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Finally! Having escaped miserable suburbia, I stood on Leadville’s lush courthouse lawn on a mostly sunny Friday afternoon of August 16, 2013. My job, from 3-5 pm, designated by volunteer coordinator Megan Henning for the Leadville 100 trail race (LT100), was to inspect runners’ drop-bags for the May Queen Aid Station. I grimaced upon realizing I had to police labels to ensure the runner’s last name, bib number, aid station and if the bag was outbound, inbound or both were all clearly visible. I wanted to be a “laid back dude,” not a rule enforcer. I took 2 days off from work, and here I was, once again, barking orders and telling people to get their shit together. Fortunately, most followed the rules. My pile of assorted bags, boxes, coolers, and various Tupperware containers steadily grew like shipwrecked luggage on a sandy beach when a lady approached and handed me her bag. Like most, she was trim and appeared athletic and I noticed she was wearing a “Leadville 100” belt buckle. Not wanting to squander an opportunity to speak to a veteran, and to avoid looking like a perverted oogler fixated at her groin while straining to read the finer details on her buckle, I had to ask, “What year did you earn the buckle?”
“Oh, I got that last week from the 100 mile mountain bike race,”
she replied. “I need a pacer,” she
added, “can you pace me tomorrow?” My eyes
opened wide and my mind raced. Heck Ya!
Was my first thought.
Whoops, wait a minute.
Reality set in. “I’m volunteering
at the Hope Pass aid station,” I replied.
“That’s okay, you can pace me from there. I’m number 24 and will be looking for you,”
was her departing comment.
Hmmm. I wonder if I
can volunteer and pace? Guess I will
cross that bridge if it arrives.
A Budget rental box truck screeched to a stop and we began tossing
drop-bags in the back like kids playing hot potato. Mental note:
Never, ever pack anything fragile in drop-bags. They get pitched around like flaming bags of
dog poop and if the bag is not bomb-proof, contents are guaranteed to spill out
to never again be reunited with the rightful owner.
Over 1200 participants had signed up for the ”Race Across
The Sky” and after mistreating nearly all their bags, I was released from my
duty and quickly driving to some distant trailhead down by Twin Lakes. As Leadville vanished in my rearview mirror,
my eyes were peeled for highway 82 where I turned west and frantically began searching
for the discreet turn off. Fearing
I had missed my exit, through pine trees I caught a glimpse of several trucks with
attached horse trailers that were parked beside the river. I bounced my truck over the makeshift road of
rounded river rocks and knew I was in the right spot after seeing llama bumper
stickers on the vehicles. Whew!
A detailed map was emailed to me to follow up the mountain and
I became one of those pathetic techno-weenies walking forward, but seeing
nothing since my nose was deeply buried in my I-phone. Instructions said go left after crossing the
bridge, so I did. I wiggled through
riverbank brush and skirted muddy bogs by playing leap frog on exposed rocks
and, after awhile, the trail simply disappeared. I stood shaking my head.
“$%&k!” I cussed myself, the map and the feeding mosquitoes bombarding my exposed skin. Turning around, I realized time was limited since the sun was setting. Although I had brought 2 headlamps, matches, a sleeping bag, etc, I wanted to hit camp before dark and not be forced to make an emergency camp, or worse, sleep in my truck.
I returned to the bridge, took a deep breath and let common
sense take over. The river was roaring
as I plunged my I-phone deep in a pocket and returned to my roots--be a hunter. I knew the Hope Pass aid station was remote
and road-less, forcing llama pack trains to carry all the gear up the
mountain. These gentle beasts of burden
left little trace of their passing, but their goofy splayed-toed tracks periodically
were discovered and I humped up the trail scouring the dust and rocks for additional
tracks. No llama poop pellets were
noticed for well over a mile and I began to question my backcountry
skills. Are these so-called llama tracks
I’m following actually remnants from a mutant strain of Leadville elk who
happened to be traversing the mountain?
