for
good luck. I got to the start about 30 minutes early, milled around and
talked to a few runners. Everyone seemed pretty relaxed. No one from Texas
had ever finished Hardrock before. Mike Sandlin, Tim Neckar and I were there
to avenge this crime. The rulebook clearly stated that you had to kiss the
Hardrock upon completing the course. (The course description also instructs
you to stop running at this point). The three of us posed for a picture in
front of the Hardrock at the start, and all vowed to be back for a kiss (the
Hardrock, not each other) on the morrow.
I was leading those around me in a chorus of "Off We Go into the Wild Blue
Yonder" when the race started. The weather at the start was great. It had
rained, thundered and lightened for the several days before the race, and we
were all prepared for the worst, but pleasantly surprised at our good
fortune thus far. The lead pack quickly bolted, and I settled in with
Gordon. He was hitting the trail pretty hard for a guy who said we'd take it
out easy, but I decided he knew best and went with him. It was easy trail
for a few miles, then a quick descent, a road crossing, and a crossing of a
significant river (40 feet across?) with a strong current. A rope was
affixed, and a crowd was on hand to cheer us across. I decided not to think
about how cold it was going to be, but just to grit my teeth and plunge
right on in. Then a long, slow climb along a ridge that paralleled Bear
Creek, with mountain views and wild flowers. Soon, Gordon looked at his
watch and announced "one hour." "Great," I thought, "only 40 or so to go."
Over the top of the pass at 12,000+ feet, a ridge, and a very sharp
attention-getting descent with poor footing. Then we crossed into a section
where the footing was wretched. Lots of knobs of slippery, green plants, mud
and flowing water currents everywhere. I was slipping all over the place and
wishing I had worn trail shoes instead of my Nike Air Max Triax. After
hitting the turf several times and getting pretty wet I complained to
Gordon. He cheerfully announced that if you weren't falling down, you
weren't trying hard enough. Later on I heard that Ricky Denesik had done a
360* head-over-heels in this section, and that everyone was on their butts
at one point or another.
We passed into the Kamm Traverse aid station at 12 miles at 3:10 into it,
about 20 minutes ahead of my best case scenario splits. Gordo asked for a
turkey sandwich with mayo and salt. I had been thinking about a PBJ myself,
but who was I to question the Master? "I'll have the same as him" I said. I
munched the sandwich as we power walked off. I must say I enjoyed observing
Sue Johnston's rippling back muscles as she disappeared over the next climb,
about a quarter mile ahead of us. Betsy Kalmeyer passed us on this climb,
moving along at eye-popping speed. Gordo and I looked knowingly at each
other. "No way" we both said, meaning that we expected her to crump soon,
for this foolishly fast pace.
The tricky ascent to Grant Swamp Pass was unexpected. It climbed rather
straight up over loose scree, although only about 200 feet. If you slipped,
you risked whooshing into the icy blue waters of the lake below. It wouldn't
have done great harm, but would have been unnerving (not to mention wet and
cold). At this 12,920 foot summit we looked for the plaque honoring Joel
Zucker, who perished in the airport after last year's Hardrock. It was just
off the course to our right. We had both carried small rocks to place there
according to Joel's Jewish custom. I didn't know Joel, but got all choked up
reading the plaque and thinking that he wasn't around. I said something
asinine like "Joel's gone to the biggest ultra of them all. We'll miss you,
buddy." He had been a good friend of Gordon's, and Gordon wanted to perform
a brief ceremony there. As I watched Gordon, I was suddenly struck with the
remoteness of the site. I had wondered why Joel's family had wanted a plaque
situated in a place called Grant Swamp. It didn't sound very exciting,
inviting or even pleasant to me. Considering the sheer drop off and scree on
the far side, and the terrible footing and scree on this side, and the
distance to this spot from any road, it now made sense. To get here, you
REALLY had to want to, and few, other than Hardrockers and other lovers of
the great outdoors would likely be passing through. Centuries from now,
Joel's plaque will still be serenely presiding over this majestic landscape.
I couldn't ask for more for myself.
The next order of business was to get down the other of Grant Swamp Pass.
Although Gordo was a veteran, he inspected both descent routes before
deciding. It was 1120 vertical feet of very loose scree and at least a 60*
angle down on this side. Days later, re-reviewing the course description, it
said that the route we chose was the preferred descent "unless you have
wings." No kidding!!! I was hoping not to rain a boulder down on Gordon's
head. Off this section we turned left onto a rough trail that would take us
to Chapman at 18 miles. I passed a fuming and sputtering Tim Hewitt sitting
on the side of the trail. He had slipped and twisted his ankle. I stopped
for a look. He told me that he was OK, and to go on, but to tell his wife
he'd be a little slow getting in. I looked back after I passed and saw that
he was still struggling to regain his feet. "No way is this guy going to
finish" I thought. I passed Betsy going down the long downhill into Chapman.
