Date: Tue, 16 Jul 1996 15:03:58 -0400
From: cb411@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Dr. Thomas H. Bieniosek)
To: drs@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU, ultra@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU,
        drneo@listserv.kent.edu
Subject: My Western States 100 experience (warning - long! - 28kb)

My lovely wife Laurie and I flew into Sacramento late Thursday
night.  My pacer Benny Yih was waiting for us at the gate.  We
piled into our Avis Chevy and entered the California freeway
system.  After driving about 10 miles on some road that was
straight as an arrow, headed seemingly nowhere, I noticed that the
full moon was behind us, not in front or to the right as it should
be.  Benny and I hadn't even started the Western States 100 mile
trail run and already I had made a wrong turn.  This was not a good
omen!

After consulting a map, we eventually found our way to Truckee in
the mountains.  Once there, we drove through the town three times
looking for the Best Western, Benny's abode for the next two
nights.  Laurie and I drove to the Super 8 and fell asleep about
1:30 am, about 4:30 am Eastern time, just about the normal time for
me to wake and run.

Friday morning Laurie and I ate a hearty breakfast of cream filled
donuts at the Super 8, then headed over to the Best Western
breakfast room, which was packed with runner types and their
families.  There I ate oatmeal and fruit, which felt more like a
lunch to me, considering it was well after 9 am local time.  Benny
showed up and we drove to the Western States registration at Squaw
Valley.

The registration was more like an expo for a large marathon: shirts
and running paraphernalia filling a large room.  I got my packet
and blue Western States running bag and biodegradable toilet paper
which the rules state must be deposited after use only at an aid
station and sunglasses and watch and Power Bar visor and short
sleeve t-shirt and some sort of vest.  I gave my Power Bar to
Benny, and then committed a faux pas by taking an extra wad of
biodegradable toilet paper for Benny, which meant, it turned out,
that some registered Western States 100 runners had to run without
biodegradable toilet paper.  I bought some postcards featuring
endangered No Hands bridge.  I considered buying a Western States
100 mile endurance run license plate holder, but decided that would
be premature, since I hadn't actually run those 100 miles yet.   I
tried out a two bottle water carrier, which suited me, and then
spent about 10 minutes choosing a color, and then another 10
minutes matching the color of the water bottle tops to the color of
the water carrier.

Outside I got weighed (175 lb), my pulse (60) and blood pressure
(130/70) were measured, and these data were entered onto a plastic
band which was secured around my wrist and I was warned that I
could not remove it unless I intended to drop out of the race.  I
met Stan Jensen, who had organized a Western States mailing list,
Lauren Lechner, who was there to crew for Skip Eastman, who pacing
a friend from Pittsburgh, and King Jordan, who was interesting
since I wound up speaking to his "signer", but he would answer me
directly, a sort of triangular conversation.

A number of folks noticed my Mohican 100 t-shirt.  All commented on
what a nice course it was.  One fellow mentioned how glad he was
that he wore trail gaiters while running the Mohican, because he
felt it was a rocky course, compared to Western States.  This
comment surprised me, since Mohican provides numerous challenges,
but not rocky running surfaces, at least in my opinion.  This
comment did reinforce my decision not to wear trail gaiters for
Western States.

Laurie, Benny, and I hiked a little along the start of the course,
up the ski slopes.  There I realized why there were so many ski
lifts around - Squaw Valley is in serious need of oxygen.  On the
way down, we met another group of crew and runners trying the same
thing.  One fellow pointed out that my left Nike Air Max Triax had
gone flat.  No wonder my left foot was feeling strange.  This
disappointed me, since I was considering changing shoes for once
during a race, and the Nike Air Max Triax would be one of those
pairs, but the flat ended that plan, and I would have to rely on my
generic, but very comfortable, Saucony Expresses to carry me 100
miles.