Gratefully, I came upon an acrid urine puddle absorbed into the
dusty ground that was top-dressed with a fresh load of llama pellets. What a glorious sight and smell from these ruminating
ungulates. (Hint: Big words intentionally thrown in to offset my potty mouth
and justify my college edukayshun.) The
sun slipped behind the very mountain I was trying to scale and my lungs began
to burn while zig-zagging up the steep switchbacks. My backpack’s nylon waist belt, devoid of any
padding, felt like a malnourished boa constrictor cutting into my sides as I strained
for hearty, deep breaths to calm my racing pulse. The shoulder straps, with cushioning
equivalent to a Tampax maxi-pad, bit into my shoulders. I crossed an irrigation canal dug high on the
rocky mountainside long ago by rugged men with shovels, picks and slips behind
horses. My whining about my antique
backpack came to an abrupt halt while reminiscing how those old timers really
had it tough..JPG)
A strong running creek with green mossy banks and white waterfalls was crossed and I intersected another trail where I noticed triangular metal markers for the Continental Divide Trail and the Colorado Trail nailed to selected stumps. I glanced up the trial to see ribbons streaming in the breeze from low hanging pine branches and knew that the trail was also part of the LT100. I power hiked up the trail, totally frying my dainty thighs, and soon encountered an old cabin crumbling with age. How I wish the old logs could talk.
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Trudging forward, 2 more dilapidated cabins were passed and
I spooked a pig-fat mule deer buck with antlers encased in velvet. He pranced away in his robust 4-legged hop
that thundered the ground with each landing.
It was dusk as I began to question if a headlamp was going
to be necessary before I made it to camp.
With a whumping heart, searing lungs and quads screaming for rest, I
kept marching and soon came to a clearing.
Dogs barked, llamas hummed to one another and voices were heard. A towering camp fire flame was noticed
through the few trees as I walked up to the group.
“Hi, I’m a volunteer and Tom is my contact,” I
announced to the group while trying to subtly knee and swat a pack of dogs who
were rudely butt/crotch sniffing. Everyone
turned towards me and sat in silence while staring with glassy eyes from ghostly
faces that flickered in the dancing fire light.
Since I’m not outgoing or gregarious, I don’t mind awkward silences, but
I had a fleeting thought I had entered a camp as bait for some whacked out snuff movie.
My eyes darted from person to person sizing up who would be
the biggest threat when an older gentleman stood, extended his hand, and said,
“I’m Tom.” We shook hands and he looked above
my head with a smirk and arched eyebrows.
I assumed he noticed the external backpack frame and was going to comment
how I must have burglarized the alpine museum in Leadville. “What all did you bring?” he quizzically asked
since the top of my pack soared above me like a skyscraper.
“Well, my sleeping bag, clothes, jackets, food and the
like,” I answered. Recalling an email he
had sent telling me that tents, sleeping bags, food, water and snacks were all
provided I reminded him, “I said I did not want to impose on anyone so I came
self-sufficient.” Tom chuckled and took
me over to the canopy that was attached to the cook tent.
“Hey, Vicky, this is a volunteer and he’ll be sleeping in the
cook tent with you,” Tom said to a silver-haired lady who straightened from a
stooped position and reached out her bony hand for a firm handshake. Tom faced me, pointed down and chuckled again.
“I hope you like dogs,” he added as he headed back to the fire.
I looked down to witness 2 small black bears standing before
me. Squinting in the fading light, I
realized the bears were actually 2 humungous black dogs with equally gigantic heads. Their muzzles were graying and Vicky
introduced me to Big and Rich, “They’re full brothers and a St Bernard/
Labrador mix.”
Hmm…I wonder what Tom
was implying about “I hope you like dogs...”
I stabbed my American flag attached to a wooden dowel into
the mountain tundra and dropped my backpack on my side of the tent and was
introduced to the group around the fire.
Most names were immediately forgotten, but Gary was remembered since we had
exchanged a few voicemails the week before.
He was the aid station captain and had been doing it for years, but
Vicky’s experience trumped him since this was her 26th consecutive
year on Hope Pass. (This race was the 31st
annual LT100). Gary clutched a plastic Vita-water
bottle in his left hand and I soon noticed he had a severe, AND I MEAN SEVERE, inner-ear problem.
His balance was scary, especially near the fire with all the gear lying
about. He spoke, without slurring, and
while he spoke, his feet had a mind of their own and took him away into the
darkness. He’d return, only to have his
feet whisk him away in a different direction.
This was non-stop and his booming voice did not falter as his feet took
him out of the circle of firelight with arms reeling for something steady to
grab. Gary would briefly return into the
flickering light, only to vanish again.
No one seemed concerned as I waited to hear him pile up somewhere in the
darkness. Then, Gary’s shadowy figure
was noticed stumbling to a nearby log where someone lifted a box of wine. Gary filled his plastic Vita-water bottle and
I then realized his “weeble-wobble but won’t fall down” routine was not
medical.