"There," I thought. "That's what you get for attacking the uphills too hard
too soon." At Chapman I reloaded with another turkey sandwich. I usually
can't eat at this point, but it sounded good, so I did. I left the station
three minutes ahead of Betsy, heading steeply uphill. Five minutes later she
came roaring past as if I were standing still, and she was walking! She
would go on to win the women's division in a blistering new course record
which lowered Laura Vaughn's standard by about five and a half hours! OK, so
I made a bad call about Betsy. Wait till you see how wrong I was about a few
other things.
Above Chapman we turned left off a well-groomed 4WD road onto a steep
footpath. A course official was there. "It's about three-quarters of a mile
of switchbacks" he said. An hour later, slogging up some of the roughest,
steepest trail imaginable, Gordo and I reached the summit at 13,120 feet,
3000 vertical feet above the aid station. Fifteen minutes earlier we had
passed Errol "Rocket" Jones running down after his assault on the top. He
would be pacing that evening and apparently needed a few extra miles, and a
few thousand extra vertical feet to get in the mood. "Three-quarters of a
mile of switch backs" I said in my most sarcastic tone of voice. "#%%* if it
was." "I think that's one of the toughest stretches in ultrarunning" said
Gordo. I wasn't going to argue. My head was spinning from the altitude and I
felt achy and lightheaded. Gordo pointed out Grant Swamp Pass in the
distance. It looked like a thousand-foot wall of sheer rock. "We ran down
THAT?" I asked, truly stunned. "It gets worse," he said cheerfully.
The descent from Oscar's Pass was spectacular, with 360* mountain views and
an incredible vista of Bridal Basin, a series of interlocking mountain
streams covered with snow and ice on our right. We traversed a slippery
snowfield at 13,000 feet over to Wasatch Saddle, then there were some grunt
miles down long, rough trails into Telluride at mile 28, dropping over 4000
vertical feet, where I arrived around 2 p.m. Along the way were field after
field of wild flowers in riotous color. This is a little over a marathon
distance, yet it took eight hours of serious humping to get there. I had
already done more vertical feet than all of the Leadville course, and had
crossed many a stream and snowfield, and had scrambled up and dropped down
many a steep scree section. Many runners would be forced to pick up their
night lights here at mile 28, because it would be dark before the next drop
bag station in Ouray at mile 43. Such is the sheer scale and enormity of
this course.
Gordo had pulled a little ahead of me here. I still thought he was pushing
pretty hard, but he said he wanted to take advantage of the good weather,
which made sense. It had stayed cool and cloudy all day, whereas some of
these sections could have been very warm, he told me. Out of Telluride we
ascended Virginius Pass, which is about 4300 vertical feet. The paved road
out of town was insanely steep but quickly gave way to a footpath. I had a
little sinking spell on the way up. Gordo moved ahead, and with a wave of
his hand was gone for good. The altitude was bothering me again, and a
light, freezing rain had begun to fall. For the first (and only, as it later
turned out) time I was worried about the finish.
For each 100-miler I have a theme. For Leadville, my first, it was "2 dawns
is 2 many" because I wanted to be home in less than 25 hours for the big
belt buckle. For Wasatch last year, to complete the Slam it was "Don't
worry, be happy" because all I had to do was finish. I had some silly lyrics
to go with it, no worth repeating here. Hardrock was so unfathomable that I
had a hard time coming up with anything really apropos. I'm an Ivy Leaguer
you know. Harvard, Yale, all that. I wanted something with that je ne sais
quoi, that special phrase that captured the ambience, the zeitgeist of the
event. I settled on "FTF at HRH." "HRH" of course is "Hardrock Hundred."
"FTF" is finish this f----r." As I said, I was a little pushed for that mot
just. I've worn a beard for twenty-two years without a break. "If I finish
this thing, I'll shave off my beard," I thought.
After a long, hard climb, during which time it dumped cold rain on my head,
and the once-defunct Tim Hewitt motored past as my head gyrated, I reached
what I thought was the summit of Virginius Pass. Hallelujah! Then, a little
man wearing a rubber raincoat (I kid you not) stepped out from behind a
rock. "Do you want to know where Virginius Pass is?" he asked. "You mean
this ain't it?" I asked. I followed him along a short rock ledge to the
left. "See that blue tent?" He gestured a good deal up the mountain, across
a snowfield. I saw a tiny blue speck that seemed miles away and hundreds of
feet higher. It never occurred to me to ask who he was, or why he was there.
