Thoughts of this “race” have been rattling around in my head for two months now. I’m not sure why it has taken me so long to write down the events of the day, or if this even matters now. Perhaps it didn’t matter then. And yet I feel compelled to write because…wonder, stunning landscapes, delightful humans? I may not know.
It was at the end of race orientation that I learned we do not have to carry our rocks the entire way. You see, at registration, I picked a rock. In a bright blue, it reads, “Plain.” If I were to complete my run, the full 100 miles, I would get to trade in this ‘plain’ rock for one that reads “Plain 100” - quite an upgrade if you ask me. It was here, in between these details that I added in my own. Do I have to carry this rock the entire time? As I perused the rocks available, they all looked rather pointy, heavy, and generally unwelcoming to be carried for however many miles I make it. I didn’t choose the smallest rock available, but I also shuddered at the thought of the sad fool who registered last and had to carry the largest of these burdens. It wasn’t until the orientation and dinner that I innocently asked the human next to me if we had to carry our rocks. He laughed pretty hard. Apparently we don’t have to carry them, only having to store it in a safe spot until the race is complete and the upgrade can be completed. This was the only good news.
It is well known that Plain provides no support in this race except for the acceptance of snack trash as we go along. There are no traditional aid stations, no course markings, no bathrooms, no water in little cups, no crewing or pacing, no encouraged cheering - nothing. There are two loops, both intersecting at the start/finish. This is a resupply point, a place to grab your next set of snacks and get after the second loop. The first loop ends the 100k race and marks the beginning of the second loop to complete the 100 mile race. And while I had signed up for the 100-miler months ago, my goal today was to finish the first loop. Anything more would have been miraculous based on my ankle going into this run. I had detached myself from the 100 mile must-finish goal. There would be no grieving today. I would do what I could do and be OK with wherever I ended up.
I chose to sleep in the back of the truck at the trailhead. It rained slightly throughout the night. I smiled at this, knowing that the notoriously dusty trails would be less so. Cars rolled by seemingly all night, headlights illuminating my sleeping spot. This was not ideal, my body already restless, anxious.
When I climbed out of my truck for the day, I ate my overnight oats, prepped my bag, and stretched my legs and back as if my life depended on these elongating muscle fibers. I had time to kill, but really I tried to buy myself as much time as possible to get my first poop out of my system before we started running.
Headlamps dotted the dirt road. The race start was illuminated, a generator droning away. People chatted amicably. As we assembled at the start, a chaotic group of spandexed humans, I noticed that my pack was the largest amongst this group. I panicked. I considered reworking my bag, but fear of spending the night in the woods alone, kept me there. I would drag myself and this pack back to this point no matter what. This was my commitment.
The call of poop relieved me. I went into the portapotty and did my business. Poop? Check! This was the last item on the to-do list and it went as planned. Relief!
Tim Stroh made some announcements. The group became a bit more condensed. They played the national anthem which felt an odd irony out here in the middle of the forest over this small group. It was hard to stay present, nerves peaking, a panicked inventory of all in my bag and all the unknowns to come. Why was everyone so calm? Aaah! And then I felt what could only be round two of poop making its way hard through my bowels. Um...no, thank you. Despite my inner protest, this was happening. I bolted back to the portapotty and pushed out that poop as fast as I could to the last strains of “And the land of the freeeeeeee, and the home of the braaaaave.” Hoots and hollers arose from the crowd. I am panic wiping my smeary bumhole not wanting to be the last one in the pack from the very start. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe some more. Does this poop never stop? Clean enough. The last notes of what now seemed our desecrated national anthem faded and they had not started the race yet. Phew! I stepped out of the potty and took the few steps to the back of the group as the countdown ended. We were off.
Nerves are hard to settle in this moment. It seemed everyone else was so nonchalant, relaxed. I have no idea how these humans were feeling, but no one appeared to be freaking out. It took me a minute to calm down. We had an easy 3-mile out and back before we returned past the start line and headed up towards our first checkpoint. I had driven this road yesterday just to get my bearings. It was here that my canopy popped open and the miles of dust coated my sleeping bag, pillow, mat, and everything else fine dust could reach - everywhere apparently. Because of the night’s rain, it was as if the dust never existed. I felt privileged to have such running conditions.
Nine miles in we I reached Maverick Saddle. We turned off our logging road and started in on the trail. Here people started filling their water bottles. I carried more than I needed as I didn’t well enough know what water would be available and where. I didn’t trust myself and what I might need. I had three liters sloshing about in my giant run backpack. I'll be fine, I tell myself.
