SD100: Filling in for Ann Trason

While at the Coastside Running Club's most recent annual potluck and awards, I was talking to Kristin about our upcoming first hundred milers.  14-time Western States winner Ann Trason, who she had recently met and subsequently became close to at coaching classes and Ann's most recent hundred, was pacing her at San Diego 100.  We chatted about the positives (experience, composure) and negatives (distraction, unfamiliarity) of having a celebrity pacer.  I had just had a really neat experience with Ann at the Quad Dipsea and thought it was super cool that I was so closely associated with such a legend.  Kristin talked about setting up training runs with Ann, and I was blown away by the apparent immediacy with which you seem to be no more than one (two at the most) degree of separation from literally everybody on the West Coast who can run 100 miles once you aspire to do so.

When Ann had to back out of pacing Kristin at San Diego only two weeks before the race, that obviously was a major curveball for K.  Her first hundred was flying up on her, and perhaps the most critical support detail had come unraveled.  She was frantically trying to make peace with the possibility of running it alone, hoping for a hitchhiker pacer, or finding a last minute local.  When I found out, I texted K and told her I would do it in a hot minute -- except I honestly thought she needed somebody faster than me, just in case she had legs to drop the hammer in the final stretch.  Kristin is a special athlete and can move quickly and effortlessly over a variety of terrain.  Our few training runs together had already showed me that she was faster than me.

K, often underestimating herself, thought it was absurd that I would have trouble keeping up with her.  She took this as a convenient out for me, since it was probably too much of a disruption to my life and own training for Western States.  Total misunderstanding.  I told Elisa about Ann, and Elisa's immediate reaction was that I need to get to San Diego to pace or at least provide additional crew for Kristin.  Not the slightest hesitation, but I told Elisa about my concern with being able to press the pace if needed.  As for crew, I told Elisa that K had her husband and and even a few locals that would be watching out for her.

While still anxiously fretting over her options for a pacer and the race now only about ten days away, K sent me a text saying that she wanted to share something with me but that I could only acknowledge having seen it.  I could only say, "OK".  I only agreed, because it sounded so important.  She confided in me that she had thought about me as a replacement for Ann but thought I had try to tell her "No" nicely by saying that I was too slow.  She told me that Franz and Jen thought I would be perfect, and Jen even asked her when she was going to step up and "ask Loren to prom".  Hah.  But she just wanted me to know, just so I knew, that, after Ann backed out, I was her first choice.

Uh oh.  I texted back, "OK" as promised.  There was a terrible misunderstanding, and now K was about to go running off into the night alone or with a borrowed pacer in her first hundred.  I had to keep my word, but I also needed the Universe to know that I was still available.  I texted Franz, who coaches us both.  Since this is already a long post, and I have not even run a mile yet in the story, I better try to make this short.  But basically I told Franz (after apologizing for putting him in the middle) that my offer was as sincere as my fear that I could not keep up.  And that he needed to know in case K could not find anybody or something happened to her borrowed pacer.  There was an acquaintance of her local pals who could take her part way, "Eggs".  Franz replied that he thought K's pace by the time I picked her up would be perfect for me.  And the pace, mileage, and night running were all perfect for me at this point before Western States.  Perhaps even more perfect, was the experience I would gain with problem solving, troubleshooting, crisis management, and all the non-running critical elements of a 100-miler.  Well, I let him know that, if it was still cool with Elisa, I would totally do it.

Next thing I know, Kristin is texting me about booking flights.  She was ecstatic.  I had not yet checked back in with Elisa, but she was fine with it.  She did not want anybody named "Eggs" pacing Kristin, who she totally adores.  (That was her actual word.  "Adores."  It seems everybody does.)  Franz and Jen were really worried about K and her pacer situation.  She was going to need one, and one that could be there for her.  I had paced a couple of hundreds.  They thought we would be a good fit, not to mention the vital experience for me.  So Franz told K it was settled.  I was going to San Diego to pace a super-athlete for forty-some miles through the night in the high desert.  And get this.  I was filling in for Ann Trason.  Somehow, in the ultramarathoning universe, I found myself taking over for probably the greatest champion in the history of 100-mile trail running.  How in the heck did that happen?  (I just told you pretty much how it happened, but it was and remains hard to believe.)  How was it possible that somebody, and somebody as talented as Kristin, thought Ann and I were qualified for the same running "job"?  Wow.  My life is always making me wonder if I made a deal with the Devil that I just cannot recall.  I am just too lucky.

