2013 will go down, in my mind at least, as the first year I did Western States. Not the first year I ran it. Hopefully, that will be next year, if I get in the lottery. But that could also take years, like it has for poor Clare. Anyway, this year I did it, as volunteer, crew, and pacer. The hat trick of Western States non-running experience. It is not kinda like, but exactly like, having an all-access pass to the Super Bowl of whatever sport you love and play. It was an amazing way to experience the race, not to mention providing invaluable experience to anybody who hopes to run it. It was a trip being there.
Quicksilver has had an aid station twenty or so miles into the race at Duncan Canyon for a really long time. They ask members of the club to volunteer to staff it, and Jill and I thought it would be fun. Fun for a bunch of reasons. Get to know club peeps. See all the runners. Be in a spectacular part of California and see some rad trails. And go to the Super Bowl of ultrarunning. I was still a little reluctant to officially sign up, since I would be gone in Sweden so long and was pretty sure Elisa would not be into it (too much time in the car and standing around in the Sun). Jill was all into it. Since Duncan Canyon was so early in the race, we would be done early. The cutoff is at noon, so we would be packed up by one. Even if we hung out a bit, I could be back in the Bay Area in time for dinner. I signed up, then I went to Sweden and ran the Stockholm freaking Marathon. See last post.
My very last day in Sweden, I get a text (iMessage plug -- free anywhere, even away from native carrier if on wireless) from Greg (Quicksilver teammate, ex-captain, and guy that talked me into doing Silver State) asking me if I wanted to pace him the last twenty miles at Western States. Hells-to-the-yeah! I was amused that he waited until I had agreed to ask if I had paced before (not really, because Amanda's sub-2 half marathon is nothing like this) and if I had ever run on trails at night (yes, but only at the ITR night running workshop in the Headlands with Elisa). Good enough. I was hired.
I was in Sweden. Western States was in less than two weeks. By the time I got home, I had less than ten days to get ready. Whatever that meant, but I had not run at all since the Stockholm Marathon two weeks prior. I had the twenty (turned out to be fourteen) mile run to Southern Kitchen (which went well enough) the weekend in between. I was worried about being able to keep up with Greg, even after eighty miles, if I was not all healed up and back in shape. But if I could swing it, it would be awesome. I was all about it. Text (iMessage) Jill. Um, yeah. Since I am your ride to Western States, your commitment until noon Saturday just got extended a full day into Sunday. I underestimated how into checking out Western States Jill was again. She did not hesitate agreeing to stick around for the entire race (although she was already planning to try to convince Elisa to volunteer at the aid station or go in some capacity so she could have an earlier ride home). OK, rad. I was going to do it.
There was no way I was going to take any more time off, so the best I could do was work part of my usually-mostly-off Thursday and maybe go in early Friday to leave that evening. Roll call at Duncan Canyon was at 0700, with first runner expected before 0830 (but it was going to be, and actually was HOT). We ended up leaving about 1800 Friday. I drove. She got us a room. We stopped for dinner. arrived, checked in, and crashed for a bit by around 2300. Up before 0500 for the long drive on sketchy roads to what we did not yet know was seriously the middle of friggin nowhere.
So get this. Duncan Canyon is 23.8 miles from the race start at Squaw Valley in Lake Tahoe, and the first runner (on-foot, it should go with out saying) was expected in less than three and a half hours. By car, it is 115 miles and can take over three hours. Let that sink in. 23.8 on trails. 115 by car. That gave me an idea how remote these trails must be if you had to drive around a mountain range to get from the Start to the first cutoff.
Jill and I stayed in Auburn, but Duncan Canyon was still over fifty miles away on some crazy road. We left late enough to make it a little uncomfortable but ultimately were not late enough for it to be noticed. We had plenty of time to hang out with Kat and Marc, while the former directed parking for inbound crews and volunteers. But the drive. It was really spectacular. California is so beautiful, and the Sierras are amazing. It seems the more remote you get, the more amazing it can be. And we were really remote. We would have enjoyed the drive a little more had we not spent so much of it thinking we were late, lost, or both. It was really in the middle of nowhere, so any thought of being lost seemed serious. Look it up on a map. Right by French something reservoir 35 miles toward Tahoe from Foresthill outside of Auburn. That course takes you through some awesome stuff. We made it and unloaded a little bit of gear. We were somehow late to the briefing, but got brought up-to-speed by Harris and some other Quicksilver pals. There were a lot there. Jim, Bea, Lisa, Marco, Dan (as volunteer and crew for Greg, he was also double-dipping), and more.
