On Monday, June 12, I got the email: I was in.
I was going to run the fabled Western States 100, the world’s oldest 100 mile endurance run. There was a catch: the race began in less than 12 days.
Part 0: My Journey to Western States
My journey to States had begun more than a year prior when I ran the Canyons 100K, which occurs entirely on the WS100 course. All of the volunteers there had been enthusiastic: “this race is great, but you need to run Western States. It’s the show. It will change your life.” I took them at face value, and used my finish to submit my name into the Western States lottery in December 2016. With one ticket in the lottery, I had less than a 2% chance of being selected. More than 3,500 people enter the lottery hoping for one of 200+ entries that are selected via the lottery (the others runners chosen with different methods). Honestly, I didn’t believe that I had a chance; I only submitted my name to begin building up tickets to be selected in 4-5 years. I had had friends who had waited 6 years to be selected, and they had run at least one qualifying race of 100K or longer each year. Why should my fate be any different?
Then again, my friend Paul Braa had been selected with one ticket the year before, so I had reason for hope. For some reason, I hoped.
On December 3, I was racing the North Face 50 mile in the Marin Headlands. i knew that the drawing for States was happening during my race, and I hoped, but I didn’t expect that I would get in. When I approached the aid station at mile 42, my pacer (Paul Braa, the same friend who had run WS100 the year before with only one ticket in the lottery as a “One ticket wonder”) who I was picking up at that point was jumping up and down and yelling “thirty-six! thirty six!” I immediately corrected him to tell him I was at mile 42.
I misunderstood him - I had been drawn 36th in the new Western States waitlist, out of 50 spots. I wasn’t in, but I was one step closer. What needed to happen after that for me to enter the race was for 36 people to either pull out of the race or withdraw their name from the waitlist.
The waitlist was implemented to solve a simple problem: Western States has a permit from the US Forest Service that allows 369 entrants. In the past, they had given 369 runners entry into the race, but inevitably there were runners who were unable to start because of injuries, inability to travel, or other commitments. The waitlist was added to ensure that this race, which so many people want to run, always has exactly 369 starters.
Even after being placed on the waitlist, my odds of actually running were slim. Of the past five years, in only one year did more 36 people not start the race. Many friends in the running community encouraged me to find a backup race, and to not get my hopes too high. I would have other chances to run the race, future years where I could put my name back in the lottery.
And yet, I hoped for this year. I hoped that the incentives that the race administrators implemented would encourage injured runners to give up their spots. More than anything else, I hoped that the intrepid spirit of this strange and wonderful sport of ultrarunning would shine through. This is a sport in which the leaders and those at the back of the pack regularly socialize and cheer for one another. This is a sport where the winner regularly spends time meeting with fans long after he or she has crossed the finish line. This is a sport where all are equal in suffering. I suppose I hoped that runners who were contemplating dropping from the race would consider the fact that if they dropped, another runner would get a chance to run - and I hoped that they would see the beauty in that that I did.
And because of this hope, I trained. I trained like I never had before - I put a lot of mileage and stress on my body. I did my first 100 mile week. I traversed the last 70 miles of the course during Western States training weekend. I explored the Cascade range east of Seattle. I trained around the island of Hawaii. I wore sweatshirts during 90 degree runs, and I spent hours sitting in the sauna. Training is a rite of passage, and I wanted to earn the privilege to compete at Western States.
Many people asked me if this training would be worth it if I did not get in - I always had the same answer, that of course it would be worth it. I considered it a great honor to have a shot at racing WS100, and if I got a shot I wanted to respect the distance and the race. If I didn’t get in, that was OK too, because I would still learn a lot about myself in racing. That’s an overly simplistic explanation - of course I would have been bummed if I hadn’t made it into the race - but I had convinced myself that no matter what, the process of training was going to make me a better athlete and better man, and that was worthwhile. Throughout the beginning of the year, it looked as if I was not going to get lucky. The waitlist moved a few names, but not tremendously. But still, I hoped. Then, in mid-May, runners seemed to make a decision: it was six weeks out from the race, and if they were injured, it was likely they would not be able to compete. Many began to withdraw, then many more. Before I knew it, I was in the top 10, then the top 5, then I was in the race. I was tremendously lucky to be selected as the third-to-last entrant from the waitlist. With only 12 days to finish my preparations, I was in!
