When I signed up for the Silver Rush 50, which starts in Leadville, Colorado, I had one goal: Survive. Don’t believe me? Here’s how I entered it in TrainingPeaks: I usually have somewhat more ambitious goals, but when it came to Silver Rush 50, survival sounded about as ambitious as it comes. I ditched all thoughts of competition and kept my focus simple: don’t die and cross the finish line.
Silver Rush 50 treats the runners to about 7600 feet of climbing. But, it’s not the elevation gain, it’s the altitude, which includes 4 trips up to 12,000 feet altitude – with the low point of the race at 10,000 feet. For my sea level lungs, this was going to be a true test. It was more than precipitous rise from sea level that had me concerned.
On the run in Ironman Louisville 2014. It was about 100 degrees and humid. I wheezed through most of the run. It wasn’t the first time I wheezed while running, but it was the first time it happened for almost the entire thing. (Also: look closely @ the bike grease under my nose. It’s my patented Hilter Racing Stash.)
Four years ago, after wheezing my way through Ironman Louisville, I went to a pulmonologist because something didn’t seem right. You know, not being able to breathe for most of the marathon sort of got my attention.
After an hour of pulmonary function testing, where I had to do all sorts of weird breathing rituals into a tube, my doctor gave me the results: “You have asthma.”
I replied, “Asthma asthma, or exercise induced asthma?”
She clarified, “Based on these results, I cannot believe you are able to do what you do given how limited the air flow is in your lungs.”
So, asthma asthma. Alrighty then.
On the one hand, this diagnosis brought with it a bit of relief because it was a key explanation to years of symptoms, which I had conveniently rationalized as “normal.” Just in case you were wondering, it is NOT normal to feel like you are sucking air through a straw, or to feel like there is a 100 pound dog sitting on your chest. If you think those symptoms sound normal, it’s time to go see a pulmonologist. Just saying.
On the other hand, this diagnosis absolutely crushed me. I had JUST qualified for Kona at Ironman Louisville, and I was about 6 weeks out from “the” race that I had been working toward for 3 years. But, my sadness went beyond my Ironman goals. I saw so many of my other big dreams slipping away.
Of course, the diagnosis itself didn’t make the asthma happen, but prior to that, ignorance was bliss. Once I had the diagnosis, it became this “thing” that I had to manage each and every day if I wanted to optimize my oxygen flow. As an endurance athlete, oxygen is a pretty key part of my success.
I was in denial for quite a long time. I would take my daily inhaler (a corticosteroid) and the symptoms would decrease. I would convince myself it wasn’t the meds that made the symptoms decrease, that I didn’t really have asthma. I’d stop taking the inhaler, and shortly thereafter, the symptoms would return. Eventually, I accepted it. I would need to take meds for the rest of my life if I wanted to process air.
Over the years, I have come to learn that the worst of my asthmatic symptoms are triggered primarily by: 1) humidity (summer on the east coast is BRUTAL), 2) certain types of pollen (Springtime sucks too), and 3) altitude. I first learned that altitude was a trigger when we did Rim to Rim to Rim, back in 2015. The last mile up to the South Rim, after traversing the Canyon all day, took me about 30 minutes. I had to keep stopping because I just couldn’t breathe. During my next trip to altitude, to do the Zion Traverse, I went through same thing.
Between those two trips, I had all but given up any chance that I could actually finish a race that was at altitude – let alone 10,000 feet plus! This was a major disappointment to me, as some of the most iconic races are up where the air is rarified.
Up Where the Air is Rarified
Last summer, we drove out to Colorado to spend a month before and after the Leadville 100, which John was racing. Having just raced Ironman Lake Placid at the end of July, I showed up in Colorado quite fit. For the first time, I found myself able to run at 6000 feet, and then once in Leadville, at 10,000 feet. I wasn’t fast – but I was running.
I began to dream. Maybe a race at altitude isn’t completely out of the question…
Once I get an idea in my head, I pretty much keep trying to figure out how to make it happen–even if it seems impossible. So, fast forward to this year: John and I signed up for the Silver Rush 50 miler, which begins in Leadville, Colorado – at 10,152 feet, and then climbs to 12,000 feet – four times. Basically, you go up and down from 10k to 12k, and then repeat that. The elevation profile looks like the pyramids of Egypt.
Because I’m an idiot eager, I registered for this race before I saw the elevation profile. I figured Leadville was at 10k. I ran there last year. I’ll be fine! But I didn’t know that 10,000 feet would be the lowest point of the entire day.