The ascending began, gradually at first. I passed one runner and then as we were chatting, passed the trail turning uphill and to the left. With no trail markings, we were on our own. He was gracious to me and told me I missed my turn. I dreaded the thought of putting in extra miles because of a wrong turn. That was a near-miss.
The trail ascends hard here. It is narrow and steep and the leftover droplets of overhanging plants transferred to my bare legs. All of this was invigorating. I felt high. I was doing it. I was out here running 100 miles (even though I knew I had no business here). I would ride this for as long as my body would let me. For now, me and my body were celebrating.
At the top of the ridge, the trail rolled before beginning its descent. I got passed hard here. A human came flying by, arms windmilling and legs in a dead sprint, taking gravity’s every advantage. I felt envy. It has been a few years since I’ve been able to run my downhills. The pain in my ankle is tenuous at best, and the added force causes me a certain degree of anguish. I was left in his dust, a ball of envy.
I plodded along. I came across a stream and I refilled my bottles, filtration be damned. The trail started some wending, in and out, up and over, but all gradual and smooth. I learned quickly that my ankle did not enjoy the rutted motorbike trails. The concavity at the bottom, a forced twisting of my ankle the wrong way. There was nothing I could do about this. It just was.
I passed a lake. I took more photos. I am now about 15 miles in. My body felt great. The weather was overcast, cool. I felt grateful to be out here.
It was somewhere between here and our water refill that Ken passed me. He was shirtless and was devoid of a backpack. “Where is all your stuff?” He did have two waist belts stacked on his torso, but he was easily carrying a quarter of what I possess. If I had a bivy with me, I could have stayed out here for three days. Ken was not planning to be out here, but 24 hours. This human ran with enthusiasm, energy, a fervor. He made me laugh. We traded spots heading up to Klone Peak, a short out and back. The views were stupendous. It was on the downhill from the peak that I knew I’d have to take this day a bit slower. The ankle was growing tender and the trail became more rocky, grapefruit-sized boulders willing to take me down. Ken was gone now and I ran this next section solo, quiet. I plodded along in an odd reverie.
I made myself look up from my feet, pausing to take in the sights. I love being in new places. I love seeing what new canyons and peaks offer. This place did not disappoint.
With plenty of water and plenty of snacks, I kept myself moving. All I knew was relentless forward progress.
The trail started to climb again, soft switchbacks. I was fatiguing, but still felt strong. I was not worried. The trail climbed until it didn’t. At the top, there was a human rummaging through her pack just off-trail. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m just looking for my Zofran. I wasn’t expecting to feel nauseous this early.” We were about 24 miles in.
“I’m sorry. That’s crappy. Need any snacks? Water? Electrolytes?”
She didn’t need any of it. I wished her well and started my descent.
There were a couple of humans visible from my switchbacked vantage. I tried catching them, at the very least trying to hold them in my sites, them pulling me along. I lost them quickly, unable to go any faster. This was a run of acceptance. Perhaps all of mine are.
I heard footsteps behind me. It was nausea girl. She was rallying. I stepped off the trail to let her pass, but as she pulled next to me she paused, “I’m bored. Wanna run together?”
I hate running with people. My defects don’t allow me to stay present. I start to wonder if I’m going too slow, worrying about conversation topics, thinking about things that don’t allow me to just run. I don’t want to be a burden. I never want someone to feel obligated to run with me. I’m fine alone I want to tell her.
“Sure.” (eye roll)
She leads us down yet more switchbacks. Her name is Kelsi and we did the opposite of speed dating. It was a long, slow get-to-know-you session about her life and mine and running and so much in between. Begrudgingly, I started to allow for the possibility of upsides of running with someone.
Between the trees and brush we could see a gravel road. We were certain this was our first checkpoint. Even though there would be no aide here, this felt like a mark of success, some progress, a milestone.
When we arrived at the tent, they had a ‘candlelit’ dinner set out for the two volunteers. It was a delightful in-your-face sort of prop, except they were eating real food and had real chairs to sit on. People are dark. I liked their humor. Things do get dark out here, might as well laugh about it.
Kelsi and I plodded along. Her stomach was not feeling right and with my ankle’s waning joy, it seemed our pace was pretty similar. The gravel turned to asphalt and we were aware to be looking for a road off to our right for our next turn - Middle Tommy. It was here she commented that her crotch was on fire and then added, “I think my uterus might be falling out.” We continued running as if what she said had little consequence. There was no stopping or noted attempts to tuck said uterus back in. Is this what running is like as a woman? This human caused me much delight. She suffered with sarcasm and wit and some cynicism. I am here for it.