Speaking of medical, Tom’s gentle voice informed me, “Our
poles for the medic tent came up late on the llamas, so putting the tent up is
first thing in the morning.” I nodded
and was introduced to the medic team consisting of Linda, Nadia and Jenn. Linda was older and bossy with a large and in
charge attitude. She was a P.A. while
Jenn was a full-blown M.D. who had come to Denver 2 weeks prior after finishing
her residency in Oakland’s emergency room.
Nadia was a Leadville local, trained in medicine, with a bubbly, perky
personality who beamed with energy.
Tents were sprinkled throughout the alpine meadow with 33 llamas
staked to the ground via long leashes while, on the other hand, 7 loose dogs rambunctiously
bounced around. (Actually, 5 dogs
bounced around since Big and Rich simply occupied a lot of real estate either
standing or lying down.) Some llamas wore
a lone jingle bell on their halter where the ball rolling inside the bell
provided a constant rhythm as they chewed their cud. One llama escapee, who belonged to Gary, stood
near other llamas, but walked away like a spoiled rotten horse whenever anyone
approached him and he roamed free for the night. One by one, people trickled away from the
fire and headed to their tents. I ducked
into the cook tent where Vicky was fastening custom-made flannel jackets onto
Big and Rich. As I yanked my sleeping bag out from its stuff sack and it
expanded on the tent floor, one of the monster dogs nonchalantly walked over
and plopped down right on top of it like a mother duck settling onto her nest.
What?!
I did not even have a foam pad to sleep on and there was no
way this galoot was going to bed down on me AND my sleeping bag. Big (or was it Rich?) was steadfast despite
my gentle pleadings to move his big ass off my bag. I filleted the zipper open and poked my feet
into my bag and began to slide into it. Upon
hitting the immovable object, I stabbed hard into the meaty mass with my
feet. Finally, after some solid Muy Thai
kickboxing practice, Big (or Rich) grunted, stood and plodded over towards
Vicky where he laid down with a big, end-of-the-day groan. Positions were set and the night began.
When packing my bulging backpack, I had sacrificed a foam
pad figuring it was a luxury I hoped I could live without and soon seethed with
my poor decision. The hard ground
quickly caught up to my hips and I would awaken in discomfort while on my left
side with knees slightly pulled up in a loose fetal position. I’d roll onto my back, but would stiffly awaken
to rotate onto my right side. The aching
would later awaken me to have me return to my back, then later to my left side. This broken rotisserie pattern was constant
throughout the night and usually accompanied with some cussing while I thought
of the foam pad at home doing nothing more than collecting dust. Suddenly, I was startled awake, but not from
aching joints.
Was that a nearby thunderstorm? A chainsaw?
A moto-cross race or monster truck rally? Nope.
It was Big and Rich snoring with Vicky occasionally performing a solo
act. H-O-L-Y Shit!
The tent must look like a giant breathing creature with the fabric swelling
to nearly seam-ripping extremes and then deflating only to puff up again in
rhythmic fashion. Oh, the amount of air
the trio was moving. I flopped for
awhile during the symphony and noticed first light in the dark night sky
through the tent’s window. Amidst
another one of Vicky’s solo acts, I slipped into my sneakers and darted out of
the tent to enjoy the morning silence.
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Leadville's Lights barely visible--about 2/3 up from the lake.
Being at timberline, firewood was somewhat scarce on my short
ventures to nearby lonely trees and slowly people arrived at the fire. Tom had a steaming cup of coffee, compliments
of Vicky, and I learned he was an engineer type and responsible for making
water. He camped below everyone along a
tiny stream that ribboned through brush from the basin’s small lake. MacGyver-like, Tom had invented a water
purification system made up of a solar panel, batteries, filtration units and a
windshield wiper pump.
Vicky needed an old-fashion metal triangle to hammer on with
a steel spoon to announce, “Come and get it.”
She slaved over the propane fueled, fire breathing cook stove while making
everyone eggs, hash browns, pancakes and ham.
“I want everyone full of energy because when the runners show up, it’s
gunna get busy,” she commented to me.
.JPG)
I unrolled the medic tent across the rough mountain terrain only to stare at a giant geodesic puzzle. Dozens of small flaps were lettered and numbered to facilitate sliding the poles through the correct sequence of sleeves to eventually pop the fabric into a North Face dome tent. Once the huge yellow bubble was resting on earth, the associated yellow rain fly was tossed over and secured, transforming our camp into something resembling a base camp for a fancy Mt. Everest expedition. The medical ladies moved in and inventoried their scant supplies. “Radio man” hiked into camp and soon relayed the medical shortages to people down below.
