From: "Nast, Douglas P" Subject: RE: wasatch 98 report Date: Fri, 2 Oct 1998 09:18:17 -0700 THE SPIRIT OF THE WASATCH As the bus rumbled through the pre-dawn darkness, I was calm, with no real anxiety about the miles that lay ahead. This was going to be fun, and honor would be satisfied if I only set a personal record for distance; say 75 miles or so. Finishing would be nice, but I dare not make it a goal. The informality of the Wasatch event was exemplified perfectly by the start. Many runners had moved 10 or more yards beyond the starting line and the race director was demanding that they return. At the same time he was asking an assistant for the official time. He replied "5 seconds, 4, 3...". It was obvious that we had to choose between delaying the start and properly assembling the mass oof runners at the line. The race director smiled, shrugged, and said "Go". And we were off. Not having thought to bring a light for the start, I was forced to run close behind runners who had. After a mile I noticed the first signs of sweat, and an increased heart rate. I stopped, looked back over the valley we were leaving on our trek toward chinscraper, 4000 feet above. Salt Lake was beautiful in the dark. I had two days of running ahead, and would be damned if I'd allow myself to work up a sweat in the first mile. I relaxed, and dropped back from Leon (35:03) and Fred (35:03), who til now had been within earshot. In the end I found Dave (33:35) and Jim (34:47). Dave had finished last year while being the last one up Chinscraper. He warned that folks had a tendency to get too exited by the crowds at the beginning. I took this as wisdom, and followed his comfortable pace up the long climb. Jim was happy to join us. Chinscraper itself is nothing more than a 50-foot scree scramble at the end the first 6-7 mile climb. This was a relief, as for months in my imagination I had been scrabbling up a 500-foot exposed cliff. Dave let out a war whoop upon clearing the summit. I followed and could see why. Incredible views in the now full-born morning. At Francis peak (~15 miles) Dave stopped to eat a tuna fish sandwhich, and I moved on without him. We hooked up a few hours later, after I had met Tonya (35:32) and Fred (35:32). Both were fifty-ish. Tonya was a top 20 finisher at Boston in the mid 80's, (sub 3 hours) and both were Wasatch veterans. It was clear they were going to finish, and clear that I could hold the pace Tonya set without effort: This was a comfort, even though we were only 20miles into the run. At 25 miles I held back from the group to provide aid and comfort to a twenty-something girl who was sick and apparently delerious. She was weeping, and it was not clear if it was from distress or the beauty of the scenery. She gave both reasons, which was alarming enough in itself. I really did nothing more than encourage and chat, til we arrived within sight of the next aid at around 29 miles, at about 9000 ft on an exposed ridge. Then I moved on, with the goal of catching Dave and the others. Dave and Jim I never saw again until the finish. Fred and Tonya I would next find at around mile 45. The thunder storm broke 5 minutes after I cleared the station, with plenty of lightening and biting hail. I had already cleverly donned my emergency poncho, but the wind threatened to tear it off me, and I searched frantically for the lowest point on the ridge. I plunked down, seated, in the middle of the trail, and held my hat above my head to catch the hail with one hand, while desperately trying to restrain my whipping poncho with the other. This went on for quite some time, while I silently prayed that I would not meet so stupid an end as to be killed by lightening in what was supposed to be a fun event. After what I estimate to be around 40 minutes, the storm passed, and I was on my way. The rest was rejuvenating. I felt fresh, and quickly covered the ground to Big Mountain, the 36 mile- checkpoint. I arrived at around 4:30. This was somewhat of a shock, as my notes said the 36 hour pace should have me there at 4:00. I was actually, for the first time, behind the clock!! Not sure of the rules, whether the notes I had made were cutoff times, or suggested arrivals, I cruised into Big Mountain at an 8 minute per mile pace, with a cheery smile on my face. I would bluff my way through, using the storm as an excuse if they tried to detain me. I felt too darn good to stop this run now. Still, it became clear in moments that they had no intention of forcibly removing me from the course. In retrospect I see that the finisher's schedule calls for 4:00, but that the cutoff is actually 7 P.M. At the time, though, I wasn't sure if they