Much time later, I arrived at the Virginius Pass aid station. I had to
scramble over rocks and climb a snowfield with my hands to get there, but
there I was. The aid station is situated well over 13,000 feet on a tiny
rock ledge hugging the sheer side of the mountain. If you have acrophobia,
do NOT go there. You will NOT be a happy camper.
The volunteers were wonderful. Every one was creeping carefully around, as
there was almost nowhere to go on this ledge. Pots and utensils were
attached to the rock walls with bolts. "Would you like to sit?" a chair
bolted into the rocks, perched on top of the snow was indicated. "Naw, just
passing through." I had some hot chicken broth and a hot chocolate. Tim was
sitting in a chair looking a little rough. "I hate to ask this," I said,
"but how do you get down?" "Oh, we'll show you," they all said brightly.
Continuing beyond their little camp we arrived a few feet later at the back
of Virginius Pass. My friends, this is STRAIGHT DOWN and ain't no two ways
about it. About 1000 vertical feet in three-quarters of an eye-popping mile
on three separate snow glissades. There was a fixed rope at the top. The
rope clearly stopped long before the bottom of the first pitch. "Sit down on
your butt and slide. When the rope ends, let go." They really said that. I
was humming "Off We Go into the Wild Blue Yonder" again. As at the first
serious stream crossing, I thought it best not to give this too much
thought, but just to plunge headlong into it. After all, Betsy and everyone
else had already been through, and there were no bodies at the bottom. Must
be OK, huh? I went screaming down the slide, and it wouldn't surprise me if
I hit 50+ miles per hour. I got sideways a few times, and oh yes, when the
rope ended I LET GO.
As I stood up and dusted snow off my butt I heard loud noises. I looked up
to see that the entire aid station was at the ledge peering down and
cheering and applauding. I bowed, threw up my arms in a salute and readied
myself for the next glissade. This one started a little slower as it was
only about 45* instead of straight down, but I assure you that a high
velocity was quickly attained. It was absolutely clear sailing as long as
you stayed left. I was definitely veering right. Here come some MIGHTY BIG
BOULDERS!!! "You know," I thought, "this is really going to hurt." I tried
mightily to stop or turn left but BLOOIEE!! I hit the boulders at very high
speed. I expected that my race might be over. However, all of a sudden I
wasn't moving, and there was no forceful blow, no shattering impact, no
searing pain. I got up, surprised to be unscathed, and decided that I would
figure it out later. The third glissade was easy, though I was veering right
again. At the bottom, a new problem presented itself: which way from here?
So here I am standing in a huge snowfield at the base of an incredibly steep
snow wall in the middle of East Bupkus. You have to turn left or turn right,
but there are no tracks in the snow. How is this possible? I looked around
and finally found some tracks to the right, but I still wasn't convinced.
"I'll just wait for the next runner through" I thought. " Maybe it'll be 20
or 30 minutes, but it's worth it." About two minutes later Tim Hewitt sailed
down the chute. "Hey, Tim. Good to see you. I thought you were cooked back
on Oscar's." "No. It's much better now." "Obviously. Say, which way from
here?" "Beat's the hell out of me."
Between the two of us we eventually concluded that the tracks must be going
somewhere, and followed them out to the right. We had easy running from
there all the way to Ouray, and actually covered the 7.2 miles from the
Governor Basin aid station to Ouray in 1:12, on a good 4WD road. I had
driven this section a few days earlier and knew a little of it. "When we get
to the bridge, it's exactly two miles to the aid station" I said
knowledgeably. Half an hour or so later we came to the bridge. "Here it is!"
I exclaimed. "Doesn't that seem a little quick?" "Naw," Tim said, "this is
about right." I agreed. Twenty minutes later, when we both expected to be
pulling into town, we passed another bridge. "Uh, excuse me, Tim, but this
is really the bridge." "You bastard" he said good-naturedly. We both got a
chuckle.
There is a short out-and-back section near Ouray where you might see other
runners. On the way in, we passed Betsy chugging out, fresh as a daisy with
a great big grin on her face. That's when I realized she was for real. "Go
get 'em, Betsy!" I yelled. We high-fived each other. In Ouray, Tim pulled
out a few minutes ahead of me. I said I would catch up quickly. I surveyed
the crowd. "Who wants to pace here or at Grouse?" I announced. This was
greeted by a few guffaws and someone muttering "Gee, he's certainly
optimistic."