The three of us drove down to Truckee for denser air and a very
satisfying meal at Sizzler.  The restaurant staff knew all about
"that marathon" starting in Squaw Valley on Saturday.  It was hard
to leave all that good food and the very breathable air, but we
returned to Squaw Valley for the mandatory trail briefing which
lasted two hours, of which maybe three minutes actually dealt with
trail conditions and the rest taught me the true meaning of a
"Normarama" as he introduced all the foreign entrants, nine top
women entrants, 22 top men entrants, each person meriting several
minutes of praise, and presented numerous awards, each requiring a
long speech and long applause.  Hard to believe, but my attention
did wander just a little and even harder to believe, I looked a few
women over and there was one with her hair down to her calves!  I
couldn't believe my eyes!  I knew Laurie was in a good mood so I
pointed her out to Laurie and we were both awed.  I wondered if she
was running, but I just couldn't imagine the mechanics of running
with all that long, loose hair.

Laurie, Benny, and I walked over to the crew briefing and who would
appear but my brother Tony, fresh in from Dallas just to help
Laurie manage the long Saturday night.  The four of us sat down for
the briefing, which was all "old news" to me, since I had read and
reread the 26 page race manual at least 45 times, maybe more, over
the last few months.  The overriding theme of the crew briefing was
that crews were extremely limited in their chances to actually see
their runner.  This did make sense, since there were 300 entrants,
and if everyone had a 3 person entourage like me, there's 900 folks
already, not counting aid station workers and other spectators.
Crowd control was the overriding concern.

Laurie and I returned to the Super 8 early and we were asleep by 8,
which was really 11 pm in Ohio, and had no problem waking at 3:30
am.  We picked up Benny and Tony at the Best Western, and made it
to the Squaw Valley start with fifteen minutes to go, which is far
too much time for me to kill before a race, so I listened to Norm
scream over and over that all runners had to check in as I indulged
in fruit pastries, and melon slices, having already fortified
myself with tasty Super 8 cream filled donuts.  I found a crowd of
runners huddled in the 45F oxygen deficient air, and as I kneeled
to tie my shoe, something popped and the race started, and between
finishing my shoe tying and avoiding trampling it took a half
minute before I remembered to start my watch.

The first four miles were all uphill, zig-zagging up the ski
slopes.  Everyone walked briskly, and I thought I was walking very
briskly, but nonetheless I found myself in the last third of the
long conga line snaking up the slopes.  The first aid station was
almost at the top, and a volunteer took my photo using the
"disposable" camera I was carrying in my grey/red color coordinated
Western States 100 dream water carrier.  Here we encountered snow,
all 30 yards of it.  I tried to imagine how it was running here in
1995, when the first 25 miles led through deep, continuous snow.

A little more climbing and we cross Emigrant Pass and I think it's
all net downhill from here, so I stop and enjoy the scenery, with
Lake Tahoe glimmering in the dawn of the east, and the pine and
lakes of Granite Chief wilderness stretching out in the west.
Running along the trails I think about the pioneers who hauled
their wagons along this trail.  Time and again I come across slopes
which would have required them to pull their wagons up with a
winch.  I gain alot of respect for those folks after running
through that terrain.

I had planned to run 5/1, i.e., run 5 minutes, and walk 1 minute,
but very rarely can I actually run 5 minutes continuously, either
because of an steep uphill or my head starts to ache and I realize
there just isn't that much oxygen to be found in these parts.
Along the path to the second aid station, a woman passes me with
large braids of hair curled and pinned tight against her head.
"She's the one," I think, so I keep up with her and she starts some
small talk and I'm trying to think how to ask her and eventually I
ask her if she ever runs with her hair loose and she answers no
way, it's far too long to run like that so I tell her how I admired
her hair at the Normarama and she tells me how she trained in
Michigan by running the same 8 mile loop with a steep hill over and
over, up to four times in one run, which impresses me greatly,
since my only "long" run was 25 miles on May 31.  All this leaves
me breathless, so I tell her I'll see her later, but I never did,
as I take a walking break.

In the middle of the back country the course climbs Cougar Rock,
which is topped by a photographer.  I follow the lead of the
runners ahead and pose happily for her.

Over 14 miles there are only 2 aid stations, so even though I leave
each one with two 20 oz bottles of water and a stomach full of
water, the bottles are empty with several miles to go.  The air is
quite cool, about 55F, and I don't feel much sweat, but all that
water is going somewhere, and not as piss.  Here I'm averaging 14
minutes/mile, not bad, but much slower than my pace at the same
time in the race in my 1994 Mohican 100, so I worry about Laurie
wondering why I'm so late getting into Robinson Flat.

