Gary's 2006 Leadville Trail 100
The short version is -- I did it, on my 3rd attempt, after painful failures in 2003 and 2005, and after counting the days to get back there for 2006. I came in 153 of 199 finishers and 319 entrants, 25th of 36 in my 50-59 age group, at 29 hours, 18 minutes and 59 seconds into the 30 hour race.
But the real fact is that, without crew and pacer who believed in me, I would've stalled out AGAIN at Fish Hatchery inbound -- the same 76.5 mile mark where I dropped in 2003. Greg Burger was the pacer who led me across the toughest stretch of race I've ever been on, which just happened to come when I was as beaten as I've ever been, both physically and mentally -- Sugarloaf Pass, at 2 a.m., in the fog. It's called Sugarloaf, but there's nothing sweet about it. It is one big PAIN IN THE BUTT!!
My wonderful spouse Karen is the one who supported me through 3 years of trying, and since late October; 1,343 training miles; 6,605 pushups; 4,199 crunches and no booze since the 4th of July. And though she could hardly stand to see me buckle on my hydration pack and limp up the hill into the night and cold rain at Twin Lakes inbound, with 39.5 miles left, she bit back her worries, kissed me goodbye, and let me do what I had to do.
And that was right after the deceitful scale at Twin Lakes said that I lost 9 pounds since race check-in. No way! But tell that to a worried spouse.
Steve Singer and Greta Kraus were on the crew too, and knew exactly what to do at each stop where they met me. They were like a NASCAR crew, quickly and efficiently refilling my hydration pack, and changing out all my used and partially used supplies of E-caps, Hammer Gel, HEED (an energy drink), and Perpetuem (I call it "Perp" for short -- it's a semi-liquid protein/carbo mix that serves as a food source for runners -- like me -- who tend to get upset stomachs from regular or sugary foods in long races).
Steve was with me last year, and knew the importance of getting me through the aid stations fast. And so he and Greta did.
Start to May Queen
The race started at 4 a.m. Saturday, Aug. 19, with the traditional shotgun blast. It rained all night, and was still cloudy. But at least the rain had stopped. It wasn't nearly as cold as last year, either -- about 40 degrees or so. Actually, good conditions for running.
I felt pretty good, thanks to a week spent before the race camping at Kite Lake at 12,000 feet, and hiking at elevations of 14,000 feet and higher. After the first four miles of dark, dirt, rocks, one horrendous hill, and some pavement, we hit the trail along Turquoise Lake. I found myself packed in with runners a bit faster than I liked. It was ok on the sandy eastern part of the trail, but after Tabor Boat Ramp, seven miles in, the trail grew technical and muddy. I was scared of a fall or sprained ankle. All the runners' lights lit the trail fairly well, though, and I liked the time I was making, so I sucked it up and concentrated on what I was doing, and made it into May Queen Campground, 13 miles into the course, at 6:22 a.m.
By then, dawn had broken, revealing low, leaden (how appropriate) clouds shrouding the mountains and pressing down on the long gray lake and trees.
I was 53 minutes ahead of cutoff, and 8 minutes faster than my hoped-for arrival time, and feeling good. All I needed from Steve and Greta was to change out my water bottle. I wasn't wearing the hydration pack for the time being, because it was cool enough that my 24-ounce water bottle, filled with HEED was enough to get me to May Queen, and over Sugarloaf Pass outbound to Fish Hatchery, 23.5 miles in.
Steve also took my headlamp, and put new batteries in, for the upcoming night portion of the run.
I ate a a piece of bagel and cream cheese from the aid station "buffet," (God bless those LT100 aid station volunteers -- they are one of the highest life forms on the planet) and a watermelon slice, and was on my way.
May Queen to Fish Hatchery
I felt strong and confident as I skipped along the rocky, uphill portion of the woodsy Colorado trail leading to Hagerman Pass Road and the usually difficult traverse of Sugarloaf Pass. I passed a few runners, while a few others passed me, all exchanging "good mornings," "how are you doings," and even a "where are you from?" or two.
After a mile or two, we emerged from the woods onto mostly flat, dirt Hagerman Pass Road, which wound around the side of Sugarloaf Mountain. I tried to walk most of it to save strength for the the upcoming switchbacks leading to the pass over the mountain. But I was feeling terrific -- much better than at this point in my two previous attempts, so I couldn't resist running where the road offered mild downhills.