were giving me a break, or what. I didn't stick around to find out. They did in fact bring up the possibility of leaving the race. I said no thanks. They said, "Well, you'll have a decision to make at Lambs Canyon" (51 miles). "Right", I said breezily, while thinking to myself "I'll see you clowns at the finish". On the run to Lambs Canyon I passed a dozen or so runners, only one of whom was to finish, although I did not know that at the time. At mile 46, with dusk falling, there were Tonya and Fred again, off ahead of me while I tended to some business, mostly food. I really wanted to run with them in the night. They knew the course. Why the hell couldn't they wait 5 minutes? Easy fella, would you wait for them? Probably not. Just have to catch up. Who was that poor girl wretching in the corner of the tent? Another fallen runner. No time for pity. Onward. As darkness fell the pacer of the sick runner caught me. She was trying to get to her support group and car at Lambs, to pick up the runner, left writhing in misery at the last aid. Her name was Crystal and she had only a toy flashlight, which she had had to borrow from another runner before leaving her retching charge. I welcomed the company, as I was as unsure of myself in the dark as she clearly was. We talked and passed the time quite comfortably, searching out markers in the darkness, losing our way only momentarily on several occasions. Arrived at Lambs Corner (51 miles) at 9:15. No Tonya, no Fred. My notes said for 36 hours you should leave by 10:00. I was back on pace, and feeling pretty good. Time for warm clothes, new flashlights, full-food scrounge, new socks, the works. As Crystal got into her car she said "I'll be thinking about you, I'll be praying for you". My God, was it that evident that I was in need of prayers already? I left at 9:45. As is customary, I said "168 out", meaning of course that number 168 was leaving the checkpoint. The official said "You're out?". "Yes, I'm leaving." "Ok, do you need a ride?". Hmm.. What sort of devilry was this? Was this clown offering me a ride to try to get me disqualified? Then I caught his meaning. "No, I am LEAVING the checkpoint, NOT the race!". "Oh, in that case, you don't checkout here, its across the highway". "Right, thanks". Full night now, and a real feeling of being alone in the wilderness. A long walk along a road, then into the trees and up the trail again. Alone, dark, tired, wondering, all sorts of doubts. Carry on with style, see how far you can get. Still feeling pretty good, right? Right. Where in heck are Tonya and Fred? They can't be that far ahead. After a quarter mile uphill trudge, I note no markers for several minutes. I'm wrong. I'm off course. I missed a turn in the dark. My race is finished. I turn back down the trail in a rage. I'm not giving up this easy. To the bottom again, there is the marker that started me on this path. There are no other options. Conclusion, I had been on the trail. Turn around again. Back up the trail. Gritted teeth. Wasted time in your first hundred, unfamiliar trail, in the darkness, alone, is painful. Got to make up time now if I'm ever to find Tonya and Fred. The mind plays strange tricks now. Shadows look like weasels darting toward your feet, seeking sore ankles to bite. Logs look like monsters. Strangely, in spite of a few startles, I am really not afraid. I feel God's presence. I am protected. I can relax. The infrequent rustling movements of animals are ignored. The more frequent deathlike quiet is a comfort. I follow the beam in front of me. There are runnable passages here. I cruise. I am going to find some runners soon. Lights ahead. Its Fred and Tonya. Its good to see them, but there is no great celebration. Everyone is down to serious business now. It's the wee hours of Sunday morning, and everyone is a bit fogged. We walk into Big Water (mile 59) together. Their support team has them in and out of the station in minutes. I take another 20 at least. Got to change socks. My feet are killing me. Alone again. Desolation Lake is the next goal, mile 65. Its cold. The only station that has to be packed in. I see lights coming down the trail. It is clearly 4 men on horseback. But the horses are small. Are they possibly riding lamas? Weird to see horses at night. Or lamas for that matter. When they come abreast and pass I see that it is four boys, packers for Desolation, on their way back to Big Water. They are on foot. There are no quadrupeds to be seen. Another sleep deprivation-induced hallucination. At Desolation I stop for coffee. Need something to clear the head. Maybe it will work. Maybe it will make me sick. Its always a gamble. The 