I dreaded this next section, Engineer Pass. I had heard a lot about how wet,
cold, miserable and long it was, besides the fact that I'd have to ford a
seriously deep river a few miles out of town. The river crossing was the
worst to look forward to. For half an hour as I climbed out of Ouray, I
heard the roar of the waters getting louder and louder, teasing and taunting
me. I screwed up my courage and pressed on. As I got closer, I was
paralleling a brownish water pipe about four feet in diameter on my left,
hugging the ground. As I ascended the trail, the pipe's diameter slowly
increased. It reminded me of a large, brown earthworm coming up out of the
ground, growing in size before my very eyes. Higher up, older, rotten parts
of the pipe were scattered to the side, like body parts that had been
amputated and then rotted. This was a surreal, highly man-made counterpoint
to the splendor of the trail and the terror of the sound of rushing water
that was getting louder with each step. Suddenly, the trail plunged steeply
and veered left. "This is it," I thought. "Courage." I came to the crossing.
Indeed it was deep and swift and wide (maybe 60 feet across). A rope was in
place for assistance. "OK, you're an experienced trail runner. Take your
Petzl light hanging on your pack, and put it on your head so it won't get
swept away. Take your fanny pack off and hold it high so it won't get wet."
These tasks accomplished I plunged right in, secure in my planning to see me
through dry and safe. In milliseconds, having underestimated the strength of
the current, I was bowled over and completely immersed except for my head.
My adrenaline reserves were very much intact, and I was back on my feet
instantly. I crossed over, wringing wet, but with all gear accounted for. In
testimony to my fanny pack (the UD, no financial ties) everything inside was
bone dry. Phew!
Some sharp scrambling got me to the steep Bear Creek trailhead. Here, I saw
1998 winner Ricky Denesik being helped into his car by his wife and family.
He had blown his knees on that earlier, slippery patch and could not go on.
I offered a few sympathetic words, but blatantly concluded with, "Can I have
your pacer, then?" Let's face it, this was survival mode, and I truly didn't
want to do the Grouse Gulch to Sherman section solo (13,000 foot pass and
basin followed by 14,000+ foot Handies Peak ascent over a 5-6 hour period
between aid stations in the middle of the night). His wife was very nice,
and immediately got on her cell phone. They had just told Ricky's pacer he
was out, and not to go to Grouse Gulch, which was where he was supposed to
have picked up his runner. Divine intervention! I thanked them profusely,
slurped down a celebratory GU and forged up Engineer Pass.
A spontaneous rockslide in the loose scree that looked and sounded like
pieces of rusty metal jarred my reverie. I spent the next few minutes on the
lookout for the bear or mountain lion that loosed it. As the trail ascended,
the drop-off on the right became more pronounced until eventually it was an
800 foot sheer plummet into a river below. This section, which went on for
miles, was one of the most gorgeous parts of the run. The late evening sun
was casting an orange hue off the far rock cliffs. Towers of mountain rose
steeply on all sides. The river below and the wind high in the treetops made
the only sounds. In moments like this it is hard not to be overwhelmed by
how puny are we, and how vast and might are the mountains. I became a little
misty eyed as I thought about how extremely thankful I was to be whole and
fit and able to be in this place at this time, enjoying it so much.
A while later the drop-off ended and gave way to a steadily ascending trail.
The sun set, I turned on my flash and settled in for the night. I was alone
in the dark on a strange trail miles from nowhere, but felt good, calm and
relaxed. What seemed like hours and hours later, I arrived at the Engineer
Pass aid station. Tim was sitting in a chair, ashen, puking his guts out. I
took a seat for the first time in the race and got some hot broth. When
asked if there would be anything else, I replied, "Yes, a double skinny
cappuccino with brown sugar." Without missing a beat the volunteer asked,
"Plain or vanilla?" We all got a good laugh. I got up to leave and looked at
Tim. He loosed a mighty torrent of vomitus and trail detritus. "Tim, ready
to boogie on outta here?" I asked. "Um, I think maybe he should rest a while
longer?" a volunteer offered, tentatively. "Nonsense," I said. "He's just
concluded all his important business, and should be feeling much better." I
looked at Tim. He rose from his chair and said, "Yeah, let's get outta
here." It was chilly as we left, and for the first time breath was coming
out in large, vaporous clouds. We saw the famous blinking red light at the
top of Engineer Pass and made for it.