Also, the clouds were lifting a little. Jagged peaks and splendid high ridges showed through. It was glorious and cool, and very tough to stay slow as a result.
Once off Hagerman Pass Road and on the switchbacks leading to the top, I felt twinges of hunger, and realized I'd made a mistake not taking some Hammer Gel or a bottle of Perp with me. I had E-caps, though, and my 24-ounce bottle of HEED (High Energy Electrolyte Drink) was worth 200 calories. So I used that to quell both thirst and hunger, and hoped I could make it to Fish Hatch, where I intended to hit the aid station buffet again.
It turned out to be a minor mistake, and before I knew it, I was cresting Sugarloaf at around 11,000 feet. I was breathless, but whether from lack of air or the stunning view of lake and mountains all around, it was hard to tell. Looking down I saw the runners behind me toiling up the switchbacks. Looking ahead, I saw those in front of me disappearing into the downhill. I followed.
I like downhills, though too much can really trash your knees and quads, so I made good time. On the outbound side of Sugarloaf, there are several false peaks. They're not so bad outbound, in daylight, when you're fresh, and hitting them with the momentum of coming down from a higher elevation. Crawling up them from the opposite direction in the middle of the night, after 76.5 miles of mountain trails is a little harder.
But I was feeling good now, zipping past runners on the downhill, and taking the false peaks as they came on the balls of my feet. The dirt road on the eastern, downward side of Sugarloaf is horribly pitted and rutted -- some of the ruts are more like trenches -- four feet deep in places -- but it was fun dancing over them and maintaining speed.
Hard to imagine how the bikers in the LT100 mountain bike race navigated this stretch, but they did.
Down from the mountain, I trotted with other runners -- the field thinning out a little now -- a few more miles along a hilly paved road into the Fish Hatchery aid station. Greta and Steve were waiting for me again, a welcome sight. They shooed me up the driveway to the check-in table, where I gave my number. Then I hit the aid station tent. All manner of sugary goodies tempted me -- brownies and chocolate chip cookies, and Oreos, and M&Ms.
Their simple sugars twist my stomach up after so many miles, though, so I stuck with a cheese sandwich and watermelon slices. I checked out at the table and Steve and Greta snagged me. We went past the big water troughs where the trout hatchlings were swarming. First time I ever saw them.
Got lots of encouragement from Steve and Greta as I ate and they harnessed me up with the hydration pack. They made sure it was full loaded. 64 ounces of water in the sac, a 16-ounce bottle of HEED in the horizontal carrier beneath the sac, two 6-ounce bottles of Perp in top front pockets, a coin pouch with 10 E-caps in the front left lower pouch, and three Hammer gels in the right lower pouch.
I was ready to rock n' roll.
Fish Hatchery to Halfmoon
I headed at a fast walk east down the paved street, but soon trotted. Went past a number of walking runners on my way to the dirt Halfmoon Road leading to the next aid station checkpoint -- Halfmoon aid station, 7.5 miles away.
Headed directly toward the woods and mountains, we could plainly see dark clouds and fog lowering onto the trees and peaks. I thought we were in for a soaking before we got to Halfmoon. Everyone I talked to said they thought the same.
The level dirt road leads to an unofficial meeting place for runners and crews called "Treeline." It's where the road goes into the forest. The dirt road would get too dusty for runners if all the crew vehicles were allowed to go on to the Halfmoon aid station three miles into the woods, so they all have to stop at Treeline, 4.5 miles out from Fish Hatch.
Also there's not enough parking for everyone at the Halfmoon aid station.
Since I knew I'd see Greta and Steve at Treeline, and they'd change out my HEED bottle, I tried to put as much of it in my stomach as possible. There's a lot of socializing on this flat section of the course. I met my friend Willie Lambert, Topeka, a fellow member of the Kansas Ultra-runners Society, on track for his 6th Leadville finish.
I also met a fellow "Gary," about my age, from the Virginia Happy Trails Running Club in Northern Virginia. They have their own hundred, the Massanutten 100. We exchanged invitations to each other's hundreds, me inviting him to KUS's own Heartland 100, which I've finished twice and volunteered at once.
