A2-A4: The carcass of the compact car rested on its roof like the shell of a crab picked over by gulls and washed ashore. It had been stripped of its meat and guts. The tires were gone. The engine and transmission were missing. The interior was in tatters. Andrew and I skirted the wreckage as we speed hiked the Grunt—a mile long, thousand foot climb back to the summit of Capital Peak along a Jeep trail strewn with rocks and debris. Clearly some rednecks had towed it to the top and either rolled it off the top or maybe even tried to drive it down this rocky chute. If I had been less focused, I might have seen this as an omen. We were less than twenty miles in and still feeling strong if not also a bit cocky. Over the previous few miles, we had leapfrogged ahead of a dozen or more people on the initial climb to the summit of Capital Peak. One poor soul, who identified himself as a Minnesotan, asked if we were on the hardest climb of the run. Perhaps cruelly, I reminded him that there was still the Grunt Mile to go as well as the last long climb between miles 42 and 46. We passed the car and were soon encased in the dense fog that clung to the summit. Andrew and I had been on the move for nearly four hours, and I had been popping Advil and salt tabs trying to keep aches and pains at bay. As we passed through the aid station at mile 24, I made a crucial mistake. The result was being stripped bare by pain in my knees.
A5-A7: Halfway to Aid Station 5, which sits at the end of a 5.5 mile out and back section of the run, it occurred to me that I should have picked up my replacement baggy of Advil and salt tabs. I popped the single red tab that remained futilely hoping that I would be able to make it back to the aid station before I got behind managing the pain in my knees. It was futile though. The gentle downhill into A5 was enough to cause me to have to grit my teeth. We were now 20 miles from the end, and my knees were awash in soreness.
This section of the trail along the ridge cut a winding line through deep, green carpets of moss. The forest dripped with life despite the occasional patch of winter snow still hanging on. Yet it was difficult to focus on the beauty of the moment. My thoughts kept being dragged to the escalating agony, and I could not help but berate myself for stupidly forgetting my resupply. I had failed to stick to the plan. Then, before me on the trail, appeared a photographer, and I knew that I was close to the aid station where I might find reprieve. Stumbling in, a mixture of relief and agony engulfed me. All I could think about was getting to the Advil as the pain was excruciating at that point. The fellow manning the aid station asked me what I needed, and at that moment my stitching blew apart.
Tears began to well up in my eyes, and a lump appeared in my throat preventing me from speaking. Barbarically I simply slapped the lid to the water jug, thrust my bottles into his outstretched hands, and then stepped away. Moments later, as I reentered the forest, I couldn’t control myself any further and began to sob heavily. For five or ten minutes, who knows exactly, I ran and cried—cried and ran. I had been prepared for this kind of total breakdown. Other long distance runners have experienced it. However, it shocked me that this release came pouring from such an intimate place in my soul and was fueled by my pain, exhaustion, and frustration. Perhaps fear of the final 15 miles was also a contributing factor.
A8: Eventually there was nothing left after this powerful hormonal release, and I was able to pull myself together again. The woman who I had been running with caught up to me, and she bombed down the mountain to the penultimate aid station. The Advil that I had taken was not making much of a dent in my discomfort; each step electrified the nerves in my knees. She pulled in front and seemed to hook an invisible cable to my waist. Somehow she helped me accelerate despite the discomfort. The course wound like a luge run through the juvenile pines. Together we raced to the aid station like some kind of articulated bendy bus out of control. Eventually we could hear the barking of dogs through the trees and could see people joyously tossing a Frisbee back and forth. The man who refilled my bottles offered water, electrolyte drink, or a margarita. His offer was tempting and for a moment I considered the benefits of alcohol as anesthesia. Yet I looked up to see my comrade starting up the hill on the final leg of the run.
As we climbed, she confided her concerns that she would lose her lead—currently she was set to be the first woman finisher—due to being slow on the uphill sections. My quads were now trashed from the descent, but I had a new goal: get her across the finish line first. Together we climbed the last hill, and I tried as best I could to keep her motivated with empty but supportive banter. Then the hail started. First it came down intermittently. Soon enough the sky ripped open, and we were lucky to have the cover of the pines to protect us from the storm. At the summit she took off again, bombing down the gravel road towards the finish line only a few miles away.
My knees were done though. I could not keep up with her. The ice pellets had turned to rain, and my shirt was plastered to my chest. As I watched her pull away, I could feel what I thought was my only remaining toenail come loose in my sock and begin to lacerate my foot. For a moment I considered just how much blood I would lose if I kept going. Doubt crept in, so I plopped down in the middle of the gravel road to strip the sock and shoe from my foot and inspect the damage. In hindsight it is eerie how much, in that moment, I resembled the abandoned old car: I was barefoot, on my butt in the road, and stripped of energy.
To The End: Suffice it to say that I was pissed when I discovered that what I was feeling was only a small blister in an odd spot and that I was doubly upset when two men I had worked so hard to pass barreled past me while I sat in a river of muddy, wet frustration. In true ultra style, they asked if I was alright, apologized for taking advantage of the situation, and then kept cranking right along. This disappointment for making the wrong choice tipped just enough fuel into my tank to motivate me to push to the very end. My buddy appeared in the forest behind me, and we were rejoined for the first time in hours. The last time we were really running together had been when we passed the junker on the Grunt Mile. At 2:43 in the afternoon—transformed by the previous eight hours—I crossed the finish line with him.
Since finishing, dozens of people have asked me how it was. I can only offer this observation. Once I spent 30 days on the flanks of Denali in Alaska attempting to summit the tallest peak in North America. The enormity of that experience—replete with joy and disappointment, suffering and elation—was matched in a nine hour day. That I consider phenomenal.