Jill again (like Miwok with Coastside) got what we now know is the unenviable task of runner-number-spotter. For whatever reason, somebody is always in a panic to get the number. Checking runners in and out, but also for the crews and our MC. I was a handler. Handlers lined up and took turns running the runners into the aid station while taking bottles for refilling (water or electrolytes? ice?), pointing out the "exit", crew, food, and refill areas, and trying to call out a meeting place to return the bottles. I was properly warned that it is always hard to recognize and locate your runner. I cannot explain why it is so difficult, but it is. No matter. It was a really fun job. You got to see all the stars come through. I saw Rory Bosio in-person, and it totally lived up to the hype. Tim, Hal, Gordie, and seriously everybody except for a few of the top names. I did not "handle" Rory, but I did get the eventual second place finisher Rob Krar and a bunch of cool and amazing athletes. I saw Janeth. I actually had a pretty nice chat with Franz, in spite of him being in somewhat of a hurry on his way to an epic 22:17 finish. Our CRC buddy Ron had to drop here because his IT issue threatened to leave him stranded between aid stations. That broke my heart. Quicksilver pals John, Bree, Chihping, my runner Greg, Nattu, Ian, Scott, and maybe one more. It was cool to see all of them, pros and pals.
Middle of nowhere. Ultrarunning Super Bowl. Beautiful chunk of trail just off a road that seemed to exist just for this. And I was doing it. Filling bottles and cheering all the runners. Running along with them maybe twenty meters or so escorting them through the aid station. It was surreal. The whole day ended up having moments like this, but this was the first. I was not running Western States, but I was in it. I would be a part of the experience for several of the runners. It was a trip. It still is a trip.
The guy with the horn sounds warning blasts, then the cutoff blast. I jokingly booed him, which got a little chuckle. We waited for sweepers, safety staff, and the runners that were about to be swept from the course. Lunch was provided for the volunteers. I finally had a proper sandwich, after snacking on aid station grub all morning. It sucked seeing people miss the cutoff. It really, really sucked seeing Ron have to drop. It was, however, nice to have him to chat with while Jill slept on the ride back to Foresthill. We gave him a ride there to meet up with Franz's crew. Jill and I wished we had never checked out of the Auburn hotel room and ended up finding another one. It was a little harder than we thought. Our hotel was sold out. Too bad because it was pretty alright for the price she paid, but we were able to find another one across the highway pretty cheap (but not as nice). It did not matter much to us, as long as we had a place to nap and shower. We did, then we had lunch and a bunch of coffee and a really nice, long chat about I cannot remember what but it was nice to just sit in the air conditioning and hang out.
After a while, it was time to meet up with Dan in Foresthill. Foresthill is a neat little town like 16 miles outside of Auburn in the Sierra hills. Once a year, on this particular day, it is also the main, sorta-halfway aid station. The whole town is filled with crew, volunteers, and spectators. The aid station takes over the school with medical check, pacer check-in, drop board, and easy crew access. It was an amazing place to be just hanging out. The ultrarunning vibe, always rad, was at its finest. We ran into Jeremy, who was waiting for a runner from the East Coast he had never met but hooked up with on a special WS runner/pacer message board. Jeremy found the runner's girlfriend (who was also his only crew), and we all hung out. I checked in, got my pacer's bib with Greg's name and number on it, and signed the waiver. I got a bib, and it was an all-access pass to trails and aid stations. I immediately felt like a rockstar. It was surreal. I put it on, even though my shift would not come for hours.
The big thing is that this is where pacers jump in. We somehow missed Greg coming through, but I ran into him on my way to check out the drop board. Shortly thereafter we met some of Greg's family and his first pacer. Dave would get him from Foresthill (mile 62) to Green Gate (79.8). I would take him the last 20.4 to the Finish. (The actual total mileage is listed as 100.2 miles.) Greg put on his headlight, refilled his pockets with comfort and refueling stuff, maybe changed his shirt, and off he went with Dave. Dan followed me and Jill back to Auburn, and we had dinner at Denny's. Everything else was closed, since it was now well past ten. We took our time at Denny's, went back to the room so Dan could shower, and headed back into the middle of friggin nowhere to Green Gate.
Green Gate is a couple of miles uphill from the Rucky Chucky river crossing. This is not rock hopping. This is crossing the American River up around your waist. I look forward to doing it, but am glad I did not have to pace through it. I stayed up at the top at the actual Green Gate aid station, so that I did not have to climb back up the hill. Since I had not run much since Stockholm, my twenty or so was to be plenty. And I wanted to be fresh for Greg. I regret not checking out the river crossing somewhat, but also am fine with me experiencing it for the first time some other year (always a reason to come back) or hopefully soon as a runner. And I really did not want to have to climb any unnecessary hills. Oh, and I had not yet put on shoes and already hiked from the car in flip-flops. It was a non-trivial walk already. Jill and Dan were not waiting for me to put on shoes, so I stayed at Green Gate while they continued on to Rucky Chucky Far to meet Greg and Dave coming out of the water.