Another human joined us. He was from Canada. He slowed to join us for our descent to our next water resupply. All three of us caught up to another who was walking woefully slow. He had turned his ankle. We offered him the items in our portable pharmacies and he wanted no part of our pills and potions. His loss. Our offerings were not insignificant.
The trail down to the river was dusty, tan flecks milling about our eyes and nostrils, our six feet turning up the soil beneath us. I realized that the entire trail could have been like this and here we were 20-some miles in and experiencing the first real dust on this trail. Gifts.
I felt anxious for the water and this stop, a good anxious. I wanted to feel cold again. I wanted to eat some snacks that Ken definitely did not have available to him in his waist packs. Kelsi was looking forward to her Coke that she forgot she was carrying - imagine her delight. I also learned that she did have a bivy in her pack. I didn’t feel so out of place with her. We were prepared for the next four days if needed. Please, no!
The Canadian left. Two others joined us at the river. I started to pack up my things. The grand climb of the course was looming. We had 4800 feet to go in six miles and there was no water for the next 13. I started climbing up and away from the river and Kelsi looks up, “Oh, are we going?” Kelsi and I were in this together. I was grateful she wanted to stick together. It made these potentially long and quiet hours more eventful, lighter.
We started the climb and it was as advertised. There was nothing to do, but climb. We did a couple switchbacks and then we’d rest. We’d do a few more and then we’d rest again. This hill felt interminable. We had been on the side of it for an hour and it felt like we were nowhere near its end. Relentless forward progress. The ascent was warm. We ate snacks, drank water, rested, and we definitely kept moving.
As we neared the top of this climb, Kelsi shared a story. I do love stories.
Hers was about her and she wasn’t bragging, although if she was, this would have been reasonable. I learned that she was part of a group of three women who were to be the first to do the Mt. Rainier Infinity Loop - an up-and-down-and-around back to the start and then an up-and-down-and-around-the-other-way loop. With grace she talked about how another group of ladies learned they were doing this and then snuck off their attempt first, just days before Kelsi’s group’s attempt. Humans can be so tricky.
As she was driving out to meet her friends, she stopped for a chicken caesar salad. The salad was bad; she didn’t know it then. She learnd of its badness on the snow field leading up to Camp Muir. She recounted how she vomited and diarrhea’d repeatedly and simultaneously on the side of that pristine landscape, her friends blue bagging everything they could. These are friends. I am laughing riotously.
She goes on to tell of how her body is now crushed, and instead of climbing Rainier that night, they are forced to hunker down in the bunks at Camp Muir. Without sleeping gear, her friends little and big spoon her for warmth. She rests, her body on a slow mend.
In the morning, they decide to continue their summit attempt, Kelsi still not her baseline self. They summit and complete the first half of their Wonderland Trail run. The weather window has closed. There will be no second summit on this attempt. They complete the other half of the Wonderland Trail.
I am in awe. Mt. Rainier’s Infinity Loop is a thing, like a big thing. And Kelsi, on a bad day, gave it her all and almost had it. You don't mess with weather on Rainier. And while I find Kelsi rather impressive, her story stokes thoughts that I already know - humans are amazing and they routinely do impressive things on a regular Tuesday afternoon with or without incapacitating diarrhea. And while I am here for my personal reasons, some known, others hazy, I am also here for the inspiration, the air that accompanies, this ether that surrounds this collection of humans. They ooze inspiration and delight. I am happy to be here listening to Kelsi’s stories, hoping that if only a little bit of her badassery rubs off on me, I will be better because of it.
The climb tops out and we’re running rolling hills on the sides of bigger hills. The evening light is moody complete with big, dark clouds and a strip of light across the horizon. The rain comes, but it is light, refreshing, nothing more. The descent begins and I tell Kelsi I have to poop. As humans with boundaries, she runs on. I am certain I won't see her again.
I go slow on the descent. My foot got jarred at mile 47 and the usual burning, searing, stabbing has returned. Despite my disappointment, I feel gratitude my foot lasted 47 miles before the real pain made its presence known.
To my surprise, I caught Kelsi at the next checkpoint. I dumped my snack trash and kept going. Kelsy caught up to me and we ran together again. The trail became rocky, my least favorite trail condition. The light faded quickly as we descended into the valley. We switchbacked down into the darkness and the return of the blessed white noise of rivers coming together. By the time we saw the river and found our way across it, the darkness was full, our headlamps our only hope of making it out of here.