Breakfast dishes were scrubbed and the Golden High School
track team arrived for their annual help. Tom disappeared to make water and Vicky was
swallowed by the cook tent again to start cooking runner’s food that included
Top Ramen noodles and instant potatoes.
Others manned tables outside of Vicky’s cook tent where M &M’s,
cookies, coca-cola syrup, sprite syrup, pretzels, saltine crackers and gu gels
were piled high. Two large watermelons were
carved into pizza shaped slices and I pitied the llama who lugged the dense
fruit up the mountain. Likewise, oranges
were hacked into wedges and set out on the table. Tom filled 5 gallon plastic water jugs where
2 were hung on each llama to carry up to the cook tent. Soon, nearly two dozen plastic water jugs
waited on the ground and other crew members strung down the trail waiting for
the first runner.
“Runner coming up,” announced a Golden track team member at
1030. Each would approach a runner and
ask to fill their water bottles. The
first runner was actually power-hiking with trekking poles and politely
declined on the high school runner’s offer.
But, later runners would happily hand over their bottles and the track
stars would sprint up ahead to fill the containers. Some runners wanted water, some Gu-brew, and some
requested a custom blend of water and Gu-brew.
By the time the runner got to the actual station, their bottle was
filled and handed back to them so no time was wasted.
Forty year old Scott Jurek, an ultra-running legend, was
making his return to the race this year and I kept my eyes peeled for him and hoped
he would capture the win. After several
runners passed, I recognized Scott and we all began to call out to him. Each time his right foot landed, his faced
winced and I knew something was wrong.
He was around 8th (?) coming into the station and was
obviously hurting. “How far ahead is Nick,”
he asked as his competitiveness drove him forward.
“About 30 minutes,” I replied as he passed.Not much later, the first female runner entered camp. A blond pony-tail, heavier muscled than most endurance skeletal athletes and beaming with a huge white smile, scampered up for fluids. Ashley Arnold sang out heart-felt thank yous as she headed out to climb the last .8 mile to the 12,580’ summit of Hope Pass as fresh as if she had stepped off a bus to enter camp. After reaching the summit, runners drop off the other side to the Winfield aid station that also serves as the 50 mile turn around point for the race.
Two ladies (Patty and Gail) of “The Hopeless Crew” sat in a lean-to with
binoculars and a telephoto lens on a camera to read bib numbers and write down
times. This year was the first LT100 to
use timing chips, but “we’ve been doing it so long, we’ll just keep doing
it.” As one wrote down the bib number
and time, the other would look up the runner’s name.
“Good job, Robert!
We’ve been looking for you.” Each
runner, startled by being addressed by name, squinted into the lean-to and got
more encouragement as “The Cougar” (Gail) rang her cow bell. “This one’s for you…I’ve been waiting for
you…” The Cougar would add with a sly grin.
The younger and more handsome the runner, the more cajoling came from
The Cougar. The 2 ladies in the lean-to
stayed steady, even as waves of runners came through. The Cougar kept her spicy energy flowing for
hours, bringing smiles to all except for the runners in a total zombie trance. Some looked so startled that I expected them
to reply, “Mom, is that you? I didn’t
know you’d be up here?” A few runners were
able to play along with The Cougar who immediately announced to the runner that
they made it on her website due to their fun-loving bantering with her.
I watched a runner stumble along the rocky trail and press
on. Nothing unusual since most runners were
stumbling, but then I noticed he had a bright yellow bib pinned near his racing
bib. “Visually Impaired” was
silkscreened on the bib. Two words for
him: Simply Inspirational!
I recognized the female from the drop-bag location who asked
me to pace her as she came up the trail.
She told me she was number 24…she didn’t tell me she was “L24”. All bib
numbers beginning with “L” meant the athlete was striving to earn the “Leadman”
or “Leadwoman” title. Without
researching the title thoroughly, my crude understanding was the “Lead” titles
were earned by participating, and finishing, all Leadville Race Series events,
both trail running and the mountain bike races, in the same racing season. Did they need to finish with times much
faster than the mandatory cut-offs? I
don’t know, but such strivers had a whole lot more time to train than me to
have such a goal. I asked if she still needed a pacer and was glad when she
looked at me weirdly, obviously having forgot her request. I’m still uncertain if it would have worked
out…but glad I didn’t waste too much time stressing over the details.