Saturday, June 24, 3:30AM, Squaw Valley, CA. I had already been lying awake in bed for more than an hour in nervous anticipation before the beginning of the race. Six of my friends had signed on to be part of the crew that would help me get from Squaw to Auburn that day, and I was thinking of them. I was thinking of the 3,300+ lottery entrants who had wanted my spot in the race. I was thinking of my fellow runners. I was thinking of my training. I was ready.
The day before, Friday, had been electric. I spent the morning and early afternoon chatting with friends, meeting new runners, and soaking up the atmosphere of the best environment in the ultrarunning world. As I did my shakeout run down the Squaw Valley bike path, I saw at least 10 runners with whom I would be toeing the line the next day. Still, I tried to keep my energy in check for the big effort on Saturday. I checked in, went to the pre-race meeting, and then spent the rest of the afternoon preparing and relaxing.
Finally, it was time to go. I was on the start line. There were nervous jitters, sure, but mostly i was excited to get out an roam the Sierra, and to experience this race that I had dreamed of running for years. Three…two…one…and a blast from a double-barrelled shotgun. We were off up the Escarpment.
Part 1: Disaster in The High Country
The first four miles of the race are directly up the ski hill at Squaw Valley. That is to say that they are essentially straight up. Most runners choose to hike this section, and I was no exception: I wanted to be very conservative the first 30 miles, and not use much mental energy. When I reached the top of the Escarpment at 1:10 elapsed, I was right on schedule.
I took a moment to savor the sunrise over Lake Tahoe: this was really happening. I high fived my friend Misha, said hi to Ultrarunner Podcast host Eric Schranz (who was playing his signature Alpenhorn) and began to descend through the undulating High Country. I had never run this part of the course, but had heard that parts of it were quite technical, so I decided to settled in on a pace that felt easy. I figured that this would turn out to be 11 or 12-minute miles on technical terrain at altitude, but I was in for a rude awakening.
For the first 15 miles, there were snowdrifts that had been packed down covering almost the entire trail. The ice on top of the drifts made it almost impossible to run easy, and we were constantly falling over and sliding from side to side. I was using a lot more effort than I expected, and I’m pretty sure I ate it at least 15 times on the ice. I rolled into the first aid station at Lyon Ridge having worked harder than I had wanted but I still figured I was on about 24 hour pace, which was my goal for the day.
DEAD WRONG - I was already about 45 minutes behind 24-hour pace, and was dangerously already 15 minutes behind 30-hour pace. That is when I realized that this was going to be much harder than I had imagined, and that all of plans were out the window. The next 10-15 miles were quite muddy - where the ice had melted, the water found the lowest place (as it is wont to do) and settled in the trail. Running in streams is not such a bad thing if you’re only doing it for 10 or 15 minutes, but when you’re going to be running for 24+ hours it’s not a good idea.
Many would-be finishers were cut off at the early aid stations. I ran past Camille Herron, who just three weeks earlier had won the Comrades Marathon and who was one of the favorites heading into race day. She had dropped. I knew that many of the runners behind me were not going to make the early cutoffs, and my heart ached for them. Especially for Wally Hesseltine, who was running again in 2017 after missing the finish by just one minute in 2016.
This was the hardest part of the race mentally and emotionally for me because of the effort that I put in running in the snow and mud. I had convinced myself that I wanted to drop at mile 15. The chairs there looked very inviting - I could have easily ended my day. But then I thought about all of the other lottery entrants who wanted my spot. I thought about my buddy Chris Mocko and all of the other front-runners who had to brave the same conditions and were still many miles ahead of me. I thought about Ben Koss, who had to drop one week before the race with an injury.