At the Heartland, starting and finishing at lovely downtown Cassoday, Kansas, we have scenery, livestock, usually a 70 percent finisher rate, and more importantly, air.
You don't even have to gasp for the air like at Leadville. At Heartland, it rushes right to you at 40 miles per hour. Ok, end of unpaid promotional announcement.
Steve and Greta met me at Treeline, exchanged my HEED bottle, pumped me full of praise and encouragement, and told me that Karen and Greg would meet me at the next aid station after no-crew-access-Halfmoon -- Twin Lakes.
I walked, jogged and chatted with other runners on the way to Halfmoon, three miles into the woods from Treeline. The feared storms never developed. Swallowed E-caps on the hour, ate a little Perp, drank water and HEED. Got to Halfmoon, ate another half of a cheese sandwich and some (love it, can't get enough) watermelon, and was on my way by 10:18 a.m., 12 minutes ahead of my projected time and way ahead of the noon course cutoff.
Halfmoon to Twin Lakes
Still feeling great. The next section to Twin Lakes is 9.5 miles of rolling, wooded trail, with three main climbs. The first one snapped me right out of my pleasant reveries with about 400 feet of climbing over 3/4 of a mile. There were still plenty of other runners around, all I'm sure cursing mentally as we tried to get up the relentless uphill. No breath for cursing out loud, you see.
Of course, this was nothing -- nothing, compared to what lay ahead. After every uphill, there's downhill, and once up, I sped down the opposite slope, hitting the other, lesser climbs with good momentum. I made good time on this pretty stretch.
Along the way, I came upon Hans Dieter Weisshar, a retired doctor from Germany -- 63 years old, I think -- running his 6th Leadville. I ran with him several years ago in the Heartland 100, and reintroduced myself.
"You're Doctor Weisshar, aren't you?" I said, telling him my name and mentioning Heartland.
"Doctor Weisshar was another life," he said in his fabulous German accent. "Now I am just Weisshar."
Later I saw him scoop some water out of one the many burbling mountain streams cutting across this section.
"Have you done that before?" I asked him. "I've been told there's risk of giardia."
He laughed and said that giardia is "an American fairy tale," and that he gets water out of these streams in every race.
I'm still skeptical, but "just" Weisharr finished in 27 hours and change in this race, so who am I to argue?
Got in and out of the pretty little town of Twin Lakes after a steep descent to 9,600 feet, the lowest point on the course. The town is named for the two big lakes on whose shores it sits. You come down a steep hill right to the aid station. There's a big crowd of people waiting and cheering as you come down, and I hoped desperately I wouldn't fall and look like an idiot. I didn't this time, though I almost did last year. Greg and Karen got me resupplied and on my way at 12:29 p.m., 16 minutes before my projected arrival of 12:45 p.m. Still feeling good, and told I was looking good -- but what else are they going to tell me? Just about 40 miles into the race.
Got a good lead -- about 2 hours -- over the course cutoff of 2:30 p.m., and an hour ahead of my 2005 time of 1:31 p.m.
Twin Lakes to Winfield
Still, I was worried. The next section is the heart of Leadville -- out to the halfway point, traversing 12,600-foot Hope Pass -- 3,600 feet of verticality. I hit the slope after about a mile and a quarter boggy marsh, and crossing an icy-cold, fast-running mountain stream about a hundred yards wide. The cold water felt great on my aching dogs. It was just under knee-high, so I bent a little to get my left knee some cold water, since the knee hurt a little from more than 40 miles of footwork.
Hit the slopes and found an old stick to help me up the hill. Make that upper body earn its passage, I reasoned. Else what were the 6,605 pushups I've done since the end of October for? And, no, a stick is not against the rules. In fact I followed a guy using two poles for a little while before I passed him.
I spent a lot of lunch hours running on the little hills outside the office, and on the elliptical trainer in our workplace exercise room for just this section. It paid off and I broke treeline in good time, feeling strong.
Grabbed some orange slices at the Hope Pass aid station, and goggled at the llamas munching on the grass. Llamas are the only way to get the aid station gear and supplies up to Hope Pass. The top of the pass is a half-mile further on, and about 600 feet further up. The view is astonishing. To the north, you see the entire 47 miles or so of course that you just covered, including Twin Lakes and Turquoise Lake. To the South tower the 14ers of the Collegiate Peaks -- Mt. Harvard, Mt. Princeton, and more.