Speaking of “L” bib numbers, one of the first runners to
have his timing chip cut off at our aid station was, surprisingly, L45. I noticed him coming down from the aid
station and wanted to make sure he was accounted for when he politely informed
me that people at the tent already took his timing chip and he was going down
with a DNF (Did Not Finish). Only days
later did I make the connection that this striving Leadman was Tim Long, an
entertaining blogger about racing who goes by “Footfeathers.” He has multiple blogs that make me chuckle
with his sarcasm and wit, especially his 3 part series on how to be a pacer. He’s an accomplished athlete and something
seriously must’ve been troubling him to be forced into a DNF.
Scott Jurek came off the summit, shirtless with nipples
protected via adhesive pieces of tape, and returned into the aid station with
his pacer. I lost count, but guessed he
moved up into 5th place or so.
His eyes were focused, but his facial expression still winced with every
right footfall. He’s a champion for a
reason and running with whatever injury he sustained must have been sheer
disappointment.
A medic hiked in, dropped off supplies and began his
descent. The 4:15 pm cut-off for the
Hope Pass aid station was approaching, so I ventured down the trail to
encourage nearby runners that if they hustled, they would stay ahead of the
cut-off time. I met a female zombie,
salt-caked and glassy eyed.
“Let me help you,” I said while approaching the lifeless
creature.
“Down…the…trail...” she spoke with slow, deliberate
speech. “Sheila…is…worse…than…me…404…”
she added through dry, cracked lips.
I began to run down the trail and caught up to a runner who
was my age and bounding down the trail, spry as a cat.
“You’re looking good,” I said while behind him.
“Surprisingly, I feel good,” he replied.
He was nearing 56 miles and fresh. “What are you eating?” I had to ask.
“Natural foods.
Mainly potato burritos and a few gu gels. I have to walk out of aid stations cuz I fill
up so much, but it’s working,” he answered.
Mental note: Remember this guy’s
comments.
He allowed me to pass and further down the trail, there was
Sheila, bib #404, with the medic who earlier had left camp. I draped an arm around my neck and took hold of ther wrist. My other hand went to the small of her back and we began a forced
uphill march.
“I just want to lay down in the fetal position…let’s stop
here…” she pleaded as we continued the forced march. “I feel nauseous…I’m gunna throw-up.”
“Go ahead, just aim it off the trail and away from me,” I
requested since stomach contents after 43 miles of jostling provided an image
that nearly triggered my gag reflex. No
doubt if she tossed anything out on her side of the trail, I would have sympathetically
joined her on my side.
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We took 2 short breaks and I eventually had her in the medical tent. The area was starting to fill like a scene from M.A.S.H., bodies strung hap-hazardly about the area, but nothing was too serious. Sheila was later noticed asleep in a sleeping bag while the medics tended to others.
Even though the cut-off time expired, people coming up would
gather themselves and turn around while runners ahead of the cut-off time would
barrel into camp returning from the summit and prepare for the next 5 miles to
the Twin Lakes aid station down below.
One runner returning from the summit and wearing nothing but
skimpy running shorts staggered over to a short camp stool near the medical
tent and collapsed. Salt-stained and
leaning forward with elbows resting on his knees, his body language depicted
pure exhaustion.
“I see your balls,” giggled medic Nadia while standing
before him.
Ever-so-slowly, the runner raised his head and dryly replied
with a scant smile, “I don’t even care…”
I was unsure whether Nadia threw out the comment as a
distraction for him to temporarily leave his state of misery or not. But, I was absolutely certain that I had no
desire to investigate. Sometimes it’s a
curse to be so aware of your surroundings…
Suddenly, something caught my eye forcing me to make a
double-take (no, it wasn’t anything dangling from a camp stool). A female runner in shorts popped into camp
and her left leg was a fiberglass prosthetic blade. Two words for her: Absolutely Incredible! Okay, maybe two more words: Fuck Ya! The vision of her entering camp still brings
goose-pimples to my skin and almost tears to my eyes. May she inspire others with her gritty will
and focused determination.
Water was been poured faster than beer at a renaissance
festival. Tom’s little water plant motor
overheated, but, being an ever-prepared personality, he simply swapped it out
with a spare he had brought along.
Llamas were steadily dropping off water and headed back down to Tom with
empty jugs as I jumped in playing bartender pouring pitcher after pitcher of
water into runners’ bottles. (Embarrassingly,
I will admit my right forearm was sore for days following the LT100. My self-diagnosis? Bartenderitis from steadily filling water
bottles and hydration packs for 6 +/- hours.)