And then I my crew and friends waiting for me down the trail, and that my fiancée had gotten shirts for the crew - I really wanted to see what those shirts said.
And with that, I convinced myself to continue. At mile 24, I got to see my crew and my fiancée for the first time. Man, did I need it. She had made shirts that had a picture of me at the finish line with the words “You know you want me” written on it - they were AWESOME and were just the mental boost I needed.
I was still behind 30 hour pace but had picked up time on the pace since the last aid stations. I adjusted my goals to finishing the race under 30 hours (anything over 30 is not an official finish) and headed down the trail. For the rest of the high country, I cruised along and made up a lot of time. By the time I got to Last Chance, I was 30 minutes ahead of 30-hour pace and feeling good. The day was getting HOT - I heard that the high was 108F - so I had been loading up my pack and arm sleeves with ice at every aid station. After I left Last Chance, I was feeling good - I was moving well, had managed to stay cool despite the intense heat of the middle of the day, and was looking forward to a long dip in the creek at the bottom of Deadwood Canyon.
I had officially turned a corner and was beginning to look at my race in a positive light.
Part 2: Steady in The Canyons
It was around 4PM as I began to descend into Deadwood Canyon, and I was enjoying the steep descent with Charlie, a man about to get his 10th WS100 finish (and a fancy new buckle!). We lead a train down into the canyon, but it was slow going as my quads were shot. After the 2-mile descent, some runners proceeded immediately to the 1,800 ft steep climb to the top of Devil’s Thumb, but a group of about 5 of us split off to spend some quality time in the creek at the bottom of Deadwood. This turned out to be an amazing decision: after 5 minutes in the creek I was feeling my core temperature decreasing, and like I had the energy to take on the hill. Sure enough, I passed about 15 people on the climb, many of whom were dry heaving due to the heat. At the top of Devil’s Thumb, I re-iced, re-fueled, and got a popsicle as promised, and proceeded to El Dorado. El Dorado Canyon is much deeper than Deadwood at about 2,500 ft, but the descent is much less steep. At some point in the descent, I let myself celebrate: I was halfway done and more than 60 minutes ahead of 30 hour pace! It was slow going on the steep parts of the descent as my quads would still not allow me to run hard, and I began to have another low moment. How was I going to fare on the downhills of Cal Street and the end of the course? I still had almost 50 MILES of running to do. But I would not let myself be overcome by these thoughts, and proceeded on. At Michigan Bliuff at Mile 55, I was so relieved to see my entire crew, including several friends who had driven from San Francisco that morning to see me. I told them I was not doing well, but after a long swig of red Gatorade, the gave me a headlamp and I was off. It’s a bizarre feeling, beginning to run at night when you have been running all day. In between Michigan Bluff and Foresthill I moved slowly but consistently. I did my best to do math - If I arrived at Foresthill before 10PM, I could “run" 20 minute miles to the finish. That seemed more than doable. Foresthill was a breath of fresh air, and I set my sights upon it. I picked up my pacer, Matt, and changed shoes. My feet were destroyed from the High Country and Canyons, and my crew amazing washed them and bandaged my blisters with duct tape. There was no hiding it: the next 38 miles were going to HURT. And yet I was thrilled: I was really doing it, I had a good chance of finishing Western States!
Part 3: Consistency on Cal Street
With Matt in tow, I was ready to roll down Cal Street. This portion of the course is famous for its easy downhills, so I was excited to be out of the canyons and past the toughest parts of the day. The sun had also gone down so it was now dark and cooling off.
So, was I running fast? NOPE. I just didn’t have the energy to spin the legs at anything faster than 15 min / mile pace as we made our way from Foresthill to the river. That said, I was in pretty good spirits and picking up time. Matt and I chatted about anything and everything in life (thanks, buddy!) and the time flew by. By the time we arrived at the river, I had about 75 minutes on the 30 hour pace and was feeling good about my finish.