But before that I meet as a very pleasant surprise Lauren Lechner
at the Duncan Canyon aid station, 24 miles.  Sadly, she cannot
satisfy my desire for oxygen, but instead helps me douse myself
with water.  Ohhhh, does that feel good!  I start to see a pattern
in aid station supplies: melon slices, chips, boiled potatoes with
lots of salt, little sugar cookies.  These all tasted great but I'm
starting to grow tired of them.  Already I'm fantasizing about a
hamburger, which I won't get until Foresthill, at 55 miles.

Lauren points me to the exit from the aid station and I head for
Robinson Flat.  First I run down into a canyon, and then it becomes
very apparent - I can breathe.  My legs gain some spring, and I
actually feel like running up the trail climbing to Robinson Flat,
but I refrain, knowing there's another 70+ miles to cover.  Laurie
videotapes my entrance into Robinson Flat campground, and she
invites me to pick a campsite, but all I want to do is keep moving.

At the aid station, someone assigns a volunteer to me, who fills my
water bottles and follows me around asking what else I need which
I find extremely annoying at that point.  This is the first medical
check which involves stepping on a scale.  I have not lost weight,
but it takes the nurse a while to match the 175 lb written on my
wristband with the 175 lb scale reading and I'm even more annoyed.
The food table is outstanding because there's a bowl of cold chili
which tastes great, and a plate of sliced turkey or ham, I can't
tell, it's some sort of animal flesh and it tastes great, and I
exit the aid station and Laurie hands me the Power Bar visor which
feels fine to wear.  One mile later I stop for a swig of water and
the bottles are in the wrong pockets which annoys me again and I
realize the only thing that was missing at Robinson Flat was cheese
for my (internal) whining.

By now it's mid-afternoon, and the aid station folks at Deep Canyon
and Dusty Corners remark about how hot it feels already but I feel
fine and the running goes well, and I start to pass folks.
Unfortunately, I don't eat much because I can't stand the sight of
those same melon slices, chips, boiled potatoes with lots of salt
and little sugar cookies any more.  Then I notice that my brand new
K-Mart blue light special white anklet socks are slipping down
below my heels and when I pull them up I notice that the reason
that they're slipping down is because the elastic is shot.  This
angers me greatly, because they were brand new, and the elastic
ought to last more than ten hours, and my anger energizes me at the
bottom of Deadwood Canyon so I stride very briskly 1500 ft up to
Devil's Thumb, passing people left and right, hardly noticing the
occasional "runner" sprawled out in utter exhaustion at the
trailside.

Devil's Thumb aid station is marked with jack-o'-lanterns and paper
witches and all sorts of devilish decorations.  I get weighed
again, for the third time in the race, and for the third time, the
nurse seems mystified with my 175 lb weight and my 175 lb scale
reading, and for the third time I get quite annoyed.  I seek out
the resident podiatrist.  I tell him about my lousy socks and about
a hot spot developing on my right heel.  I take off my shoe and
show him the heel and he asks me to show him my right heel.  I
inform which is left and which is right and he laughs, he says he's
just checking my mental state, and I'm getting downright mad.  He
looks at the heel and declares there's nothing wrong and I point to
the hot spot and he squeezes and I yelp and he says there's still
nothing wrong, what do I want him to do, and I tell him he's the
podiatrist, not me, so he puts moleskin on the heel and I get out
of that place as fast as I can.

The right heel gets worse, and then the left heel joins in.  At the
next aid station, I find a rubber band which I use to hold up my
left sock.  The right sock now seems to stay in place by itself, so
I persevere up and down another 1800 ft canyon to Michigan Bluff,
55 miles.

At the bottom of the canyon is a swaying bridge with the advisory,
no more than 5 runners or 3 horses at one time.  This makes me
wonder why this bridge can continue in use, while the far more
substantial No Hands bridge is closed to public access.  I
understand that the No Hands bridge is in danger of collapsing
under its own weight, and that appearances can be deceiving, but it
seems incongruous to declare a large reinforced concrete bridge
less safe than a flimsy, swaying, wood and cable bridge.