Once I internalized what I had signed up for, this race scared me. This was a sensation of fear I haven’t felt since I signed up for my first Ironman in Lake Placid. The fear drove me to do what I could to prepare myself. Extensive altitude training was not an option, and the reviews on all of the altitude preparation gizmos indicate very mixed results – mostly that they don’t work (e.g., masks), or aren’t worth the massive price tag (e.g., tents).
So, I relied on the advice of veterans: get yourself as fit as possible. Looking back on how I felt last summer, I knew that was advice that could work.
I did weighted vest sets. I did track workouts. I ran long. We traveled to mountains. We even went out to Colorado for a week in May. We climbed Hope Pass. I attempted a summit at Gray’s Peak, and I made it all the way to 13,000 feet before I felt like I had to turn around.
On the way to Gray’s Peak
Along the trail to Gray’s Peak
I did what I could. And, then race day came.
Silver Rush 50 is easily the most beautiful course I have run to date. I am positively in love with the look of the alpine landscape, and we had views for days from the various vantage points on this course. There were moments when the beauty of the horizon brought me to happy weepy tears – even as the altitude took my breath away. I love those moments: when the joy and gratitude feels like it comes from your bone marrow and fills your veins with the sensation of LIFE.
I want to stay wrapped in that moment.
Photo credit: Des Marek. https://www.instagram.com/desrunsbecause/
Photo credit: Des Marek. https://www.instagram.com/desrunsbecause/
The race begins straight up a hill, which made me laugh the day before when I saw it. This opening hill is not long, and it was easy enough to take it slowly. Although for those so inclined, whoever gets to the top first, gets a Leadville 100 entry. Nothing like going completely anaerobic at the beginning of a 50 miler!
John and I at the opening hill at Silver Rush the day before the race.
A view from the top of the hill the morning of the race.
After the opening salvo, the race meanders through the woods for several miles, on a very runnable surface (especially compared to the roots and rocks of the trails on the East Coast!). These opening miles don’t offer any big climbs. It is characterized by what trail runners refer to as “douche grade” – not flat, but not an actual hill. In triathlon, you may hear this type of climbing referred to as “false flats.”
For these opening miles, I got into a (slow) rhythm. I gained my confidence that I could breathe. Of course, at this point, I was still at “only” 10,000 or so feet. Around the 5 mile mark, the first long climb to 12,000 truly begins. There really aren’t any very steep sections on this course (other than the hill at the start – hahaha!), so the climbs are more like long, slow grinds.
I power hiked the climbs (always walk with purpose!), and was able to run the descents. At times, my breath would “catch” a bit when running downhill. When that happened, I just slowed down, grabbed some air, and then plugged along again.
I remember one moment, maybe on the second climb up to 12,000, coming to the top of a vista, and just being positively overwhelmed with the beauty of the landscape. I didn’t bring my phone with me, because I knew I’d be pushing cutoffs, and didn’t want to risk time taking pictures. But, I have many mind memories of how gorgeous that course was.
John and I are planning to move to Colorado in about a year – but the timeline almost got sped up when he was offered a job a month ago. But, he didn’t take it – the opportunity wasn’t quite right. As I took in the sights of the Colorado skyline, I thought to myself, I can’t believe John didn’t take that job! We could do this EVERY WEEKEND!
I came into the halfway point of the race in better-than-expected time, and was feeling like quite the big girl. (Remember the old adage about not counting your chickens…). Here I saw John’s parents, who had re-arranged their cross-country RV trip to meet up with us, and my friend Whiting. She was everywhere on that course race day. Every time I came into a crew area – she was there with her children, cheering. It was so wonderful to be so far from home and to have a cheering section!
These seemingly “little” things fill up a big space in a runner’s heart.
The course was adventurous at times. Somewhere around mile 30 (as I was on one of the high points of the course), I could hear thunder and I saw the dark clouds accumulating in the distance. I moved as swiftly as I could – which is to say not truly swift – and hoped I would not be killed by lightning.
All this time, I was worried about my lungs, but here it will be the lightning that will get me!
I felt the temperature DROP (say that in your head like the Beastie Boys: feel the beat mmmmmDROP!). I felt the first few drops of wetness. And, then those drops started to hurt.
Hail. Mother-loving hail. Ah, yes. Mountain weather is all of the weather all day long.
While I had a jacket and a hat, my gloves had somehow disappeared. My hands began to turn into white icicles, dangling from my wrists.
Out on the course. Downhill = running.