The climb out was tough, but not as long as I expected. I beat Tim to the
summit and promptly got lost by taking an incorrect left turn. Eventually I
noticed I was heading back up, instead of down to Grouse and reversed
course. I caught Tim a little further down. We ran to Grouse together. When
we finally saw the lights of the aid station, we both spontaneously picked
up the pace. Tim did a significant face plant just as we increased our
velocity. He got right up and continued, but it had to have hurt.
We entered the aid station around midnight and to my pleasant surprise my
sister was waiting for me there. Ricky's pacer was not there, but that's
really what I had expected, as they were unable to get him on the cell phone
before I left Ricky's family hours ago. My sister was visiting from Memphis
and had always wanted to see a 100-miler in progress. She was a great help
in getting me watered, fed, bathed (I changed shoes from Nike Air Max Triax
to New Balance 802 Trail shoes for the rough mountainous part ahead. My feet
were macerated, dirty, and probably stinky, but I couldn't smell). We had
one more important logistical consideration. Eric Clifton had custom made me
two pairs of running tights for this event, and good friend and running
buddy Scott Gordon had given them to me as a gift. The consideration was:
the polka dots, or the floral print? I went with polka dots, and said the
floral was for the second night to make everyone think they were
hallucinating.
I lingered here a full half hour, glad to be warm and fed, and not really
wanting to head into American basin, Handies Peak, and this
6-hour-between-aid-stations section alone. I visited with my sister. Tim was
in the tent vomiting more than anyone should have to, even for this type of
tomfoolery. At the end of my half hour, he was still heave-hoeing. Unlike at
the Engineer aid station, when it looked like he had clearly concluded his
business, I thought this session was early yet, and I left without
disturbing him, again wondering if this was the end of his race. His wife
was there assisting him, and I knew he was in good hands. I also heard that
Rob Youngren had dropped at Ouray with altitude sickness, having arrived in
Silverton just two days before the race. "Too bad about, Rob, too" I thought
as I left, "But that's what happens when you show up without first getting
acclimatized."
The ascent to American Basin starts abruptly and sharply up a steep, but
good trail. Within five minutes I noticed a light behind me. I decided to
wait, as I preferred company. I had noticed a runner just coming into Grouse
Gulch as I left, and thought "Damn this guy's good. He was in and out in 2
minutes, and I took 30." "Tyler Curiel here," I yelled down the trail. "Tim
Hewitt here" sailed back at me. "Bulls--t! I left you for dead." "Well, I
didn't want you to have all the fun out here by yourself." "Tim" I said,
"I'm going to have to start calling you Lazarus. You are really one tough
SOB." We continued on a few more minutes when Tim said, "You go on ahead,
I'm going to be slow." I debated the pro's and con's of company versus
speed, and decided that the sooner I finished this section, the sooner I
finished this section. I went ahead.
The ascent to the summit was a grunt, but not technically demanding. I
looked over the top into American Basin at 13,020 feet. It was all covered
in snow. The moon was not yet up and the clear sky was studded with more
stars than I had ever seen. The Milky Way was like a huge cloud to the left.
On the descent into American Basin I used a combination of skiing on my
shoes standing up, running through partially frozen snow and some
glissading. In the far distance I saw a few lights winding their way up to
Handies Peak. Man, oh, man that looked high! For the next hour I worked my
way over the snowfields and tried to keep a bead on Handies. Somewhere in
here was a punch I needed to find to prove I had been to Sloan Lake. I was
looking around. An occasional shooting star or outright fireball sailed past
adding to the effect. There were switchbacks heading up to Handies, but some
joker had staked the course STRAIGHT UP the side of the slope. I climbed
slowly. I knew that there was another verification punch, and a tricky turn
to the right off the summit that I didn't want to miss. Left off the summit
would take me down a very dangerous couloir. Matt Mahoney and I had been
14-er bagging around Leadville the week before as our final training. He had
showed me a topo map of this turn, and where to go and not to go. They had
also emphasized this section at the final pre-race briefing. Still, at the
summit I was lost. For yucks I looked at my watch. 3:23 a.m. I'm 14-er
bagging at 3:23 a.m. Yup, this must be Hardrock. I went over the top and
descended. No, this was going left and that's a no-no. I went a little
further in case there was a fork to the right. The trail plummeted almost
straight down to the left. No way. Back to the summit, and down the far side
a bit. "There's more markers, but they're to the left. I must be confused,"
I thought. Back to the summit. Now mind you the only thing I really cared
about on this entire section was not to stay too long at 14,000+ feet, as
this would likely be bad for my health. Here I was wandering over all hell
and creation at -- you guessed it-- 14,000 feet, lost, and doing lots of
bonus climbing. Back to the summit. "Maybe over here?" I tried a route to
the right. In an instant I realized I was standing on a snow ledge with a
2000-foot vertical drop and lots of air under my feet. There was only one
thing to do. I hunkered down ON THE SUMMIT AT 14,000 FEET and waited for the
next runner. It turned out to be veteran Alfred Bogenhuber.