Supplies began to dwindle. The watermelon was immediately ravished
by runners and quickly, only curved rinds remained. Likewise, oranges were demolished with peels scattered
everywhere. Soon, the M & M’s were gone. Cookies, gone. Pretzels, gone. Gu gels, gone. Paper cups? Gone, but fished out of trash bags and rinsed
out by runners demanding ramen soup or gu-brew.
The instant potatoes reminded me of colorless infant diarrhea dribbled
all over camp and it, too, ran out. Gu-brew
was then all slurped up so final runners had a rather easy choice: water, Top Ramen or nothing.
Medics finally convinced a stubborn runner he was headed
down, and not up, and informed him he was going buddy system down the trail with
Sheila. She woke up pleading not to
leave while the other runner voiced how he did not want her. Honestly, I did not blame him…I wouldn’t want
the responsibility either.
“You are not staying here!
Get up and get moving! You are
going down with him!” barked Linda.
Wow. She was short and
very brash with Sheila to the point that I was beginning to feel sorry for her
until Nadia whispered that Sheila did the same thing last year, but a member
from “The Hopeless Crew” had to escort her down, leaving the camp
shorthanded. So, there was no mercy
being extended and Sheila soon stood and began her descent with the other
injured runner.
A runner made eye contact with me while he was chugging out
of one bottle as the other was being filled.
“She’s only about 10 minutes ahead of you,” I said upon recognizing him
and his wife from my previous day’s drop-bag duty and noticing her in camp only
minutes before.
“She’s a climber,” he proudly stated after lowering his
bottle as water briefly streamed from his chin.
“Thanks for the update,” he added as he hit his stride leaving camp.
I noticed most pacers appeared to be women and remembered
Ken Chlouber, co-founder of the LT100, exalt, “All my pacers are women. They get the job done.” Statistically, 90% of women who toe the start
line earn a finisher’s belt buckle while 50% of the men will toss out excuses
why they did not finish. I have not met
Mr. Chlouber, but would enjoy having a few beers with him in a Leadville bar. His statement about “Leadville is a home for
miners, muckers and mean motherfuckers,” cracks me up. But, one of my all time favorite quotes is a
Ken Chlouber statement.
“You’re
tougher than you think you are, and you can do more than you think you
can.”
Think about it.
I love it.
Thank you Mr. Chlouber for stringing those words together.
In addition to the popularity of female pacers, I also noticed,
like most sporting events, how the Dr. Seuss population was racing; big ones,
tall ones, short ones and small ones.
All body types were present, but I must admit there were much fewer
heavy/bulky body types showing up at the aid station. And, much like the body types, the assortment
of gear also had a tremendous spread.
Shoes ranged from thick-soled Hokas to guys in sandals and everything
in-between. Socks, no socks or
compression socks were noticed as well as running tights, skorts, running
shorts and one crazy old man in a ballerina tutu. Shirts varied from long-sleeves to tank tops
to no shirt at all. Most seemed to carry
handheld water bottles (by far, Ultimate Direction was most popular brand)
while a good number also wore hydration packs.
Mysterious concoctions, powders, pills, gels, salts and foods were
hastily removed from pockets and rinsed down at the aid station with some of it
immediately coming right back up.
Needless to say, you had to watch your step at the outskirts of camp.
Perched on a log near the fire were several tubs of
Vaseline. I found this area to be the
“Boy’s Only” club as the only people I noticed plunging 3 fingers into the containers
were male runners. Upon extracting a
mountainous scoop of glistening gel, they did not seek seclusion, but simply
turned their backs and gingerly reached down into their shorts. Oh-so-delicately they smeared the goo while their
eyes rolled back into their heads and their chins raised up. Then, they closed their eyes as if silently praying
for mercy from the ugly chaffing god. I purposefully
did not monitor if anyone “double-dipped” and feel very fortunate that I have
no experience with the fiery chaffing of body parts which forced the goopy mess
inside their shorts. I hope my streak
continues and that I just didn’t jinx myself.
Headlamps began to click on and the trail coming down off
the summit looked like a string of Christmas tree lights. Simply beautiful. With the falling sun, solar energy dwindled
at Tom’s water plant and the batteries soon ran out of power. He made over 700 gallons of water for the day
as compared to 650 gallons from last year.