It's well past 8pm by now, which means Benny Yih can start pacing
me at Michigan Bluff instead of having to wait until Foresthill, 62
miles.

As soon as I see the aid station, I hear Laurie yelling, "Go, Tom!"
She is videotaping my entrance, and I shout loudly, "I need socks!"
I see Benny, and I yell the same thing at him.  I know quite well
that they don't have any socks to give me, since I didn't put any
in my running bag.  It does feel good to shout, though.

But wait, here's another medical check - off comes my water
carrier, I step onto the scales, of course the nurse is mystified
by the 175 lb reading.  The food table offers chicken soup, which
burns my tongue when I eat it.  "Just another blister," I reply
when the woman asks if the soup is too hot.  I drop some ice into
the soup left in my cup.  I check out of the aid station, the ice
has already melted, and I see my brother taking his socks off.
"No, no, no," I insist, I don't want to ruin his socks.  I tell
Laurie where to find spare socks in my clothing bag, which is a
long bus ride away, and to have them ready at Foresthill.  Laurie
takes my Power Bar visor and disposable camera.  Benny and I head
down the path, and then Laurie shouts, "You forgot your hamburger!"
Benny is kind enough to return and fetch it, while I continue
forward progress.  That hamburger tastes better than anything I
could imagine when I eat it, ambling down the trail.

This leads up and down yet another canyon, and it turns dark.
Benny and I run long stretches without a light.  This suits me
fine, since the bulk of my running is done in the dark anyway,
every workday morning at 4:30 am.  Along the way I apologize for my
whining about the canyons and the altitude, and he replies that
it's a good hobby.

At the bottom of the canyon, we come across a woman trying to pick
her way across a stream.  I notice the trail markers to the right,
so she follows us to a fallen log, obviously meant as a stream
crossing.  I walk across it upright, and then I shine the path
across for her.  She resorts to crawling across on hands and knees.
Benny scampers across, and we conclude it would have been faster to
wade through the stream.

I recognize her from earlier in the race.  She's wearing an ankle
brace, and although she had passed me hours before in fine spirits,
she's quite despondent now, fearing her ankle will slow her too
much to make the cut-off.  She falls behind as we stride uphill.

A mile from Foresthill Laurie and my brother Tony meet us on Bath
Rd.  It's uphill, so Benny and I are walking briskly, and Laurie
and Tony join us, but eventually they fall behind as Benny and I
break into a run.  As the two of us cruise on the path along
Foresthill Rd, Laurie and Tony pass us in the Avis Chevy to meet us
at Foresthill school.

Once again my weight is checked at the aid station.  Besides socks,
Laurie has procured iced tea for me, which tastes great.  I drink
the tea, change my socks, notice how large the blisters on my toes
and heels appear, and Benny and I are back moving through
Foresthill.

We pass a number of bars, and a few runners.  We turn on to a
California St., and a wave of recognition floods my brain: "So
that's why they call it the California St. trail!"  Sure enough, we
leave the pavement of California St. for a trail, which quickly
descends straight downhill, no switchbacks, and my stiff quads and
painful toe blisters force me to a dead stop.  I spy a dead tree
branch off to the side, and I use this as a crutch to ease myself
downhill, and before long all the folks we passed in Foresthill
pass us as I continue my 0.5 mph pace.

Finally we come across switchbacks, and the two of us resume
running.  I walk whenever the path is too rocky or is too steep.
A few switchbacks below us I see the lights of another pair of
runners.  On one of the switchbacks we run into an aid station.
One fellow tells us that the next station is one more mile of
downhill away, followed by some level running and then some uphill.
I read the board listing the 30 hr pace time and for the first time
I realize that I am only a few minutes ahead of a projected 30 hour
finish.  This surprises me, and spurs me to move even more quickly
through the station.  (Only now, when I'm writing this, do I
analyze my times and realize that all throughout the race I was
either behind or just ahead of a 30 hour finish pace.)

Benny and I get to the level trail quickly, and we enjoy some long
stretches of running in the light of the full moon.  We are still
a few hundred feet above the Middle Fork of the American river, but
we can hear it below and see moonlight shining off it.  These
stretches are interrupted only by my frequent stops to piss.  The
night air has cooled considerably, and my stomach feels full, so I
cut back on drinking water.