On my way up, I blabbed with another runner named Josh -- proof that my acclimation worked. I left my little stick at the top, right at one of the rock cairns that supports the fluttering, multi-colored line of prayer flags up there.
The other side of Hope Pass, down to Winfield Road and the aid station several miles beyond, is incredibly steep. I got there before Josh, and was headed down at what I thought was a good pace, but he passed me like I was waiting for someone to take my picture.
Once you hit treeline, the trail is filled with loose rocks, ranging in size from peas to breadboxes. They get bigger -- house-sized, even, but those aren't so loose. By this time, people ahead of me were coming back up the trail from the halfway point of the Winfield aid station, so I was having to watch out for both them and the loose rocks and slippery gravel. That cost me some time. I saw fellow KUS members Paul Schoenlaub and Phil Sheridan coming up as I was going down. Paul finished under 25 hours and Phil nearly did. Both are veteran Leadville finishers.
The weather hit as I was walking the slightly uphill dirt road to the aid station, heavy rain drops and sharp, stinging sleet. Despite the nasty weather, I couldn't stop smiling and giving thumbs up to all the runners ahead of me coming out of the Winfield aid station. Just a nut, I guess.
Karen was worried, though when I got to Winfield, but I assured her I was ok. Greg was antsy to get going. Up and over Hope Pass -- AGAIN -- to Twin Lakes, was his first section of pacing. He was anxious to try himself against the mountain, and also wanted desperately to keep me on pace. Good instinct, as it turned out later.
Winfield to Twin Lakes
I ate some stuff, changed into warmer clothes, and we headed out. On the Winfield road, Greg and I witnessed an altercation. Some idiot, not involved in the race, whizzed down the road in a pickup truck, apparently oblivious that the road was filled with runners and other traffic going both ways. A guy with another group of runners -- I don't recall if he was a runner or a pacer -- smacked the truck with his hand as it went by, nearly running them off the road.
The truck screeched to a halt and a big fat guy leaped out, and the yelling commenced. It ended without violence, but holy mackerel -- just what you need 50 miles into a race. Greg got the guy's license number, and I reported the incident to the race director, Merilee O'Neil, the next day. She'd already heard something about it, and was interested in what I told her. Evidently there's some follow-up happening.
Anyway, Greg and I hit the trail head going up. We'd found some walking sticks, and they helped tremendously. Greg was in good spirits, laughing, joking, even singing "That's the way I like it, uh huh, you've heard of I-Tunes, well this is G-Tunes," and generally trying to jolly me along. I responded in kind, back on flat Winfield Road, but once we hit the incline, I was grimly silent.
Greg asked me if I wanted to turn off the G-Tunes, but all I told him was I wanted him to be Greg -- which he did, and very well, too.
With his fresh legs, he got me back up the hill faster than I probably would have gone on my own, but I was still starting to feel the strain. The weather was clearing, and I found I had overdressed, one of my bad habits. The storm turned the trail to slippery muck in many places -- again the sticks came in handy. We saw one runner, still descending, with bloody legs that told just how slippery. At the top, I laid my stick down by the other one I'd used coming up the other side earlier, but Greg picked it back up. He said we might need it for the climb up Sugarloaf. I told him it was silly to carry that thing all the way back down the mountain -- we could just find new sticks later. But Greg's not one to give up on a good stick just because a little carrying is involved, so he kept it as we tried to make up some time rushing down from the pass.
We stopped again at the Hope Pass aid station. While Greg was eating some hot potato soup, one of the volunteers put my gloves on my hands, which were not very functional at this time. In fact, they had swollen up like sausages. They didn't hurt or anything. They were just fat, cold and hard to use. The volunteers are used to stuff like that.
Later, I learned my friend Willie Lambert, who I visited with on the road to Treeline, had got caught on the mountain during the sleet storm and gone hypothermic. I think he was in the medical tent getting oxygen and heat while I was up there. They kept him until his lips were no longer blue and they felt he was out of danger. He scurried down the mountain, feeling fine, he told me later, but by then it was too late. They pulled him at Twin Lakes inbound for not making the cutoff.