I saw a few to several people that I knew come through. Clare and Scott. Pamakid John. I saw Helen, who I knew was up there crewing and who I have seen literally every time I run anywhere near Auburn. (This is no joke. We met at Sly, and she was one of the few other runners in my first ultra which was a tiny Folsom 50K, the Mathis Memorial. I then saw her at WTC, AR, and now at WS.) I think she paced to Green Gate, but it may have been from or something else. Anyway, I fully expected to see her and did, and that was pretty cool. I waited for literally hours. I tried to nap in the dirt. I had coffee at the aid station. I chatted with another waiting pacer who had never met his runner. 0200 came and went. It was bonkers, but absolutely in the coolest way possible.
They all came up the hill a little after 0300. I am not even sure I knew what time it was. Greg went through his bags and reloaded on stuff. Thank goodness I remembered to start my GPS. I had my cell, but there was no reception to update and check Facebook as I waited. Regardless, I was turning it over to Jill. Strapped on and fired up the headlight, and off we went into the darkness. Greg was injured and beat up by then. Those details are for him to tell, or not. I do not want to somehow make it sound worse or not as bad as it was to him, but I know he was hurting. Besides, I think this report reads just as well just knowing only that. He told me we were hiking it in. That it would be close, but that we should have plenty of time. If we did twenty twenty-minute miles, we would have some wiggle room. That was totally doable, though far from a foregone conclusion with an injured runner on dark, technical trails with aid station stops needed. Plus, we had beers on ice at ALT (CRC's aid station, but the beers were arranged separately by Greg at dropbag dropoff).
While Greg may have been hurt, he was still sharp. He was eating and drinking and fairly coherent. I asked him if he wanted me leading or following. Leading. Run anything? Jog it out from time to time? No. Hike it in. Twenty-minute miles. So that was my job. And keep talking, but give him some breaks. Try to tell good stories, but even the longest, most boring story ever kills miles. Make sure the miles and time keep passing. Greg knew the course, and I did not. But I could watch for ribbons just in case, and warn him to hop roots or duck branches. I think I was good at it. Greg was totally tolerable, and not cranky like he had been up running day and night. He actually had been up running all day and night. Running the Western States Trail in the dark as a pacer. I am still in awe of the experience.
ALT, Auburn Lake Trails, the Coastside Running Club's aid station, was the first one we came to. It was a little before dawn. The sky was glowing blue, but the Sun was a ways from being up. Thank goodness, since it was already muggy. Greg had somehow arranged to have a couple of Coors Lights on ice there. Cooler even than having ice cold beers there was how excited the high school aid station volunteers were to see us drink them in the middle of a hundred-mile race. We totally did, and the setting made them taste even more delicious. Even though this was the CRC aid station, I was still shocked (but totally thrilled) to see Norm there. You are shocked to see anybody at dawn in the middle of nowhere, even if they belong there. Norm and I met on HMBIM training runs run by Franz and Ron and ran AR50 together. It was rad to see him. See you at DCFT, Norm!
From there, it just got hotter and hotter and brighter and brighter. Not only was the Sun coming up, but we were moving generally away from the mountains that were protecting us. Still, it was uncomfortable not unbearable. For me, that is. Greg had ran through it literally all the day prior. I honestly could hardly imagine anybody finishing this race at all, let alone hundreds. As usual, second to the views, my next favorite part was the aid stations. Not just for the snack, but for the rockstar treatment. More than any other race I have done, the volunteers (even or perhaps especially if they have done Western States themselves) are in awe of you. Volunteers who have run know how difficult what you are doing is and how amazing it must feel. Those who have not are amazed by anyone who would try something so difficult. And this is almost as true for the pacers. I am always kind of embarrassed when the spectators cheered me and the aid station volunteers rushed to help me. I remember Jill feeling the same way at AR. But I sort of get it now. When I told the fans or volunteers, "I am just the pacer for this guy." and pointed my thumb over my shoulder, there was always some form of, "Hey you have a really important job. You have to bring him home."