We discussed where I would pick her up with Franz, based on how long I should be on my feet and keeping her from being alone in the dark.  It turned out that Penny Pines 2, at mile 56.3 (with 43.9 to go) would be perfect.

I was fired up!  I knew a handful of people who were racing San Diego, including a couple of Quicksilvers (Marco and Sophia).  Trail Mixer Joel would be down there with his crew from my Auburn Area Running Peeps.  And I would be pacing somebody really racing the course hard, unlike Kat at Headlands Hundred or an injured Greg last year at States.  So I was quite a bit nervous too.  A lot.  Kristin was most likely going to be pushing the limits of both of our abilities.  Her race would be on the line, and I would be driving her motor for basically the second and most challenging portion of the race.  Most challenging in that it would be dark, had the biggest climb, and carry with it all the fatigue of having already raced all day.  I tried to calm myself with two thoughts.  The first was that I had covered that distance quite a few times by now, and all of my times at that distance (even my slowest, gimpy Silver State) were well within suitable range for a second half of her main target goal of 27 hours.  The second comforting thought was that if she was doing so well that I could not keep up with her she did not really need me anyway.  Her being able to drop me was closer to a best-case than worst-case scenario, so everything was going to be fine.  But I was going to be racing myself just to keep up with her, so it was going to be exciting.

K and her husband John took care of all the details.  They had rented a house near the Start/Finish and made it as easy as could be for me to get there.  All the aid stations (with only an exception or two) were situated right along the highway.  I flew down with all my gear, took a quick sleepless nap at the house, and headed out for my shift.  Text messages and emails were flying around all morning that K was doing well.  Way too well.  She was going way too fast.  The rest of the field seemed to be backing into her, as she was leaping up in place.  It was awesome.  It was exciting.  But to everybody except Kristin who knew how well her body was performing that day, it was nerve wracking.  But you know what?  That made it even more exciting.  How long could she keep this up?  And by the time I got to San Diego, she was well into the race and in the top ten.  We were going to be racing more than just the clock and the course.  As long as she was in the top ten, I would have to be conscious of where we were in relation to other women out there.  What a ride!

I met John at the intersection of 79 (to the Start/Finish at Lake Cuyamuca) and the highway with all the aid stations.  I saw a lot of cars passing through here obviously affiliated with the race.  Ultra stickers, drivers with headlamps or running hats, other ultrarunner dead giveaways.  It was the first time John and I had met.  I was super grateful they had made it so easy for me to get there and to get such great and well-supported 100-mile, altitude, and night running experience all in one shot.  Not only that, the opportunity to take the best seat in the house for The Amazing Kristin's first hundred.  He was super grateful I had "saved Kristin's race".  Like I said after pacing Greg at States last year, pacing is a special thing.  Everybody gets something out of it.  Everybody is grateful.  Everybody is doing something nice.  It felt awkward being thanked for doing something I wanted to do so badly, but I kind of get it.  They can still be thankful, even if I am getting something out of it that may be just as valuable as my contribution.  And it can still be done selflessly, even if I enjoy it and it is an outstanding contribution to my own training.

It was a short drive to Penny Pines 2, but John and I immediately hit it off just fine.  We were both grateful and off to a great start.  Until actually getting to Penny Pines.  Because of extremely limited parking, they were only allowing pacer drop-off.  Meaning, no crew access at Penny Pines.  These things happen.  Trails and access and permits and parking throw obstacles like this at us all the time.  I was not out of the car yet, but we were troubleshooting already.  In addition to drop bags, K had a bunch of both essential and comfort items that John was carrying from access point to access point.  She was supposed to pick up her jacket, gloves (Temperatures were expected to drop into the 30s on the course, after being hot all day.), headlamp, and other pretty important things.  I could bring these things in for her, but she would not have access to her case of everything she might need just in case.  Joh would not be allowed to come in to pack it back to the car, and I would be running off into the sunset.  John seemed really concerned.  I told him that we could not let this rattle us.  That it was perfect timing, since I was there now and that meant he had extra eyes and hands.  T-Bone was there to check on her and encourage her.  (T-Bone was a San Diego local who had helped K with training on the course.  They had a mutual friend, Tink, who was in the race.)  I told John that ultra was all about troubleshooting, and that that phase of the race was in full swing now.  He was bummed, but fine.  Kristin was still really strong, and seemed to get over it pretty soon.  She had not yet realized that there was no crew access at the next aid station, Pine Creek, so it meant no access to John and her stuff for another 15 or so miles.  My shift was just starting.  After running stronger than expected all day, K's night was just starting.  And for both of us, the challenges and plot of the race were about to kick it up a notch or several.