Wanting to make time, and Greg liking downhill even more than me, we flew down the trail. It was sevenish, and we wanted to be off the mountain before dark. Greg was still in great spirits, and the G-tunes were still playing. We overtook some other runners on their way down.
"Better let us pass unless you want to hear G-Tunes for the rest of the way down," I advised them.
"Are they any good?" asked one young lady.
"I'm not saying they're good and I'm not saying they're bad," I called back as we left them behind, "but they are an acquired taste!"
Greg ran with the stick like some kind of barbarian samurai spearman, whirling it, pointing it, holding it aloft with both hands, meanwhile descending at breakneck speed over some difficult muddy, rocky trail. I was scared he'd trip and break his neck, or accidentally impale someone with the stick, but happily we got down safe, before dark.
We crossed the stream. This time it nearly froze me, as the air temperature was dropping fast. The only way to get warm again was to run, which I did for awhile.
Greg ran on ahead to the Twin Lakes aid station to let Karen, Steve and Greta know I was inbound. I arrived just before 8:30 p.m., right about what I'd projected, and well ahead of the 9:45 p.m. cut off. I got pulled for weigh-in, and that's where the treacherous, weighing scale indicated, right in front of my worried spouse, I'd lost nine pounds. The doc said it wasn't good, but I made some wisecracks, and that convinced him I was ok and could continue.
I got out of my wet clothes and shoes as new rain hit, and into dry stuff. I'd be in this same outfit until the finish -- red running shorts under my old gray sweat pants. Some kind of warm, breathable high-tech long-sleeved shirt that Karen got me several years ago, which I brought along just for this stretch, and a big green rain jacket.
I had my Broncos ball cap on backwards with my headlamp on.
They clipped me back into my hydration pack, and I kissed the worried wife goodbye, her injunctions to "eat, eat!" ringing in my ears as I clambered up the hill, which I'd tried not to stumble and fall on eight hours before."
Twin Lakes to Halfmoon
The rain didn't last, and before too long, I was sweating to the oldies trying to climb back up to about 10,500 feet on the Colorado Trail from the low point of Twin Lakes. Stars, unbelievable, huge, bright Vincent Van Gogh stars came out, and only through an effort of iron will did I keep my eyes on the trail with only an occasional glimpse upward.
There was lots of up and down on this nine-mile section. I made good time on the downhills even though it was dark. At times, I fell in with other groups or individuals, laughed and joked, and talked about other races, but inevitably fell back to my own pace and either fell behind or left them behind in the darkness.
I made a special effort along the trail to sip Perp and eat Hammer gels. And I kept the E-caps going, one an hour.
Near the end of this stretch, atop that first 400-foot climb, I came on a pacer escorting his runner, an Asian woman who looked ill. I asked if there was anything I could do, but was told help was on the way, so I continued going down. As the trail neared the junction with Halfmoon Road, I saw a paramedic with a huge pack on his back sprinting up the hill. I guessed that was the help. The Halfmoon aid station is manned by the local ski patrol, and I found out later the rescuer came from there. Never did find out what happened to the woman, though.
Made Halfmoon aid station in what I thought was great time -- about 11:25 p.m., ahead of my projected 11:30 p.m. After going through, I looked at my watch again -- it was still 11:25 p.m. The darn thing had stopped. As it turned out, I'd gone through at 11:44 p.m., still 61 minutes before the cutoff, so no worries.
Well, one worry.
At the Halfmoon aid station, I went in for a cheese sandwich. As I was reaching for it, my stomach did a little flip and said, quite clearly, "If you know what's good for you, you won't put that in me."
I backed off from the sandwich, sipped some Perp, and got underway again.
Halfmoon to Fish Hatchery
I felt better while I was moving, and even managed to run a little. By this time the quads and knees were starting to complain along with the stomach, and the bottoms of the feet were beginning to feel raw.
It wasn't too bad, but the damage from the twin beatings I'd taken on the Hope Pass crossings were starting to show.
Greta and Steve were waiting for me at Treeline, about 12:30 a.m., and as they replenished the pack, the whole body started to sag. I tried not to let it show, and gave thumbs up to all the people telling me "great job!" as I walked down the road back toward Fish Hatchery, four miles away.