We reach the uphill part of the trail, and it is straight up, just
a slash up the wall of the canyon.  We scramble up and up and up,
loose rocks tumbling down with each footstep, and I groan inwardly,
knowing that the uphill implies more painful downhill ahead.

We reach the next aid station and I'm ready to run right through
it, but no, time for another weight check.  Even though I've cut
way back on drinking, my water bottles nearly full, my weight reads
174 lb, and the fellow reading the scale seems very puzzled.  Here
I see some runners stretched out sleeping and I think what a
strange place to drop out, for surely they will not recover in time
to meet the cut-off, and they are many miles from seeing their
crews.

Benny and I encounter some more level stretches and it feels good
to be running.  Here and there we pass runner/pacer pairs, who step
aside to let us pass.  Most of the time the trail surface is hidden
in darkness, but I trip only once, and even then I avoid hitting
the ground.

We hit a few more aid stations which make me happy by not asking me
to step on scale.  We reach the Rucky Chucky river crossing at 3:40
am.  Once again I get weighed, this time at 176 lb, with
accompanying puzzlement.  Most of the folks look very sleepy, but
I feel wide awake, it being almost 7 am in Ohio.  I make use of the
portatoilet for a bowel movement - all those weight checks do serve
a purpose, I realize.

Benny and I head for the river's edge.  I remove my water carrier
and drape it around my neck.  A cable is stretched across the
river, about 50 yards wide, for a handhold.  The water is moving,
but I wouldn't consider it as extremely swift.  By no means would
it sweep me off my feet.  At the deepest point, the cool water wets
my crotch, which feels refreshing.  At midpoint a fellow in a
wetsuit steadies the cable and tells me to watch my footing.  I
feel very sorry for him.

The same photographer from Cougar Rock is at the river's edge.  I
do not pose or look happy for her.

The aid station on the other side is full of people milling about.
Someone offers me a piece of cake, which I refuse; my appetite
vanished 16 miles before.  I ask where are the scales for my weight
check; no one gets the joke.  Benny and I trudge up Sliger Mine
Road, and before we cover the 1.8 miles to Green Gate aid station,
my socks and shoes have dried.  Along the way up, Skip Eastman and
his friend from Pittsburgh stride by us as if we're standing still.

Laurie and Tony meet us Green Gate.  Laurie offers me more iced
tea, which tastes great.  At that point I realize that any fluid or
solid which had not been offered at the last 20 aid stations would
taste great.  I say goodbye to Tony, who wants to catch a 6 am
flight to Dallas.  I'm grateful to him for keeping Laurie company
through the night.

Running out of Green Gate, the moon is often hidden behind the
mountains to the west, so I use my flashlight for the half hour
until dawn brightens the trail.  The course is quite level, so I
believe we're making good time, and we pass Skip and his friend,
but the aid station which was promised to be only 5.2 miles from
Green Gate just never seems to arrive.

When we finally reach it, about 20 minutes later than what I had
projected, I'm quite upset.  Just before entering it, I notice a
16.5 mile Western States trail marker.  The aid station sign shows
the mileage as 85.2.  I ask the fellow there about that sign, and
he assures me it was correct, and I reply no way, something doesn't
make sense. Analyzing my time, I covered the 5.4 miles from Green
Gate to the Auburn Lake Trails station in 96 minutes, an average of
17.8 minutes/mile on a flat course.  Benny and I time ourselves
using the Western States trail mile markers and we calculate a 13
minute/mile pace for running, increasing to 15 minutes/mile with
walking breaks.  I'm convinced there's some extra mileage in that
portion.

Nonetheless, another wave of recognition sweeps my brain as I
associate the name of the station with the Auburn Lakes Trail of
cougar fame.  A few miles later we pass the memorial to the woman
runner who was killed by a cougar two years ago.

The brightness of dawn reveals another aspect of the trail.  This
portion is walled by poison ivy.  For miles we run through the
nasty stuff.  I'm sure that every inch of exposed skin has come in
contact with it.  I pray that the Tecnu armor cream treatment is as
effective as it claims.

The next station, Brown's Ravine, is heralded by "Rock Around the
Clock".  We hear the music but we don't see the station.  Just like
radio.