Many of the old timers from The Hopeless Crew complained how
Lifetime Fitness’s purchase of the Leadville Race Series was detrimental to the
quality of the race. Too many runners
and not enough supplies was a common gripe, but more so, if adequate supplies
were allotted, how do “they” think the supplies get up on Hope Pass? By helicopter? Airplane? Fairy godmother? Gary had to make 2 trips up and down with his
llama pack train and others weighted down their llamas to avoid an extra
grueling trip up and down the trail. Gary
flat-out refused to pack the generator powering the timing mat up at the summit
and told “them” that they needed to figure it out. Then there was Tom, never a complaint, but he
sat streamside for well over 9 hours making water to ensure runners could
hydrate. Vicky? Saw her briefly twice all day when she
emerged from the cook tent for some water.
Together, the crew complimented each other and I can’t imagine the aid
station functioning without them.
“Hey, I’m headed up to check on that guy and see if I can
get him going,” Dr. Gu-Butt said to me(Jenn sat
on a gel packet that exploded). She
learned that a runner was literally stranded on the pass with insulin shock or
something similar where people were whispering about a helicopter rescue.
“Dude…be prepared to leave in twenty….headlamp, shoes and
a jacket. I need your help carry the guy
down from the summit in a stretcher I’m making,” a know-it-all Hopeless Crew
member told me. Headlamp and
jacket? No problem. Shoes? No shit
you dumbass…you think I want to go barefoot?
About 45 minutes later, Jenn returned after reviving the guy
who was headed down the other side of the pass since it was closer to
vehicles. Camp numbers began to thin as
runners headed down into the pitch black trail.
Some runners, for who knows what reasons, did not even have a
headlamp…trail running by brail sounds like a predictably painful experience.
A female runner collapsed on a log near the fire and her
female pacer begged and pleaded with her to stand up and get going. The runner flat out said “I’m done!” and
refused any food or fluids. I filled her
Camelbak and asked her name. “Andrea”
was her response while her pacer encouraged her to eat some Top Ramen
noodles. “No! I can’t!
It’s sooooo gross!” she blurted and then looked at me and apologized as
if I was the cook of such fine cuisine that she had insulted.
“Look, Andrea, you have come too far to give up now…you get
moving now and you will stay ahead of the next cut-off time in Twin Lakes. It’s only 5 miles and all downhill… if you
quit now, you will think about this moment next week and wish you had pushed a
little harder,” I said as I grabbed her hands and raised her up to her
feet. She took some water from her
pacer, clicked on her headlamp, and they headed off together into the
darkness. Her brain was telling her to
quit, but she looked surprisingly strong trotting along behind her pacer.
Radio man had ordered more medical supplies from the lower
aid station that a doctor was huffing up the trail. I volunteered to head down the trail to meet
him and soon kicked my legs in free-wheeling mode as I strode down the
mountain. My headlamp beamed brightly on
the trail and I pushed myself wanting to catch Andrea and her pacer with hopes
to speak more words of encouragement. Many
runners were working their way down and I felt guilty passing them with
ease. To take the edge off the guilt I
was feeling, as they would shout “Good job” I’d be sure to let them know that I
was simply headed down for supplies and had not covered 56+ miles like they had
done. Much too soon, I bumped into Dr.
Tom. We transferred bags of IV fluids,
catheters, tubing, etc. I took off
trotting back up the mountain and hoped Andrea had recovered enough while going
downhill to keep trudging towards the finish line.
A nearly full moon crested the eastern mountaintop and cast
a low-light glow in our high mountain basin.
Time passed and a single headlamp coming off the summit was noticed. Much later, a pacer entered camp carrying his
runner piggy-back style off the summit.
The runner was dumped into the medical tent while the carrier spoke by
the fire how he admired his buddy and if he didn’t love him so much, he would
not have carried him. (Mental Note: Maybe one should only pace if the runner is
smaller?) He spoke about his buddy
wearing out 2 stair masters preparing for the race and how he couldn’t believe
he carried him down off the summit.
“This gives a new meaning to Brokeback Mountain,” I said not
being able to help myself. GoPaul, a
Hopeless Crew member, laughed out loud while others remained quiet. Oh well.
The local Search & Rescue team sweeping the trail had
entered camp. They topped off their
water and Nadia announced she was headed down also. She grabbed her trekking poles and stabbed
them in the ground and nearly hit her chin.
Her poles had stretched and it was realized that a runner had set their
poles down and picked Nadia’s up by mistake.
Nadia, the SAR team and Brokeback Mountain prepared to leave camp together
as little Vicki stood to begin her performance.