"How do you get off this stupid mountain?" I asked. "It's chust there," he
said in his soft accent, indicating the trail markers on my left with his
flash. "But that's the left," I protested. "We're supposed to turn to the
right." "Ya, but when you come up the mountain it's on your right." I had
been looking down from the summit. Now they tell me. I looked at my watch.
3:58 a.m. 35 minutes lost on the summit! I tore down the mountain, trying
like an idiot to recover some lost time. "Be careful you don't fall off the
cliff on the left!" he hollered after me. Later at the awards ceremony he
told me I had disappeared so fast he really was afraid I had fallen into the
void.
This descent was the worst of the entire race that was not on snow, and
that's saying a lot. It was a quad-smashing, tooth-rattling, near-sheer
plummet of many hundreds of vertical feet with horrific footing. I tore the
palms out of my gloves trying to hold onto large rocks for stability as they
flashed past, and tore the bottoms out of my tights by falling on my butt
and sliding over fairly hard rocks and grit. After that, the trail down
improved in quality and became merely very steep. I ran most of this, but
harkening back to Stan Jensen's advice about how he took five hours off his
OD time, I decided to take a walking break going downhill, which is
something I very rarely do. It was still relatively early into the race, and
I would need my quads later on. I also chuckled to myself as I recalled my
training mantra for Hardrock, a private joke I had shared with Stan when he
and I were rooming in Alan Cohn's house during the Leadville training
weekend. In the weeks leading up to this race, whenever I had a panic attack
about whether or not I could finish, or do a certain section of the course I
simply thought, "Hey, if Stan Jensen can run OD in 21:24..."
The trail finally emptied out onto a good 4WD road. During the past half
hour I had imagined that the fluorescent trail markers were the eyes of
weasels or foxes, with their heads bobbing up and down in curiosity. The
night was almost over I realized, and I had no sleepiness or fatigue. Just a
few tricks my eyes were playing now. This was testimony to the majesty of
the starry skies, fireballs, snowfields, sheer ascents and descents and
mountain silhouettes that had been my companions for so many hours, and
which had kept me completely absorbed. It was pinking up a bit, but I still
needed my flash. I passed a runner on the road. "Is this the way to
Sherman?" I asked. "I certainly hope so" he replied. It was Charlie Thorn.
At Sherman I decided to sit and reflect upon the previous five or so hours.
I had been lost on the summit, found both confirmation punches and come a
very long way. I was tired and hungry now. It was dawn. Then the enormity of
the course really struck home. Usually at this point in a 100-miler, I'd be
done. It felt that bad, and it was late enough. However, this was only mile
70, and there were a dozen or so hours of tough trail with about 8000 more
vertical feet of climbing looming. Betsy Nye's crew asked me if I had seen
her. "She's coming down Handies now, and should be here soon," I said. Five
minutes later she arrived. I jokingly called out to Holly, her pacer, "Hey,
Holly, you look like you need more trail mileage. Want to pace?" She had
just spent the entire night getting Betsy over American Basin and Handies.
"Yeah, maybe," she said. "I need a minute to get ready." I thought she was
kidding, and took off again, up the climb to Pole Creek. A few minutes later
I heard footsteps, and turned to see Holly power walking up the slope. Holly
agreed to take me to Cunningham at mile 92, and would drop there. "Wow! This
is great!" I exclaimed.
To celebrate, I promptly fell into a fast-moving stream I was crossing. I
significantly underestimated its power, and also had stepped into a
particularly deep section. I realized I was in danger of being swept over a
waterfall about 25 feet downstream. Holly later told me she was just about
to dive in after me, when again the adrenals kicked in big time and I
practically walked on water getting out. Elation quickly turned to despair,
however. I was soaking wet, and the air temperature was around freezing.
There was frost in all the shadows. The next 90 minutes were the most
miserable of the race. We were climbing through a canyon with high walls at
6:30 a.m. There were long shadows (the Valley of the Shadow?) affording
little light and no heat. I was getting very cold. We tried wringing out my
stuff, but it was still wet. I had just dumped all my extra gear at Sherman.
Thus, having carried spare, dry clothes for the past 24 hours, I needed them
a few minutes after I ditched them all. Go figure.