But we got over the no crew access at Penny Pines 2 thing pretty quickly, as I finally was done prepping and actually running.  I know from experience that Kristin was probably excited to see me if only just to mix it up a bit.  We ran a little over an hour before the sunset, and probably almost another hour before it got dark enough to turn on our headlamps.  We got through some really technical, rocky, downhill singletrack before it got headlamp dark.  I was relieved.  I had seen that I started out on a big downhill, and did not want to have to deal with it in the dark.  And that was before I knew how rocky and difficult the trails were.  Good thing Kristin was so fast.  We got almost to the bottom with some natural light.

We did, however, need lights before Pine Creek.  K's second light, her handheld that fits nicely into her hand through her handheld water bottle, was strobing, and we could not make it stop.  One thing we did not remember with the limited access to stuff at Penny Pines was batteries, which turned out to be the problem.  K was like, well at least we are almost to Pine Creek.  John could fix the second light there, she said.  That was when K realized, because I told her, that we would not see John and her stuff again until Pioneer Mail -- another several miles away, and over twenty since her last crew access.  And between Pine Creek and Pioneer Mail was eight miles that were comprised mostly of a 2,000' climb to 5,500'.  And K had drained her handhelds between Penny Pines 2 and Pine Creek and would likely do so again during the long, slow dig out to Pioneer Mail.  She would not take any fluids from me, since it would be muling -- a pacer carrying things for a runner in the race, which is against the rules.  She (we) would have to take care to fill up and drink extra at the aid stations and take advantage of clues about her hydration.  (How is your pee?  To which she always replied or even volunteered something along the lines of "great" and described her perfect ultrarunning pee.)  These things were not big deals.  Everything was still "fine".  But as Jenn Shelton says in the Patagonia clip that was sent to K by Tink/T-Bone for motivation (passed along to me and watched a dozen or so times), it is the little things that make you lose it.  And all of a sudden, after an outstanding day, Kristin's race seemed to be picking on her.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RTb4IJvTTtY

After Pioneer Mail 2, we picked up the Pacific Crest Trail -- a trail that you can take from the US-Mexico border to the US-Canada border.  A lot of people hike it as a bucket list item.  It takes months.  I have a buddy on it right now who passed over the same bit of trail only a few weeks ago.  It was exciting.  It was also terrifying for me.  I am scared of heights.  I get vertigo.  And running through the night on a singletrack ledge a few thousand of feet up into the sky can be super sketchy for me.  I bet it would have been beautiful, but still scary, during the day.  We were way up there and clear of most of what was around us.  The view to our right would have been way open.  A nice, 5,000' ridge and scenic, high desert vistas.  But it was dark.  And the drop felt steep.  And I has having a tough time, complete with my usual helicopter rescue fantasies.  Whenever I am anywhere where my fear of heights kicks in and starts to get bad, I always want to just lay flat on my stomach until a helicopter comes and pries me off the mountain -- although I am not sure how I would handle floating around under a helicopter either.  Anyway.  It was pretty bad.  I was thinking, if this gets any sketchier, I may not be able to continue.  But the next thought is always, well how the heck else am I going to get down from here.  And I just power through it.  So many times, bushes or huge boulders would be jutting out into the trail forcing you uncomfortably close to absolutely nothing.  Complete darkness.  Space.  It sucks being a trail runner who is afraid of heights.  Running actually helps it tremendously by forcing me to just focus on hitting the next little spot.  But it is tougher to enjoy some of the most amazing views, since the best ones are always from the sketchiest spots.  Looking back, that was probably one of the sweetest, mot runnable sections of trail.  But it was so scary!  Kristin was moving remarkably well through this section, and we made it through off the ridge to the meadows and the next aid station without falling into space.  Yay!  Since I had picked her up, not one person had passed us.  We had passed a few people, but no women.  As far as I knew, we (yeah I said "we") were in 6th among women.