Crossing the American River at 3AM in boats was quite the experience. In low snow years, the race orgnizers set up a cord and runners ford the river, but because there had been so much precipitation in the Sierras this winter we were crossing in rafts. At this point, all I had to do was run 21 min / mile pace to the finish to make it there before the 30 hour cutoff at 11AM.
Part 4: Grit to the Finish
Right after we exited the river, my troubles started. I had stopped taking ice overnight as temperatures fell to 70 degrees, and I think I was overheating. I also may have been drinking too much water. In any case, by mile 85, I was extremely lightheaded and did not feel like I had full control of my body.
I stopped at mile 85 at Auburn Lake Trails and against my better judgment, sat down in the medical tent.
Matt: “He’s feeling lightheaded and dizzy.
”Doctor: “I would be, too, after running 85 miles.”
The doctor continued to ask me if I was keeping food down (yes) if I was keeping water down (yes) and if I was peeing (yes). He told me I was fine. I wanted to shout back at him “NO, I am NOT fine” but I didn’t have the energy to do anything more than haul myself out of the chair and continue what felt like a march to Auburn.
I can’t tell you how hard it is to explain what goes through your mind 26 hours into a race. I couldn’t think clearly, I couldn’t do math, and i was convinced that my pacer Matt was lying to me about how much time I had left in the race (turns out he was right - sorry, Matt! #ultrabrain).
The next 5 miles or so I began to feel better after eating some electrolytes, and I made it to Pointed Rocks at Mile 94, where my fiancée, Lisa, was going to pace me to the finish. I was SO excited to see her, and to have her bring me home.
Crossing No Hands Bridge at mile 97 was surreal - I had dreamed of that moment many times, but when it actually came it felt like I couldn’t quite grasp its significance - after all, I had been awake since 3AM the day before. We made the final climb up to Robie Point, and it became clear to even my addled brain at that point that I was going to finish and get a belt buckle.
Man, I wanted that buckle. I made that my focus as we ran/walked the rest of the climb up to Auburn.
When I got to Auburn, I was greeted by an unexpected sight - my entire crew, plus a gang of friends had gathered to accompany me the last mile to the finish. That mile was the most satisfying of the entire day - I still couldn’t run all of it, but I got to enjoy the company of many friends who I had trained with and who had helped me get to the finish line. I found myself incredibly grateful.
As I rounded the final turn onto the track at Placer High, emotion took over and I began to run faster than I had in many hours. That victory lap was filled with high fives, peace signs, and friendly greetings. I even passed a runner en route to the finish on the track. I finally crossed the finish line in 29 hours and 35 minutes, more than 5 hours after I had hoped to finish. But it was still a perfect day. I had survived the snow and mud of the high country, I had braved the heat of the canyons, and I had traversed Cal street across the river. Most of all, I had fought my own doubts about whether I could ever reach the finish - and I had won. I couldn’t be prouder of the day I had at Western States.
If you’d like to see the (slow) data of my day+, here is the Strava file.
I want to say thank you to everyone who helped me get here, especially my crew - Lisa, Steph x 2, Matt, Katie, Sam, and Kristyn. thank you to all of the friends who gathered in Auburn at the finish, and everyone who congratulated me or asked for a recap. You made this one of the highlights of my life.
I had always heard that the 100-mile distance was like living your life in one day. I’ve now learned that that statement is very true. I experienced every emotion: anger, sadness, unbridled joy, worry, exhaustion, contempt. I watched the sun rise twice in one run. I experienced snow and 100+ degree temperatures. I met at least 100 new people who were going through this all at the same time.
Which leads me to my final point.
Many of my friends who do not run have asked me. It’s a simple answer, really. I ran to prove to myself that I can. Before doing it, all I had was a belief that it was possible, and stories from friends who had done it. I ran for the same reason anyone settles on a big goal: to strive for something further, something better, something that makes you stare in awe. That awe changed my perspective, and my life. I now know that I can do it.