Vicki, who happened to be Vicky’s niece, began her
pyro-charged trash burning. Instead of
packing out all the trash on llamas, combustible materials were
incinerated. Little Vicki didn’t sort
the trash, she simply tossed full bags into the fire. Thick smoke rolled down the valley as she
began a full-blown landfill fire.
Plastic melted, bottles whistled as they collapsed, hundreds of cups
disfigured and eventually burned as she continued to feed and stir the ugly fire.
I was getting sleepy and had stashed my gear in the medic
tent that morning so it was out of Vicky’s way while she cooked all day. I fetched my gear and noticed it had been
pilfered. Bubbly Nadia said she went
through the gear initially thinking it was medical supplies and apologized for
the mishap. I transferred everything to
my side of the cook tent and jumped into my sleeping bag as Vicky also prepared
for sleep.
As she buried herself in sleeping bags and blankets, she was
scolding Big and Rich for occupying her space which caused one of them to come
over to me and straddle atop my legs, preparing to bed down.
Again? Oh no you're not! Tom’s
chuckling words from the previous night echoed in my brain, “I hope you like
dogs….”
I did not need any such monster-sized Teddy Bear to cuddle
with as I sharply raised a knee into Big’s (or Rich’s) sternum with a dull, yet
very solid, thud. He did not grunt,
growl or even fart. He simply stepped
off my sleeping bag and bedded down on “his” side of the tent.
Another night sleeping on the ground attacked my hips where
the rotisserie cycle of left side, back, right side and repeat began. The snoring trio was silent when I awakened to
the sounds of something stirring in the trash bag outside of my tent wall.
Great! Some crazy
alpine skunk, raccoon or one of the dogs was trash picking in the middle of the
night. I envisioned what a mess was
being made and prepared to coax my stiff body out of the tent to chuck rocks
when I suddenly heard a stern whisper.
“Whitney?! Whitney?!” Little Vicki’s voice was scolding her dog as
she was still being a pyro and torching trash bags in the middle of the
night.
I rotated and rotated and the morning sky began to light up
the tent where I heard Vicky rustle and caught her sitting up and squinting towards
my side of the tent to see if I was still in bed. She
flopped back down and I realized she was rearing to get up and get going but
was being polite and staying in bed. Vicky
earned a tremendous amount of respect from me and the last thing I wanted to do
was get in her way. Bones creaked and
joints popped as I hustled out of bed and shot out our tent door flap and stoked
the fire with more wood while sifting through ashes and fishing out
non-combustible materials.
Off in the distance, the city lights of Leadville flickered
and I realized there were still runners moving forward hoping to reach those
lights by the 10:00 am cut off. “Keep
plugging away,” I whispered to them. ”You’re
almost there.”
.JPG)
Another llama escaped and as we began to circle it, he/she
decided to try to rush past me. I tried
to cut him/her off, but was too slow as it passed. I reached out and, miraculously, the lead
rope began to slide through my palm. I
gripped hard and the llama turned to face me and The Hopeless Crew gave me a
cheer as loud as any runner who trampled through camp the previous day.
.JPG)
Pack trains headed down and Vicky, along with Big and Rich,
patiently waited to go last. She became
a friend and there was no way a 66 year old lady who busted her ass for not
only the runners, but for the entire Hopeless Crew, was going to go down the
trail without anyone looking after her.
I stayed beside her and swept the trail of gu packaging,
assorted trash, glow sticks and ribbons hanging in the trees. She apologized of her proclaimed slow pace,
but it didn’t matter. I was still in the
woods with no sights or sounds of civilization; my modern day fantasyland.
.JPG)
Much too soon Vicky, Big, Rich and I reached our vehicles where we said our good-byes and I hopped my filthy, smelly, smoky self into my truck and headed down the highway.
Just after the Loveland ski area, Sunday afternoon I-70
traffic was already backed up. Stop and
go all the way to Denver can get on a guy’s nerves (especially this guy), but I
daydreamed being back up on Hope Pass.
If things go well, perhaps next year will have The Cougar ringing me in
and, if I feel spry enough, I will banter with her to make it on her make-believe
website. Even better would be returning
to camp from the summit, hopefully conscious enough not to drop onto a short camp
stool in front of Nadia, while headed towards the twinkling lights of Leadville
and the finish line.
We shall see.
Ramble on…
(Achilles surgery 6 months later thwarted any chances running in the 2014 LT100....)
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