We finally broke into the sun just before the last, steep slog up to the
Pole Creek aid station at mile 79. I finally warmed up, but had suffered
mild hypothermia, and had been slowed, aside from being miserable. Charlie
was dogging us from behind, and we caught an ebullient Regis Shivers
guzzling fluids. Regis joined us for a stretch, but it was clear early on
that this guy had way too much pep for us old timers. He sped on ahead
babbling something about a 35 hour pace. I had spent the past several hours
doing my own math and concluded that we must be on about 37 hour pace, which
was my best case scenario. I was ecstatic. Regis was just too optimistic.
We met again at the Maggie's Gulch aid station at mile 85. Regis was
lounging in a chair studying a piece of paper intently. "Look at this," he
said. It was a list of splits. "If we leave in the next 12 minutes we're on
35 hour pace." Before the race I had made my own 36-38 hour splits as my
best case scenario, with a set of 42 hour splits as my fall back. Faster
than 36 hours just didn't seem possible, based on what I had heard. "Regis,"
I said, "you're so full of s--t your eyes are brown. We'll be lucky to break
36."  He tore off saying, "You're wrong."
The climb over Maggie's Gulch was exceedingly steep, again the markers going
straight up the hill, ignoring any switchbacks. We were reduced to using all
fours to pull ourselves up. I turned to Holly. "You know, I have a bunch of
songs I sing when the sun comes up. Want to hear some?" "Sure." My favorite
is "Day-O." I started belting out in my best Harry Belafonte calypso:

Come, mister tallyman, tally me banana.
Daylight come and me wanna go home.

Suddenly I heard a voice above. "Hey, Tyler, is that you?" I looked up to
see Paul Collins climbing the ridge above us. "Paul? What are you doing way
out here?" I asked. Paul had become my impromptu pacer from Mayqueen to the
finish at Leadville in 1997, and I had him doing all these songs as we
trudged up "the boulevard" then, in the home stretch. He had recognized my
off-key, mangled rendition of "Day-O". Today, he had been out pacing Jan
Fiala to a blistering 33:08, and was catching a little more trail. We left
him to his climb and continued on.
A little further on, I recalculated our position and decided maybe Regis had
brown eyes for some other reason. "Hey, Holly, maybe we can do a 35. Let's
crank." She didn't need to be told twice, and promptly dusted me, making me
put all available energy into my legs to try to keep up. This climb topped
out at Buffalo Boy Ridge at 13, 060 feet and afforded magnificent mountain
views and was capped by a good descending road. "OK, let's make time on this
downhill." We pushed hard down, dropping about 3000 vertical feet in three
miles. My quads were fine, but my calves ached. We hit bottom and turned
left to where I thought the aid station would be. I looked at my watch.
"According to Regis, if we can get to the aid station in 6 minutes, we can
run 35," I announced. Somehow the idea of a minute-by-minute itinerary on
this course seemed absurd, but the cold logic of the splits prevailed, and I
grimly pressed on.
I was particularly dreading Cunningham. It was a steep mountain wall at mile
92, and at mile 94 I had heard of this ledge we had to walk over that was
the reference for the "a slip here could be fatal" phrase in the course
description. This section had taken on a stature larger than life in my
brain. I had heard a lot of talk about it and I was scared, although also
immensely happy to be here, because now I could actually start thinking
realistically about a finish. Errol Jones was driving along the road as I
came to the station, and leaned out to high-five me. I unraveled in the aid
station with joy and was hugging everybody and babbling on about how great
it was to be here and wasn't this the greatest, and all you volunteers are
wonderful and what's the weather like at the top and is that ledge really as
bad as they say and should I ditch my gear or take it with me and isn't that
Gordon Hardman on that ledge up there and do you think we'll get rained on?
They took it all in stride. I got watered, fed, pampered and pointed back
onto the course. "THIS IS IT!!" I shouted to no one in particular, thrusting
a finger skyward. Holly was so pumped up, she changed her mind about
dropping and paced me home. She was a treasure, and sure to become a
100-miler herself soon.
This last climb was gruesome. 2500 vertical feet, and most of it straight up
towards the top at 13,000 feet. Near the summit I picked up a glittery,
multi-colored rock as a souvenir. The much-ballyhooed ledge was an
anticlimax, but potentially lethal, no doubt. Down the road we tore on the
far side. It seemed to take forever to get back to tree line, and another
forever to see the highway and then the town of Silverton, but what a sight
to behold a day and a half and 101.7 miles and 33,000 vertical feet later!
Holly and I had a little unfinished business to accomplish in the final 1.5
miles. I smashed my right shin on a flat metal slab inexplicably obstructing
the course on the final stream crossing, and she slipped and fell in the mud
three times in the home stretch, having nary a mishap previously.