100 is as much a chemistry experiment on the body as anything else. The volunteer at Desolation says cheerily, "Three miles to Scotts Peak, and then 5 to Brighton". Brighton. That was my intermediate goal. The minimum acceptable quitting point. I was going to make it to Brighton. I noted the time on my watch. I would cover the next 3 miles in 45 minutes, an hour at the most. I set out. After an initial climb to a very high, windy and rocky ridge, the trail follows the ridge. Its runnable. The coffee or something has lightened my feet. I can run freely, swiftly along the ridge line. I am making fantastic time. A half hour goes by, no markers. A little concern, but there really was no other way, was there? 45 minutes. I should be there by now, still no markers. Panic starts. We are headed down, and Brighton should itself be high. Its a ski resort, for heaven's sake. Then why the hell are we heading down now, BEFORE the Scotts Peak station which I KNOW is well ABOVE Brighton? An hour passes on the clock. Now I stop. It is impossible that I could fail to cover 3 miles in the last hour. Anger again. I missed a turn-off, for sure this time. I turn back around in a fury, picking up my pace, running back uphill at a too fast pace. My breath is becoming labored now. I run on in a white rage. Damn this course. Damn the volunteers. I see lights ahead. It is two obviously whipped runners. They are seated. "Do you know this trail?", I demand, without preliminaries. "No, we've never run here before". "Well, I've been a mile beyond here, and there are no markers, there is no Scotts Peak station, we are on the wrong trail", I wailed. Its a man and a woman. Both at the end of their tether. But sane enough to know a madman when they see one. "We are ON trail" the man states emphatically. "Look at the footprints. There were no other options. This is the way the guy at Desolation said we should go", he reasoned. "The guy at Desolation also said it was 3 miles" I retorted. " I've covered maybe 4, and there is nothing, no aid, no markers, nothing". "We are on trail", he repeated. I looked at his companion, who only smiled. Okay, I would show these dolts about "being on trail". I would show them, and the whole world. I would turn again, and run down this whole damn hill into some unknown valley, get lost, spend the night shivering under a tree, and THEN we would see about being on trail!! I left them, and turned back down the trail that I knew led to nowhere. After 20minutes, a marker. I felt like the guy who found Livingstone in the jungle. It was a relief, but nothing could make up for the lost time. Tonya, Fred, were distant memories now. They would finish, I would drop out at Brighton, making lame excuses about being lost. Excuses. The thought of uttering them made me sick already. I passed Scotts Peak above Brighton and headed down. Before leaving I was told that yes, it indeed WAS well over 3 miles back to Desolation. I replied yes, I know, silently cursing the Desolation team to the nether reaches of darkness. A long gravel road, which turned to pavement. I ran almost the whole way, feeling the toll the pounding was taking, but not caring anymore. I passed two runners a mile outside the lodge. It was dawn. Sunday morning. Still not to mile 73, and a hot day ahead. "He guys, how's it going? Do you think we have a chance?". "What do you mean, have a chance, we have it in the bag", they cheerfully retorted. (They did not make it). But this was a tonic to me. We had it in the bag. It COULD still be done. In any case, there was no point in stopping now, at a minimum I would pad my personal PR beyond 50 miles as much as possible. I entered Brighton at 7:15 on Sunday morning. Mile 73, below the steepest climb on the course, to Catherine pass at 10,400 feet. I was out at 7:30. An old hand there encouraged me. He said I would make it easily. He said he had finished after leaving Brighton at 8:30. I looked at him dubiously. I had him pegged as an unrealistic optimist, but did not say so. I started up the hill, along a babbling stream. I could see nothing but a hot sun on bare rock above me. After half a mile, I found myself in a shower of rocks. Thankfully, none hit me. I looked up onto the ledges above. Some idiot kids throwing stones, no doubt. I cursed their parents in my mind. Another sign of social decay. Probably Clinton supporters, too. As the shower continued, I hurried through the dangerous section. Not long after I realized that the "kids" were in reality squirrels, and the "stones" were nuts or acorns being knocked from the trees. Almost laughed, but even acorns can hurt after falling 75 feet. As I struggled to the top