RACE REPORT // Bryce 100: Returning For Revenge
Seven years ago I discovered Utah.
I don’t mean like Mormon-level-discovered Utah. I just mean, like, I personally discovered it. I somewhat drunkenly convinced my old college roommate Matt to sign up for the now-defunct Slickrock 50 outside Moab. A few months later, as we wound our way over undulating waves of slickrock on the rim of canyons in the middle of expansive, desolate desert, I realized something: I was hooked.
Southern Utah is an alien planet. It’s Mars on Earth. It’s the most endlessly fascinating terrain in North America, and some of its most brutal too. Since my first experience, I return every chance I get. I into big, burly mountains. But I’m totally spellbound by Utah desert.
Matt Gunn, the founder of the Ultra Adventure Grand Circle Trail Series, understood that. It’s been his mission to get more people out to explore this far-flung corner of the country. In 2013 I took him up on the challenge, being so enthused, I signed up for both Zion 100 and Bryce 100 just six weeks apart. Zion was the best race of my life. Bryce was the worst.
At Zion, I ran a fast race all day, finishing in 17:55, a mere three minutes off first place. But, I was so focused on Zion that Bryce ended up an afterthought. I just assumed it’d be a beautiful course, pretty much as “easy” as Zion. And since it was the inaugural year for Bryce, no one knew any different.
What we got instead was one of the most sneakily brutal courses I’ve ever experience. You pay for the occasional mind-blowing viewpoints with a leg-grinding, brain-mushing, oxygen-depriving hell of route. I’ll spare you the details, but the end result was my first and only DNF. I made it 74 miles before I couldn’t breathe, stopped eating and got frozen cold. At that point, the idea of running another marathon was simply impossible to wrap my mind around.
But this year, when I realized I needed a Western States qualifier AND I had to get it before the arrival of our kid, the ole Bryce 100 suddenly seemed more inviting than it ever had. I signed up and decided it was time for revenge.
About 250 of us are standing around, waiting for this thing to begin. I have a weird feeling. It’s not nerves. It’s more like, I don’t want to be there in the first place. Half an hour before, as we drove to the starting line, Dom, Katie and I had gotten lost. We had no idea where we were going. Inside of me, a little pang of hope said, Maybe I won’t have to actually run this thing.
But, lucky me, we found the start. I’d have to run this thin after all.
“Two minutes till we start!” the RD yells from his perch. I move towards the starting line, and see something I’ve never seen before: Everyone is standing five feet behind the line. Weird. No one wants to toe the line. I thought this was a race? I say to myself and step up to the line. There’s the “10… 9… 8…” and in a blink, we were off. Me, five feet in front of about 249 people.
I take off strong but not particularly fast. After a couple miles on dusty, flat dirt roads, the course turns off onto undulating, windy singletrack that screams in and out of draws. I pop a few peeks from the other side of the draws and find that I’m already about four minutes up on numbers 2 and 3.
Thunder Mountain Trail is one of the most magical stretches of trail I’ve ever run, and I have good memories of it from last time—perhaps my only good memories from last time. After careening through the bright red, ponderosa-speckled draws like some kind of dusty rollercoaster you suddenly hit them. Hoodoos. Big, alien pillars of red, pink and white sand. It’s as if Earth spontaneously sprouted its own Easter Island heads.
I go screaming through the hoodoos, stop to take my customary first-10-mile shit off the side of the trail and then carry on, dropping down onto the Grandview Trail.
The vast majority of the race takes places on Grandview, although the trail varies dramatically from wide, rocky ATV trails to barely-there, bushwhacky singletrack. This would be my life for the next day 20 hours or so.
I roll up to the Thunder Mountain Aid Station (mile 10.5) as the volunteers are still unloading a few things and ask for some fruit. Instead, I have to go into the tent and open the food myself. But I guess so are the pains of being the first to the aid stations.
With some very fresh orange slices in my belly, I lope off towards Proctor Canyon, already a few minutes ahead of my splits. The next section is a good kick in the face, dusty drops and climbs as you weave your way along the base of the plateau, snaking over a series of canyons. As I bomb down the stupid-steep singletrack, all I can think is, Shit. I have to run back up all this shit in about 75 miles.
This is the precise moment when I realize that out-and-back is 100% objectively the absolutely worst format for a 100-mile race. I’ve done HURT with it’s five 20-mie jungle loops. I’ve done Big’s Backyard Ultra with 4-mile loops every hour. But 50 miles out and the same 50 miles turned 180 degrees? Woof woof.
I come into the Proctor Canyon Aid Station (mile 19) a bit knackered but overall, feeling good. Dom and Katie are there waiting for me. A welcome sight after running by myself for nearly 20 miles. I’ve gained another five minutes on my splits.
“I’m kind of surprised I’m winning,” I tell them as they stuff fresh gels into my pack. “I don’t feel like I’m running that fast. I’m just running really comfortably. But the weird thing is… that’s as fast as I can run.”