The rest of the night, as I recall, was flatter, more open running.  It was kinder terrain from there, at least until twilight.  K and I would chat for hours, then be silent for hours.  We worked perfectly together.  I mean we grinded, working unbelievably hard for hours on end, but were eating up big chunks of the course.  A couple of things to note here.  For one, the aid stations on this course, by Western States standards especially, are pretty far apart.  We were regularly going 7-8 miles without aid.  It was bad that K was always emptying her bottles early or having to conserve (but always peeing lovely pee! so it was OK).  But on the bright side, which a pacer is duty-bound to find, once we got to one, we knew we had banged out a substantial chunk of mileage.  Another thing to note though is all the rocks.  I had heard how difficult this course was, but I think I saw somewhere that the climbing was comparable to Miwok 100K (13,000'?).  A 100M with the same climbing as a 100K must be a lot less steep and more runnable, right?  I wondered what made the SD100 course so tough.  I think I know now.  The rocks.

The rocks obviously beat the heck out of your feet.  K had told me this was a rocky course.  I expected that.  You expect more impact and to pay for mistakes.  Kicking rocks.  Stomping rocks.  And the worst, kicking rocks into your own other ankle.  What I did not expect was the toll it takes on your body over time.  You have to watch and carefully place every single step for hours and hours.  Making these tiny airborne micro adjustments.  Darting your legs and feet here and there to dodge a rock and nail a landing.  And paying for every single tiny misplacement.  I swear you could have a headlamp full of smooth sand, look up for an instant to take a view of the night, and somehow kick the heck out of something that jumped up at your from the trail.  This was exhausting.  Feeling beat down mentally and physically from having to dodge rocks all night.  I think this (and the heat) is what makes San Diego so uniquely difficult.

But the heat, that was for suckers who ran all day.  Just kidding.  But yeah, my night shift weather was downright pleasant.  Positively perfect.  I ran to Pioneer Mail, almost 16 miles, in short sleeves.  Lately I am always wearing my last year's Quicksilver racing top, the snug Ice Breaker, under my this year's Quicksilver Patagonia racing top.  For whatever reason, I like the double layer.  It was dark by Pioneer Mail, and I knew I would need a warm layer for night.  I grabbed my now old bright orange (perfect for night pacing) Nike top.  I was perfectly comfortable throughout the night.  There were warm breezes, hot winds, and these crisp, cold spots.  It was always changing and always moderate.  Every change was refreshing.  Well, mostly.

I was telling K how running through the sudden, calm, warm spots always gave me the exact same sensation as swimming through a warm spot in a pool.  A warm spot in a pool is always like, yuck I am in pee!  Even though I am on dry land, the exact same sensation in the warm pockets of air.  My first thought is always, eek pee air!  It happens every time, and still cracks me up.

As we were making our way through miles of meadows, now leap-frogging with the same two or three pairs of dudes on the course, we were steaming back toward Lake Cuyamuca and the Start/Finish.  I saw a guy who I recognized from the Auburn area trails, Helen's 2013 AR50 pacer, at the Sunrise 2 aid station in the middle of the dang night.  Asked him, are you Helen's pacer?  And told him I last saw him volunteering/crewing at 2014 AR50.  And thanked him for being out there in the middle of the dang night.  And introduced myself.  All trotting into the aid station.  Thanks for being out there, Paul -- all the way down in San Diego.

There was an out-and-back section of the course that took you right to the shores of the lake, on the opposite side of it from the Start/Finish.  Mean.  Wickedly mean.  For one thing, as you approach the lake, you hear the Start/Finish and think it is the aid station.  You see it across the lake and wonder how the heck you are going to get to it.  Kristin was the first to realize that it was the Start/Finish.  Mean.  And still a ways to go to the aid station.  Mean.  And it was an out and back section, so you got to reflect on it again as you passed it all over.  Really mean.  But on the way in, we saw what I thought was the 5th place woman.  I just saw top 5, and tucked it away in my brain like visions of sugar plums.

From Chambers Aid Station and the lake, we were barely a half marathon (or a short swim) from the Finish.  I asked the volunteers what time it was.  A quarter to 4.  A two-hour half marathon from sub-24.  For an instant, it seemed doable.  But after 20+ hours of duking it out already and one plus more gnarly climb ahead, it was not going to happen.  For a second, it sucked to be so close.  But then, I reminded both K and myself that she had told me how thrilled she would be with 27.  I told her how messed up it would be to be bummed about missing sub-24 (a stretch stretch goal) rather than mega thrilled at so far under 27.  We were over sub-24.  I hope she is still over sub-24.