of Catherine, a runner began to emerge behind me. Moving powerfully uphill, he had made up a lot of ground. He caught me. We ran together. His name was Jeff (35:18). An attorney from Virginia. I moved better on the flats and down, he on every climb. We stayed together. I welcomed my first companion in hours, seemingly days. "Do you think we can make it", he asked. "No one behind us will make it, and I have my doubts about us, but I think we have a chance", I replied. "We shall in any case, carry on with style", I added, borrowing a line from the Eiger Sanction. Jeff and I passed perhaps 5-10 runners as we ran the last 27, mostly together. All of these would either finish behind us, or fail to finish at all. My words were to prove prophetic. I don't believe anyone who left Brighton after Jeff finished the race. Above Pole Line (81 miles) I suddenly realized that I still had my long sleeved shirt on, and I was hot, hot, hot. I peeled it off gratefully. Why hadn't I done so earlier? Too much in a fog to notice. With 10 miles to go I noticed that Jeff was drifting away. In fact, the world was drifting away. My field of vision was closing in. My GOD, I was going to faint!. I stopped, and put my head between my legs, slapped my face. What was wrong. Why were my hands swollen? Why was I not sweating? Had I drunk too much? Had I taken too many Succeed pills? Not enough? I found I could continue as long as I moderated my pace. I stumbled on, and Jeff drifted out of sight. I came suddenly to a stream. No bridge. No logs, no stepping stones. But surely there was some mistake. Had Jeff crossed through here? Had anyone? There are no river crossings on this course! There couldn't be, or they would have mentioned it. After 5 minutes of puzzling over this quandary, and looking for other options, a voice inside said go, and I entered the stream and was quickly across. New problems. A road. The road to Midway and the finish apparently. But where was the Cascade Springs aid station at mile 92? It should be on this road. The road was festooned with markers. But did they mean to lead me left or right? Some fisherman were within earshot. "Which way is Midway", I shouted. They looked at me uncertainly. "Haven't caught anything yet", one replied. "No, where are the people from the race", I shouted louder now, feeling dizzy with the effort. "Oh, that way, about a mile", he pointed toward the Cascade Springs station. Blessed man. To the left. I started up the road to the left. Who is that up ahead, up this damnable hill? It was Jim. Jim and Cindy. Familiar faces. A sign of home. Of victory. I was at Cascade Springs. 8 miles to go, with 2 hours and 15 minutes remaining. I believed that even with whatever was causing this dizziness, I could do it now. I could walk it in. Couldn't relax, had to move quickly, but it was within reach. I believed now for the first time that I was going to finish the race. Jeff was still in the station when I left. I climbed the "wall", the last hill on the course. Jim and Cindy waited again at the top. Jeff, the mountain goat, caught and passed me on the way up. "I'm not an emotional man", he said, "but Doug, I think I am going to cry". "We're going to make it now, man", was all I replied. I am afraid this author must mercifully draw a veil over the final miles above Midway and in town itself. To pierce it the reader is encouraged to run the Wasatch himself: In this way all will be made known. The sensations associated with the final leg are too personal and painful to recount, even from my armchair at a weeks remove. I will say that within 200 yards of the finish I became aware that the figure in front of me, who I had been slowly reeling in the last half hour was none other than Tonya! I thought I had achieved theoretical minimum speed. But she was moving still more slowly. As I passed she said "Great job, Doug". "You too Tonya". Fred, her partner, was standing just ahead, waiting so that the two of them could finish together. He suggested I join them. I pretended not to hear. It was physically impossible for me to slow or stop this close to the finish. Besides, I thought, had they ever waited for me? As I turned the last corner the finish line was in view. This was a sight I had not dared to dream of for the last 2 days. I had resisted every temptation to imagine the finish for so long that its sight was like an electric shock. A surge of adrenaline coursed through me. I jogged swiftly across the line, feeling for the moment as if I could go on forever. And then I collapsed. Wasatch was over for me, 35 hours and 31 minutes after it had begun. But for you, dear reader, it could be just the beginning.