I told myself I was walking instead of trotting in order to recover some strength for the horrendous climb up Sugarloaf that lay just ahead. But the real reason was that I was too tired. The horrible "sleepies," where you stumble along, unable to keep your eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time hadn't hit yet, but I knew they lay in store. I saw no runners ahead or behind me, and toyed with the idea of dropping.
Maybe it occurs to everyone who gets tired, maybe not. The last time it occurred to me, I did, so I tried to put the thought out of my mind.
From nowhere, seemingly, several runners appeared and went by me at a trot. I knew I should hustle, but I didn't. The feet felt like someone had used sandpaper on the bottoms, knees hurt, quads were stiff, stomach was upset, and my nose was drippy, no matter how much I tried to blow it clear. My back hurt from all the time leaning forward while climbing the hills.
I got to Fish Hatch, where the full crew was waiting for me. I could tell how I looked -- not good -- by the way they looked at me. This was where I dropped in 2003. My crew knew that, too.
At breakfast in Leadville the morning before, Phil Sheridan's wife and crewperson, Stacy, told us her philosophy on dropping out is, "there has to be bone showing, or blood."
I laughed and said "and the blood has to be fountaining, right?" Everyone hooted at that, including Stacy, but then she said, "yes."
There was a great story going around at weigh-in, right before orientation, too. It seems last year a runner wanted to drop at Fish Hatchery inbound, so his wife let him in the backseat of the car. After he warmed up a little, she is alleged to have asked him to get in the front seat with her.
When he got out of the car to get up front, his wife is said to have locked the doors and driven away, shouting back at him, "There's nothing wrong with you, get your ass to Leadville!"
The story goes that the runner was pissed -- then he finished -- then he was glad.
I sat down on a bench -- felt great -- and Karen brought me some hot tea and some bread, which I sipped and nibbled. Greg said I could leave my own hydration pack behind, and that I could share water from his pack. Greta got me my water bottle holster with a 16-ounce bottle of HEED. It was a blessing to have that pack off, little as it weighed.
They put a bottle of Perp, some Hammer Gels, and a coin pouch of E-caps in my jacket pockets, and we were off, into the night, a little before 2 a.m. -- still an hour in front of cutoff, but for the first time behind my own schedule, which had me out at 1:15 a.m.
Fish Hatchery to May Queen
Once moving I felt better. We walked a mile or two, our headlamps the only light, down the paved road to where the pitted, rutted dirt road begins its climb up the multiple false peaks of Sugarloaf. We began the ascent. It seemed the up would never end. As we got higher, we saw lights of runners ahead and behind us. We caught and passed and said "great job!" to several.
After ascending several false peaks, Greg and I were sure we were on the final climb. Up and up it went, then down for a little, and then guess what? More uphill.
By this time everything hurt, and my eyelids were leaden (how appropriate). I realized that back in 2003, I was RIGHT to be scared of this stretch. Every few minutes Greg asked me what I needed, so I tried to keep myself awake by having various smart-alecky answers: "what do I need? New legs and feet. An escalator. Painkillers that work."
But thank heaven for that old stick from Winfield. I leaned on it and used it to oar myself up the endless uphill. I drank HEED and ate Hammer Gels and sipped Perp and took E-caps -- all at Greg's reminder. And I drank water from his pack.
He went fast probably 2 1/2 or 3 miles per hour -- pretty good for a stiff uphill -- and I wanted to tell him to slow down or even stop for just a minute so I could catch my breath. But I kept putting it off. I'll do it in a minute, I told myself. Dig deep, I told myself. Just keep going, time will take care of everything else, I told myself. I played the old Ringo Starr song "It don't come easy," in my head.
Fog descended on the mountain and I could hardly see Greg in front of me, even with his head lamp on. We kept going -- relentless forward motion. I'm sure I couldn't have kept that pace without Greg leading.
Finally, we crested. I knew I should be glad, but walking on level ground still hurt, as did descending. From the top of Sugarloaf Pass, we could see the lights of May Queen, our final aid station. And along the far shore of dark Turquoise Lake, some thousand feet below we could see the lights of runners moving relentlessly along the trail toward the finish line, 13 miles away in Leadville.
