San Juan Solstice

San Juan Solstice 2007 - Lake City, CO

The first two or so miles went pretty well. That's about the only good thing I have to say about my race.

Approaching the first stream crossing just after turning off the dirt road onto the Alpine Gulch trail, I suddenly puke. Not a good thing less than three miles into my day. I'm kind of shocked, I've never thrown up during a race before. I continue on, and the first creek crossing really wakes me up. Damn, that water was COLD. Plus, it's flowing real quick. I have to grab wet logs to make sure I don't get swept away, which means not only are my feet freezing, but now my hands are too.

From one miserable experience to another, the stream crossings soon give way to a quad busting climb. From the 4-ish mile mark until about ten miles, the course takes runners from 9,000 feet to above 13,000 feet, with no relief along the way. My stomach is in knots here, I get nauseous if I try to sip water out of my camelbak, I can't feel my feet or hands because they're too cold, and I'm breathing way harder than I should be. I realize it's going to be a long day.

Get a bit of a break heading into the first aid station. My CRUD buddy Jonathan V catches up to me and our conversation, including possible plans of an Austin roadtrip to see Widespread Panic at the Backyard, takes my mind off of how crappy I'm feeling. We stop by the fire at the aid station to try to warm up. I try to down some cytomax, but just the smell of that makes my gut wrench. I settle for a cup of flat Coke as it's the only thing I'm able to keep down.

Continuing to climb out of the aid station, I keep up with Jonathan for a while but he soon leaves me behind. About the ten mile mark we're above 13,000 feet and it's finally time to descend. It was a rough climb, but I realize it took a lot more out of me than it should have. I also realize that during the first ten miles of the race all I've taken in was a glass of pop. I force down some clif blocks but those make me feel sick too. Nothing seems to be going right today.

On a different note, on a short flat section here I noticed a runner coming towards me. Kind of weird, other than this race this ain't the most travelled part of Colorado. As the other runner and I get closer, he jumps off the trail and starts cheering for me. As I pass him, I do a double take and say, "holy shit, you're Scott Jurek!" He seemed kind of embarrassed, but it was him. Seems he was out getting in some altitude training for the upcoming Hardrock 100 miler. Not that there hasn't been enough nice things said about the guy, but the way one of the world's top ultrarunners was out there cheering for us slow folks was pretty cool.

This meeting must inspire me, as I'm able to haul ass on the first big downhill, passing a ton of people. Unfortunately, I lose most of that time when I have to jump into the woodline to see a man about a horse. Now I'm feeling that if I could throw up again, I'd feel better. Soon I'm heading into the Williams Creek aid station, and it's straight off to the port-o-shitter for the old high school cheerleader impression. Finger way down the throat, and out comes what seems like 100 gallons of the nastiest stuff to ever leave my body (and believe me, there's been some nasty stuff over the years...). I come out of the shitter and there are two runners waiting in line, looking at me like they think I should be dead after what I just went through.

A very sad moment here at Williams Creek. I had been wearing my Montrail Hardrocks for the first 15 miles of the race. I've owned them for over 2.5 years. Been through a lot of good times with 'em. But as I'm changing into dry shoes and socks, I notice that I've completely broke the sole of one shoe in half. The other shoe ain't in much better shape. I realize it's time to say goodbye to an old friend, but I can't bring myself to throw the shoes in the trash, so I leave them sitting on a rock at the aid station.

After my tearful farewell, I refill my camelbak with water and chug down a cup of cytomax. I immediately want to hurl again, my body just ain't diggin' the cytomax today. So I take another cup of coke in hopes of calming things down and head out for the next climb.

Coming out of Williams Creek there's a relatively flat stretch of about 2.5 miles along a dirt road. Last year I was able to make up some ground on this stretch, and I expected to do the same this year. But it just wasn't happening. Less than 1/3 into the race, and I was already physically wasted. I knew another killer climb lay just ahead, and I began to wonder if I were headed for another DNF.

Around the 18 mile mark the course takes you up the second major climb. Over the next five miles you go from about 9,200 feet to the high point of the course at 13,334 feet on top of Coney Peak. The climb is on a rugged jeep road, the sun was beating down on me, and I felt finished. As much as I had cursed the earlier creek crossings for making me so cold, I stop by another fast flowing mountain stream and submerge my head to cool off. It provides a brief break from my general feeling of shittiness, but the relentless climb soon reminds me of my misery.

At 22 miles there's an aid station near the ghost town of Carson. My stomach is still awful so I take a mouthful of salt and some pringles and wash it down with water. A volunteer asks me if she can refill my camelbak and I realize that I hadn't drank anything since the last aid station. I'm not a veteran ultrarunner by any means, but that's a big time rookie mistake I had made.

While I'm at the aid station another CRUD buddy, Gordon, comes in. One of my heros for finishing last year's race and, without stopping at the finish line, heading directly to the ambulance, it's good to see him. We'd spend the next few hours pushing each other. Actually, it was more him pulling me.