My wife and kids were waiting near the town line. I was so excited that I
picked up my five-year-old daughter and hoisted her onto my shoulders on the
run, carrying her the final seven blocks. I held my son's hand. Then I
kissed the hard rock 34:27:19 after departing. Regis was sitting near by. I
walked over to congratulate him. He was grinning from ear to ear. "Check
this out," he said indicating his watch. 33:25:32. He had plastered me by an
hour in the final 15 miles! I felt great! I was walking around like I had
just returned from a Sunday stroll. Per my tradition, I immediately squirted
out all remaining PowerAde/CLIP from my bottles and announced I wanted a
cheeseburger. "Should we drive you?" asked my sister. "Nonsense! I feel
great! I'm going to walk!"
Two minutes later I developed a bone rattling chill. I walked to the
restaurant but had to be driven home, stiff as a board and chilling on and
off. A few hours later, Scott Gordon (seventh in 32 hours even) and his wife
Nancy came over. I uncorked a bottle of 1863 madeira which I had put aside
when we first entered this race last October. It was meant to be drunk to
celebrate our finish, or our attempt or whatever. It was superb. "Not bad
for being 136 years old, huh?" I asked.
At 10 p.m., 5 hours after finishing, I spiked a high fever and had severe
chills. I was breathing 35 times a minute. My wife is a physician and was
concerned. She began asking questions. "Are you coughing?" I had been for
hours, but wasn't having trouble breathing. I doubted I had pulmonary edema
or pneumonia based on the performance. "Are you peeing?" I realized I hadn't
peed for hours, and had drunk little since finishing. I may have been
dehydrated. "What's in that CLIP you were drinking anyway?" she wanted to
know. "Maybe it has some weird chemicals or fats and you have a bizarre
metabolic problem. "Don't forget, I kissed the Hard Rock TWICE, and it might
have GERMS!" I added cheerfully. However, I was beginning to get worried,
and thought about the prospects of celebrating my finish in a hospital bed.
She brought me a 20-ounce glass of orange juice. I drained it in less than
10 seconds. "Please, sir, may I have some more?" I asked. I downed four such
glasses to empty the pitcher, and started in on the apple juice. A half hour
later I was peeing like a champ and feeling much better, although I
developed drenching sweats that soaked my clothes, the sheets and pillow
cases so that we had to change all of them. She denied me permission to go
back to the finish to watch my friends come in. The next morning I was fine.
She diagnosed fever and rapid breathing from severe lactic acidosis and
dehydration.
The breakfast before the awards ceremony was fantastic: fresh fruit, eggs,
sausage, breads, coffee, tea and other treats. Very tasty. I traded lots of
war stories and had a few words for friend Todd Burgess who finished
unofficially in 48:03. Scott Gordon succinctly noted to Todd "It's really
going to suck to be you for the next year." We all wished him well, and to
come back soon to complete the mission officially, but in my book, he's
already done the job. I saw Rob Youngren and went to console him on his DNF,
which I had expected because he wasn't acclimatized. How to begin? "Well,
Rob, how'd it go?" I asked gently. "Oh, just fine," he said. "37:50."  I was
very glad to be wrong (again). Both fellow Texans Mike and Sandlin Tim
Neckar finished in 36:46:06 and 38:37:53, respectively (Yo, mountain types,
check it out). Matt Mahoney came home in 42:39:14, surprising a few folks,
but not me. I had bagged those 14-ers with him and knew he was in good
shape. A scraggly looking Tim "Lazarus" Hewitt had clocked an amazing
36:17:18, beating all the odds, but after all, he had paid good money to
enter, so he couldn't let us have all the fun!
Two days later I went to the barber shop and was shorn of my beard of 22
years, as I promised myself going up Virginius. I was transformed. You'd
hardly know me now.

POSTSCRIPT
The Hardrock 100 is an exceptionally well organized, runner-friendly event.
It's low key, doesn't take itself too seriously, but is dedicated to
runners, their safety and their comfort. Silverton is a fun town to visit,
and a great place for a family vacation. The San Juan Mountains are
spectacular. The organizers are owed many kudos. The course is well-marked,
though understandably some markers were missing by race day. It's not really
life-threatening any more than any other mountain expedition of this
magnitude, and is a race to consider if you like this type of event,
although it's clearly not for everyone. Under separate cover I'll post my
thoughts on what to consider before deciding to tackle the Hardrock,
especially if you're a fellow flatlander, and will also file the shoe report
I promised.
Will I go back? I'm already making notes on the reverse direction!