Pacing must be one of the coolest things there is, and certainly is in ultrarunning. Pacing is a very pure act. Let me explain. I now know pacing from both sides. I have paced and been paced, and I can attest that pacing is considered a very selfless act. It is like, whoa, you are going to run all those miles and not even get credited with a finisher's time. No medal. No swag. Just running to help somebody out. Everybody is like, aww, how nice of you. But as a pacer, it is kind of an honor. A runner can only have so many. A limited number of people can experience the race in this capacity. Not only that, it is a significant display of trust for somebody to turn part of his or her race over to you. Finally, you must be perceived by your runner (and subsequently by others) as a pretty legit runner to be trusted with pacing duties. So this creates this mutual appreciation between pacers, runners, spectators, and other volunteers. Everybody thinks that everybody else is doing this kind, selfless thing, even though everybody is really getting something out of it. That makes it a very unique and special experience. Win, win, win.
We hiked it in. We were moving at faster than twenty-minute pace, but with aid station stops we were nailing it. I seem to remember hitting eighteen miles at darn near exactly six hours. I was not in prime shape. I was still a bit injured and out-of-shape from trying to rest the injury. I mentioned to Greg jogging some of the downhills to help with some of the stiffness, and he was like "Are you kidding me? I am dying here." He marched ahead of me at one point. I was not sure if he wanted to be there. He mentioned me slacking a bit, and I knew that meant to jog ahead from time to time to make sure I was ahead if he was marching faster. There were also times when he was moving so much more slowly than I, that I would turn around and he would be gone. I would space out marching along trying to get to Auburn and realize I had not checked on him for a while and that I was way too far ahead. Then I would just wait for half a minute or something. Hah. I remember trying to act like I was not waiting, for both of us. For me, I did not want him to know that I had forgotten about him for a minute. For him, I did not want him to feel slow or like he was holding me up. If I had been spacing out for a bit, I would remember at times like this that it was time to kill some time with a story or some personal reflection that may (we hope) have some entertainment value. When Greg started talking about being bummed about being so far behind his goal pace, I told him how limping and dragging over thirty miles in the mountains to finish Silver State 50M in a just-under-thirteen-hour death march was my proudest ultra moment to date. He was grinding it out. He was walking it in. It had taken all night and was going to take all morning. And he was grinding out. I tried to tell him how gnarly that was.
Breakfast was served at Highway 49, but we passed. There were a lot of people. I was always first into the aid stations, as he preferred me walking ahead dragging him along. Any spectators would always cheer me on, and I would point back to my runner. It is all about the white bib, but that yellow pacer bib got me a lot of love. No Hands Bridge looked really neat lit up at night. That morning it was hot and exposed, but a thrill to cover a spot I had heard of so many times and be so close to the finish. On the other side of No Hands is the last climb of the race, up to Robie Point and onto the streets of the Auburn neighborhoods. That was so surreal. We saw Tim Tweitmeyer between No Hands and Robie hiking out to collect the last of the runners. According to Greg, who knows him and just about everybody we saw on the trail, he always hikes out to run the last runners in. Then you get to the top, and now everybody was congratulating us. Like, we are done. And we made it. We had slow, but we were going to make it with about a half hour to spare. An hour or so earlier I had asked Greg what he wanted me to do for the finish. Although we had been hiking for seven hours by the time we got to Auburn, he was going to run (or jog) around the track. I was going to run in with him, on his outside shoulder (so he could have the shortest route, of course), and peel off right before the chute that runs the final hundred yards to the Finish with clocks and cameras clicking.
Running on the track was the craziest thing. Like running on the track at Olympic Stadium in Stockholm. Only this time it was to be part of somebody's epic finish at Western States. Greg finished in 29:34, and I had hiked with him for over seven hours of it. Almost one quarter of the race in time, and a fifth of the distance. On those trails and on that track, I was in Western States. Doing it, but not running it. I was part of the experience for a lot of those people. I handled runners, including the eventual second place finisher, and saw a lot of my favorite pros. I got to hang out in Foresthill, snack and drink coffee in the dark at Green Gate, cross No Hands, and run on the track. I saw Janeth, Chihping, and Franz, who had all finished. I saw Janeth and her pacer Ace pass us in the final miles. I got to chat with Jen, Franz's wife, about the whole experience. I saw Chris and met his new girlfriend. I had seen Kent a couple of times, including pacing his runner in on the streets of Auburn. I saw Ken the night running clinic guy. Again. I had also seen him on the course of AR, and maybe WTC too. And in my first full year of running ultra, I got to do Western States. It is so nuts. I cannot believe it. And now this year I get to be in the lottery to run it myself next year. And knowing so much more about the race. The experience even convinced Jill that she wants to do it, in spite of the heat and the hundred miles. It was an awesome experience. If you are at all into ultra, I highly recommend volunteering, crewing, or both at Western States. It really is like an all-access pass.