Leaving Carson, the climb continues for another two miles or so. As we bag the summit of Coney Peak, I can see dark clouds forming. I tell Gordon, "damn, those don't look good" to which he replies, "I'm trying not to think about it."

After Coney Peak the course flattens out, but you're along the Continental Divide, well above 12,000 feet, for the next seven miles or so. Breathtaking is the right word for it. Despite the brewing storm, the only thing I can see up here are the high peaks of the San Juan Mountains. There are five 14ers nearby. Red Mountain is just a few miles away. One of the most scenic places in all of Colorado, and despite the bad day I'm having I feel very thankful that I'm able to take in this view, it's one not a whole bunch of people will ever get to see.

So I continue on, mindful of the incoming storm. I try to outrun it, but I realize it's soon gonna catch up to me. Lots of postholing through snow here, so my warm and dry shoes and socks are now cold and wet. One treacherous 200 foot drop required the use of a climbing rope to rappel down. It was at this point where I told Gordon, "Hey Gordo, next year I think I'm gonna do the Sailin' Shoes 5K instead...."

After the rappel and some more postholing, Gordon sped away and the storm caught up with me. Large hail began to pelt me, which would have really been painful had the nearby lightening not been my bigger problem. There was a runner not far behind me who had been using aluminum trekking poles, and later he would tell me that he had to leave them on the mountain because he felt them starting to build up static and they started making a buzzing sound.

So I ran as fast as my severely dehydrated body could take me, and soon got back to the relative safety of treeline. Lots of mud here, the day just kept getting more and more agonazing. Through a steady rain I kept plodding along and finally came to the next aid station, Divide.

Again, I noticed here that I had hardly taken in any liquids or calories since the last aid station. In fact, I had not significantly taken in anything all day, despite crapping and barfing all over the forest. And just looking at cytomax at the aid station made me nauseous. So I took a cup of water and a bowl of ramen into the yurt to warm up. I contemplated dropping out here due to my exhaustion, and I was afraid if I went on I was gonna do some severe damage due to my dehydration. But just then the rain stopped and the sun came out. I took it as a sign and decided that if I didn't finish the race, it wasn't gonna be my call. I would continue on, and if the medical experts pulled me or I missed a cutoff than so be it, but I wouldn't quit.

It's mostly downhill from the Divide aid station, but I'm so shot it's taking everything I have just to keep moving forward. I slip and fall in the mud a few times, which adds to my misery. I know I'm very close to the cutoff time, but I don't care. In fact, part of me starts hoping I won't make it, I know the final climb is a doozy and I'm not sure if I can do it.

Finally trudge into the last main aid station, Slumgullion. I ask about the cutoff time, and I'm told I made it by 25 minutes. Last year at this time I was finishing the race, this year I still had ten miles to go. I force down some fig newtons and a cup of water, my stomach still giving me problems. Without wasting much time I head out for the final battle of the day.

Shortly after Slumgullion I feel like I'm on a hash as I have to cross another stream and then crawl over some downed trees. Then the climbing starts. The final uphill of the day makes you climb 1,700 feet, back over 11,000 feet, in less than four miles. I felt like I was doing the incline with a 100 pound pack on. I didn't worry about pace or cutoff times, just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. After what seemed like an eternity the effort finally paid off, as I crested the hill, mucked my way through some swampy fields, and soon came into the small aid station run by the Vickers family.

Blew right through the aid station. My time had just passed 15 hours, and I had four miles, mostly steep downhill on a cool path through Aspen trees, to go. Normally this would be gravy for me, but today I was taking nothing for granted. I soldiered on, the adrenaline and excitement of a finish allowing me to find the strength to run most of the final few miles.

Finally leaving nature behind for the thriving metropolis of Lake City, I ran through a few intersections and suddenly found myself on the homestretch. I was so drained I couldn't even show any sign of emotion, but it was great seeing all of CRUD still out there, even though some had finished six hours earlier. I crossed the finish line and just before I collapsed someone shoved a cold beer into my hand. I took a lusty pull, the most liquid I had taken in all day.

While I'm very happy with my finish, it was a very humbling experience for me. I finished in 15:47:31, 118th out of 121 finishers. For a long time I thought I was in last place. My very first race ever, as a 13 year old freshman high school harrier, I took last place, but ever since then I had generally been, while nowhere near world class, at least in the upper quarter of the field. So during the bad parts of this jaunt, like, oh, the last 48 miles or so, I really started to wonder if I shouldn't stick to the shorter stuff, the 10Ks and half-marathons, an occassional marathon, maybe just concentrate the Pikes Peak races. While I'm still wildly comitted to Leadville (a non-refundable $225 entry fee has that effect on me), I'm gonna take some time after that race and decide which direction I feel I should go.

I'd like to thank Dani for being such a good sport all weekend. I know after the race I wasn't the most fun person to be around. And again, seeing all the CRUD guys still cheering after all that time was awesome, glad all those guys had a good race. Also, I can't say enough kind words about the volunteers who put on the race. Ultrarunning is a sport filled with wonderful people who help out at races, but the folks of Lake City are among the best I've come across.