I made it to the aid station, where a generous volunteer lent me her gloves. I seriously don’t know what I would have done without them, as I couldn’t even undo my hydration pack because my hands were white and frozen.
Eventually, I got down low enough that the hail stopped, and so did the rain. But, then, it got warm. When descending from altitude, there is a line (as you approach or enter the treeline) at which point the temperature increases. You can literally take just a few steps, and all of a sudden the temperature is a lot warmer (or cooler as you are ascending).
Now, as I passed this point, I felt myself cooking. I had on a jacket, a hat and gloves, so I had to disrobe. But, I waited too long. I felt the effects of letting myself get too warm.
I was also starting to feel the effect of altitude. Each time I made the slow hike up to 12,000 feet, the mountains took a bigger bite out of my lungs. I started to feel that familiar tightness, as the volume of air flow dropped.
I sucked on my rescue inhaler. The mountains laughed at my attempts.
Before the last climb up to 12,000 feet, I was cheered along by Whiting’s husband, Doug. Again: how amazing to have people recognize you, call you out, and give you words of encouragement–especially at moments when you aren’t expecting it. I was starting to feel like mountain goat-doo-doo at this point, but his words to me lifted me up: “Maria Simone! Looking good! The last 3 mile climb – and you are downhill to home! You are managing this course so well.”
I thought: I am? Yes, yes. I AM!
By the last bit of that climb up to 12,000 feet, I was reduced to a very slow walk, but I was moving forward. I would keep on moving forward.
Not today, mountains! You won’t take me today! I thought defiantly.
When I got to the end of that final 3 mile climb, I felt a sense of relief. It would be all down hill from here! Despite the lung limiter, my legs felt the best they’d ever felt in a 50 miler – and I didn’t have any of the stabbing in my quads, like you can get from long descents. I felt prepared.
I ran. I smiled. I felt grateful. I breathed. It was easier at this point to breathe because: 1) we were heading down several hundred feet, and 2) the effort was less because now I had the help of gravity. I was feeling good – and on target to finish just under 13 hours – like 12:5X – but hey, under 13 hours. I was going to beat the cutoffs – AND I was going to survive. Bonus!
That’s the thing about ultras: you feel good, you feel bad, you feel amazeballs, you feel like you want to crawl under something. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
I started to get vertigo. I went with my first rule of racing: most things can be solved by slowing down, eating and drinking.
One of the sweetest finish lines!
I made it to the last aid station, which signaled 7 miles to go. The vertigo wasn’t constant, but it threatened if I pushed the effort too much. I also felt hot, even though it was not particularly warm (joys of pre-menopause).
Then, I started to have these blacking out episodes. I would lose tracks of time, and feel like I was waking up – even though I was moving. I started to worry that I would trip and fall during one of these episodes, so I wound up walking most of that final 7 miles. While I realized I wasn’t blacking out for more than a few seconds each time, it was enough for me to slow my roll before I rolled off the side of a ledge.
Ah, there goes the sub-13 hours. Phooey. But, I had to choose between breaking my skull open and survival. Since my A goal was survival, I went with the strategy that seemed most in line with the key reward.
Even with the walking, the vertigo remained, and the headache and the sleepies began. I was fighting to keep my eyes from closing.
By now, you are reading this and putting all the symptoms together: the altitude was catching up!
But, I had less than 7 miles to go. I did the math: I can still make the cutoff–even if I can’t run at all. I would trot from time to time, but after about 5 minutes or so of running, I would get really disoriented, and on the verge of blacking out. So, I walked for a bit. Then, I’d try my luck with trotting – and same result. So, put that sequence on repeat, and I eventually found my way to the finish line in 13 hours and 13 minutes – literally HOURS slower than my typical 50 miler.
But, I met my goal. I survived my first race at altitude. While my lungs are still trying to put themselves back together (two weeks later!), I am so grateful for the opportunity to cross that finish line. I cried from relief and joy – as John captured in this video.
https://www.runningalife.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/IMG_8774.mp4
It’s hard for me to accept limits (even though I understand that some may exist). I never really wanted to accept that I could not finish a race at altitude. I didn’t want asthma to ever be an excuse for not trying something. Now that I have, I know that it requires all of my focus and discipline to make that finish line. But, then again, every goal worth having requires grit and perseverance. The feeling of finishing something that you weren’t sure you could is empowering.
Once I catch my breath, I’ll be seeking out the next high.
Survival of the Fittest: Silver Rush 50 Race Report When I signed up for the Silver Rush 50, which starts in Leadville, Colorado, I had one goal: Survive.