Greg wanted to run the downhill switchbacks, but there were too many loose rocks, and too much slippery gravel for me. We walked and other runners that we had previously passed went ahead of us. Then, other runners that we'd not previously passed went ahead of us.
Finally, we got down off the switchbacks, around 4 a.m., and found ourselves on flat Hagerman Pass Road. We ran for about a mile, aches, pain, stick and all, passed all those other people again, and hit the Colorado Trail heading down to the May Queen campground road and the aid station.
Greg thought those behind us might catch and pass us again -- evidently, I was looking less and less like a competitor. He said if they did, we had to fall in behind and stay with them -- that they were finishers.
But we were heading down hill, and with the aid of the stick I went fast. We put distance between us and those behind us. We weren't trying to beat anyone -- but the distance was a measure of how fast or slow we were going.
We made May Queen at 5:24 a.m., staying only long enough to pee, and let Karen try to shove some crumbs of bagel into me. We were out in seven minutes, with 4 hours and 29 minutes to make the 13 miles to the finish.
May Queen to Finish
We ran the rest of the paved road to where the trail along Turquoise Lake began. I had to walk then, too pooped to do more. But the rising dawn worried me. What if we went all that distance just to miss by a few minutes?
Greg had the same worry too, I think. As other runners passed us, he asked if they'd done the event before. He hoped they could tell us that our pace was sufficient to get us to the finish by the 10 a.m. cutoff. But they were all first time runners.
I wanted to run down hills, but on this trail, downhills and uphills were only a few feet long. It was rocky, and in places slippery, so we had to be careful. Other runners and pacers overtook us. Greg, a former Boston Marathoner with sub-three times, hates that.
I tried to run a little here and there. By 7 a.m., with three hours left, we had reached Tabor Boat Ramp, with seven miles to cover. I was starting to feel hopeful. Two other experienced Leadville finishers had just told us our pace was fine to come in on time, unless we tripped and hit our heads on rocks.
Soon we came to the end of the lake trail and were on road. Even though I'd just been there the previous morning, it was all new to me, because it had been pitch black except for the small circles of light cast by headlamps.
Plenty of light now, though -- the new morning had dawned sunny and bright.
We went down a huge muddy, rocky hill under buzzing power lines. Soon we were on "The Boulevard." This wide dirt and (what a surprise) rock-covered road went uphill for two miles. At the end of it -- the very last mile, paved road leading to the finish line at 6th and Harrison in Leadville, where all the trouble started in black morning before.
That two-mile uphill road seemed unending. We must've walked it for hours! I know that's impossible, but that's how it seemed. A bystander told us we had 3/4 of a mile to go till the paved road and the last mile. We walked on and on. We thought we must've gone at least 3/4 of a mile, when another bystander told us we had half a mile to go.
How could these short distances feel so long, after the genuinely long distances we'd already covered? I continued poling myself uphill with the faithful stick from Winfield.
It was getting hot, and I was still dressed in warm clothes from the night, but I didn't want to stop and peel. Finally, FINALLY, the Boulevard ended, and with about 55 minutes to go, Greg and I and a handful of other runners started on the last mile, which was, of course, uphill. But it was just about in the bag, the day was bright, crowds were out cheering us on, and then, there it was -- the finish, lined with orange cones, Karen, Steve and Greta waiting, people yelling, and a pink ribbon stretched across the finish line just for me to break.
I handed the stick to Greg -- or had I done that earlier, I don't remember. Karen ran out to meet me. I tried to take their hands to have them finish with me, but they both said it was mine. I disagreed, and still do -- it was OURS -- but wasn't going to hang around to debate it.
Telling the body to give me one last burst, I went for that pink ribbon like a rabid rhino. Then I was through, the announcer said "Gary Henry, Lawrence, Kansas!"
Everyone yelled, Merilee, the race director, hugged me and put the finisher's medal around my neck, more runners charged in, there was more yelling and noise, and I hugged and kissed Karen, even though I was as stinky as 100 miles can make you. Hugged my crew.
And was DONE!
One last note: In the race orientation, we're told that if you don't finish, if you drop or miss the cutoff, you'll think about the race every day, until you can get back and try again. In my two DNFs, I found that to be quite true.
What they don't tell you, as I'm beginning to learn, is that even if you do finish -- you still think about it every day.
--Gary Henry, Aug. 23, 2006