Once we do arrive there, the folks there encourage us to get going,
and we do, headed downhill once again, straight down, no
switchbacks, all the way down to the riverbank.  There we get a
surprise when the woman with the ankle brace scampers past us,
along with her pacer.  She explains that her pacer is quite a
slavedriver, and has forced a fast pace on her.  For my part I am
quite pleased that Benny has been quite patient with my slow pace,
because with the sun climbing in the sky, I just can't muster
enough energy for a continuous run, even on the flat stretches.

Here I'm thinking, it has to be flat all the way to No Hands
bridge, but I know it won't, and then I see highway 49 high in sky
above the river and then we turn left to climb uphill again, up,
up, up, up higher than highway 49, then down again to the aid
station where Laurie greets us.  A fellow asks me to step to the
scales for a weight check and I almost slug him.  We tell Laurie
we'll see her at the finish.

Benny explains that he's familiar with this part of the trail from
the Cool Canyon Crawl.  I ask him where No Hands Bridge is, which
has assumed considerable importance in my mind, but isn't sure.  We
come across a wonderful path in a grassy field, but I'm just too
beat to run much.  We do pass Skip and his buddy on an uphill, and
I get concerned about them, since they were doing so well on
uphills, and there really isn't that much time to spare, and the
two of them seem really out of it.

Then we head downhill on a really miserable stretch of trail, which
is actually an 18" deep, narrow rut punctuated by large rocks,
giving one the option of straddling the rut and trampling the
vegetation on the trailsides, or picking a way slowly through the
rocks in the rut.  Neither method offers much speed, and I start to
worry about making time.

The rut/trail parallels a very curvy road below it, and we can see
cars squealing on the curves.  Eventually the rut/trail emerges
onto No Hands Bridge, also site of an aid station.

I take a photo, and it occurs to me that the engineering safety
factor calculated for the bridge could be improved considerably
just be shoveling off all the debris which has accumulated on the
bridge surface.  The course then follows the abandoned road bed
along the American river.  This portion does not impress me at all.
It reminds me of running in a strip mine.  I think if this is the
part of the canyon that would be flooded by the controversial
Auburn Dam, then it would be no great loss.

Eventually we head uphill to Robie Point, where we meet the paved
streets of Auburn.  I try to run, but the hard pavement is just too
painful for my blisters.  So we continue walking the 1.3 miles into
the high school stadium.

The announcer takes a stab at my time, tries again, and then
resorts to spelling it.  The track surface is soft enough to allow
me to run, so I run as fast as possible to the finish, my heart is
pounding, I've given it my all.  I cross the finish, 29:33, Norm
hangs a medal around my neck, and a nurse hustles me to the medical
tent.

She first measures my pulse, and I think, this ought to be close to
my maximum heart rate, and she announces 120.  Then she measures my
blood pressure, 150 over something, and then she weighs me, are you
kidding, I ask, at 175 lb.  She also seems perplexed so I rip off
that plastic wristband and I leave and find Laurie and tell her I'm
headed for the showers and she has my bag ready just as we had
planned and I'm so happy I'm crying.

On the way to the showers I notice dozens of runners receiving IV's
and I wonder why.  How could anyone possibly get dehydrated to the
point of needing an IV with all those weight checks?

Once in the showers, I'm really stiff and hobbled.  I can barely
bend to reach my feet.  I do manage to lather thoroughly with
Tecnu.   Getting dressed is quite a challenge, especially pulling
fresh socks over my swollen feet.

I meet Laurie on the way out and ask her to buy that Western States
100 mile endurance run license plate holder.  By now, the finish
line has been dismantled, the tents are being taken, but look, here
comes another runner onto the track.  Tough luck, buddy.

It's close to noon when Laurie and I drive away.  i haven't seen
Benny since the finish, but Laurie assures me has a way to the
airport.  We had reservations for an 11 am flight.  Once at the
airport, United, good folks that they are, put us on a 2:15 pm
flight with no fuss or penalties even though we had those non-
refundable, non-exchangeable tickets.

It's two weeks later and my toes still tingle.  It took two days
before I could walk without a walking stick.

Tough race.  Really tough race.

Tom Bieniosek
in faraway Litchfield