Soon, twilight would start to break.  We were climbing the last really tough section of the course -- a steep, technical 1,000' climb.  We would be shutting off our headlamps any minute now.  And we were going to see the sunrise from the very top of this part of the course.  We could see the lake and meadows and smaller peaks all around us, as well as the evidence of the recent fire and all the rebirth.  This was one of the most punishing sections of the course, but I hardly noticed and do not think K did either.  She had done the same climb in the very beginning of the race.  She knew it had an end.  And the scenery was breathtaking.  And by now, her buckle, her big achievement, the culmination of all her training and hard work.  It was all just a matter of time now.

We rolled off the mountain and into the last aid station precisely at 6AM.  Precisely 24 hours of grinding for Kristin.  K wished everybody happy new year.  Hahah.  A volunteer told me how cool it was we came from the Bay Area to run the race.  A volunteer who stayed up all night at some campground to take care of me thought I was cool for running a beautiful course.  I tried to wrap my head around that.  Again.  I thanked them and told them I loved them, as I always try to do because it is so true.  I am pretty sure there was already some crying going on.  Not just K.

Just as we got to the top of the last little climb, up about 500' before dropping a couple of miles to the Finish, we spotted that next woman.  If you want your runner to move faster, do not ask right away.  Just start running faster and see if she follows you.  K still had some legs.  She followed me.  We caught what I thought was 5th place.  And then, this.  K says to her, I cannot take this spot from you in the last miles.  We ran a hundred miles, and I cannot take this spot from you.  But the woman did not seem able to keep up with us.  K kept offering, do you want to run in with me?  The woman told K it was her first hundred.  Me too, said K.  The woman said she was just trying to finish.  I made a pretty weak effort to explain to K that everybody's race has its own ending.  That K's was ending a little different.  That this happens all the time, even in the final miles.  K was crying.  She felt she had done an ultra injustice.  I assured her she had not.  I think she believed me, even if she still felt a little bad.  We trotted down the hill.  It was starting to get hot.  I still had my orange thing on.  It was time to be done.

I was starting to open a bit of a gap on Kristin.  You are not supposed to drop your runner.  I stopped to walk, while she caught up.  I glanced over my shoulder to see how far back K was, and there was the woman.  I told K, I was fine with you giving her that spot, but she did not take it.  No way she is taking it back.  It ain't going down like this.  K said, but we were walking, as if that meant we had conceded the spot.  I said yeah, and she was walking when we left her, and kicked it up.  Considering we were on mile 99, I cranked it up a lot, and K fell right into step.  We dropped the other woman immediately, but kept the hot pace.

Hella foot vanity.  We must have looked spectacular booking it across that meadow.  I imagined John spotting my orange top from way across the meadow, which he did.  I imagined people in awe of us running so well and so fast and making it look so easy.  I stopped for K to pass me, she asked which way to go.  So I continued up the hill, right to the chute.  Everybody was clapping.  There was John on the other side on the Finish line.  I peeled off and turned to watch her run into John's arms.  I started laughing that same laugh that Omar saw when I saw him running up to Overlook at the Finish of AR50.  It is not a funny laugh.  It is a joy laugh.  I circled back to face the Finish line and caught K's eyes.  She looked at me like she was stunned.  She had some tears.  Huge hug.  Lots of congratulations.  She said, I don't know what to say to you right now.  I knew what she meant.  She was grateful.  Too grateful to express.  I was too.  I got the best seat in the house to see something amazing done by somebody even more amazing.  K ended up in 4th.  I had heard we were 6th, and we only passed one woman.  Somebody in the top 5 must have dropped in the night.  4th freaking place in her first hundred.  I had just been part of something really special.

Not only did I have the best training run ever (darkness, elevation, 100M troubleshooting, rocks, etc.) on a beautiful supported course, but I got a starring role in a great story.  I admitted to Kristin that I badly wanted to be in this story.  There was no place I would rather be.  No other way I would have let it go down.  She did so well.  We were done so early that I did not see any of my other friends running: Catra, Sophia, the Denson brothers.  But I certainly would not have changed that, since it meant K had such an epic run.  And I badly wanted to be there.  So thank me, sure.  For coming to San Diego and running the night away.  But thank YOU for sharing the experience and accomplishment.  Like you said, I may have done it selflessly, but it was not a selfless act.  I think that makes the most sense in the context of pacing.  Pacing friggin rules.

Now I pack that all in and take it with me to Squaw in just a couple of weeks.