I didn’t know the exact mileage of the first loop, but I knew I likely had in the neighborhood of 10-13 miles left. Kelsi was feeling better, her stomach less burdensome. We parted ways and I followed her headlamp along the hillside. She was moving. I felt happy for her, envious as well. I want to run that fast.
There is a mental sadness that creeps over me when I am reduced to walking. Walking becomes a limp and then turns into a solid hobble, the pain increasing no matter the slowness of my gait. There is nothing I can do but hobble. I move slow, but I am moving. This is all I got. Then there is the darkness, the complete isolation. Sure, I’m on a trail, but I don’t know where it is going and how far it goes to get wherever it is that it is going. I am just a speck of light, a spot of warmth in this darkened forest. I am working through my grief. It is apparent I am not going to make my 100 mile goal. Of course, I knew this coming into it, but I thought I had one more in me. I really wanted this success in my pocket. I wanted to see what this body could do. Another layer of this is the self-questioning. Am I a pansy? Is this pain something I should be able to tolerate? Could I finish this 100 miler if my brain decided it? Is it worth it to endure this pain? The thoughts are rampant, chaotic, mostly unhelpful.
I am walking at a speed of two miles an hour. I am doing slow mental math. If I finish this loop by midnight, I’ll have 17 hours to complete the last loop, 42 miles. The math wasn’t mathing. I had no faster speed available to me.
I tried to enjoy what I could, with what was becoming all that I had left. I had asked a few of the humans in my life to make and send me videos of themselves. I asked for something motivational and I’d be OK with whichever form this took - bright, cheery encouragement, to all-out derision and deprecation or anything in between. They delivered. As I trudged through the darkness I started watching videos, eight in total from three lovely humans. The common theme seemed to be cougars in the dark. I spit out precious water as I watched and reveled in not only their humor and wit, but in our friendship. I am so blessed.
I plodded along making it up and away from the river, back to Maverick Saddle, before the start/finish where I would call it. The gravel road down to my chosen end was mostly smooth, but littered with golf ball sized rocks, ankle-turners. I lumbered down this road the best I could. It was slow going. At times I would just sit on the road, turn off my headlamp and just yell out in pain and frustration. There was no quitting here. I just wanted to go faster, get this pain over with. And while the pain in my ankle was significant, that was the only significant issue. My body felt more or less OK. I remember feeling surprise at this realization. My body felt decent after the last 60ish miles. I liked this knowing
A runner passes me in the dark, asking, "Are you OK? You're all over the place." I am indeed all over the place in my effort dodge every rock and divet in this road. And, yes, I'm OK.
The moon slithered up from behind mountains and treetops and cloud layers, casting it’s silvery glow. I made the last turn onto the less-rocky road leading to the end. I tried running here, but the pain rose to the occasion. I moved forward as I could.
As I neared the finish, a beacon of light in the darkness and generator noise calling me to the end, I reconsidered my decision to quit. I tried the mental math again. The thought of plodding through the woods for another 42 miles sounded horrific. I felt content to call it.
I hobbled over to my truck to get some layers as another Kevin made me a burger. I plopped myself into a lawnchair, was given a blanket and I settled in. Another runner came in. He was done-done as his race was the 100k. He would get to switch out his rock. I would go home with my ‘Plain’ rock. This finisher started chatting up the food-serving-Kevin and started questioning him about his recent Harvey Manning Challenge success. What the what? the guy serving burgers completed the Harvey Manning Challenge just a few weeks prior. I love these humans. I love their casual fantasic-ness.
And so, while I ate my veggie burger, I listened to stories of humans doing nonchalantly heroic things. I have the Harvey Manning challenge on my to-do list. The pain in my ankle seems to be threathening such dreams. Decisions for another sleepless night.
I toddled off into the night, the ankle pain worse with the decreased movement. The chills had set in now, full-on chattering and shaking. I turned on the truck for heat and when the tremors had subsided I attempted to make it into the back of the truck to cozy up in my sleeping bag. The tremors started immediately upon setting foot outside of the truck. I limped to the back of the truck, grabbed my sleeping bag and made my way back into the cab. The heat was resumed and when warm enough, the truck turned off and I drifted off into a fitful sleep.
I awoke at 6 am, started the truck, and started my drive home. It felt odd to be driving home when others remained on their last loop. The first finishers would come in before I make it home. People are phenomenal. These humans are impressive. I enjoyed their company while it lasted. I’d say I’d be back, but I’m not sure what will be next. I have some thinking, and possibly some grieving, to do. Oh, and wee bit of celebrating. I had a lovely day out in the woods and bumped into some downright fantastic humans. This is a good day, no matter the finish.
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