I’m running at the very edge of what I could but I was nowhere near red-lining. The altitude was acting like a governor, keeping my effort comfortable and in check. Whatever works, right? I still can’t believe I’m leading.
And boom, just like that, I’m not leading anymore.
Another runner comes shooting through the aid station and out the other side. The feeling I experience isn’t disappointment. Oddly, it’s relief. Phew. I don’t have to be in the lead anymore. I can just run my own race.
Out of Proctor, I wind my way through scrubby meadows and soft pine forests, eventually climbing up to the very top of the plateau. At times the trail is faint, at other times, it clings to the side walls of dusty draws by the skin of its teeth. Finally, there’s one last nut-kicker as you push up to the top of the plateau and the Blubber Creek Aid Station (mile 28).
Another aid station, another time waiting on food. “Do you have any fruit?” “Oh, we can cut some up for you.” “Uhhhhhh… yeah… that’d be great.” So I stand there, again, waiting for them to pull out more oranges and cut them up. A couple minutes later, I shoot off into the forest again.
The top of the rim offers jaw-dropping views for miles and miles. It’s the first time you get a taste of the rugged cliffs you’re running along. Strangely, I have almost zero recollection of this from four year ago. I was basically blacked out the majority of the race. So, this discovery is a rather pleasant one. Oh, it’s really beautiful up here.
Just a few paces out of the aid station, I caught sight of the other runner who had passed me back at Proctor. Not wanting to jump back into first just yet, I trail him for a bit, staying a comfortable pace behind and watching. I can tell he’s starting to falter.
It’s early afternoon, and the day had grown intensely hot. It looks like he’s running with one only bottle. Not smart. Last night right as I was going to bed, in a super-last-minute-OCD change, I threw in a third bottle to carry between Proctor Canyon and Blubber Creek just in case. I can feel my bottles bouncing on my chest. I’ve nearly sucked all three dry. So I know this guy in front of me is in serious trouble.
Right around mile 30, I pass him back on a climb. I’m back in the lead. Damn. Have to remember, I’m running my own race.
At Kanab Creek Aid Station (mile 36) I’m in and out fast. Now, the descent down to Straight Canyon Aid Station at mile 41 and a chance to see my crew again. The sun is blasting full-bore by now, and I actually think to myself, Thank God for AC. I know how to run in the heat. I feel bad for everyone else.
After a few miles later, and I burst out into a clearing to see a massive aid station below me. At Bryce 100, Straight Canyon is the jam. And it’s hopping. After all the quiet miles by myself, it feels good to finally get some big cheers from the crowd. But more importantly, it feels good to cool down.
Dom and Katie go to work immediately. I get ice-cold Moroccan mint tea in my bottles (my new secret weapon), an ice bandana around my neck and a full soak-down compliments of Dom. It’s UH-MAZING. I feel like a NASCAR at a pit stop. And a couple of minutes later, I bound off, feeling pumped up, cooled down, and like I can kick all the asses. By now I’m about 30 under my 22-hour pace. As my dad says, ha cha cha!
I set off for the big climb up to Pink Cliffs Aid Station (mile 46.5) and the highest point of the course, around 9,400 feet. It’s the single most-sustained climb as well. But man, I feel fan-friggin-tastic. After I half-mile, turn off the dusty country road and bound up through a little patch of woods I’ve dubbed Secret Forest. From there, it’s a turn onto another dusty dirt road and climb. Then turn onto doubletrack and climb. And finally bushwhack your way up the last few hundred feet on a sleepy, shaley hillside and climb. I surprise even myself by running nearly every step. In my race plan, I had budgeted 1:50 for these 5.5 miles. Instead I do it in about 50 minutes. At the top of the climb, a volunteer greets me with a “Holy smokes, man! You’re flying!”
More pineapple in my belly compliments of the 10-year at the aid station, and I drop down the—you guessed it—dusty, rocky road towards the turnaround point. Of course, all I think is, Dammit. I have to turn around and run back up this shit.
Now, this is where the course map gets deceiving. On paper, it looks like you just drop into the turnaround point at Crawford Pass (mile 51.5). No. Not true. You have what amounts to a super gnarly, nearly cross-country slog on overgrown singletrack, over fallen trees and across rocky, chewed up washes. Ah yes, I remember this. I think to myself. How awful.
By now, my ankles are starting to feel pretty beat. Like, baseball-bat-beat.
Imagine you’re an ant, and you’re trying to run across a field of chunky, hunky vomit. All six of your ankles would be wrecked. That’s how I’m starting to keep.
After what seemed like an eternity in the hot sun, I arrive at Crawford Pass.
“I’m definitely a bit knackered,” I announce to Dom and Katie and the loud Australian woman working the aid station. “But I’m waaay happier than the last time I was here.” I flash back to four years ago when I plunked myself down in a red camping chair and tried to (unsuccessfully) wrap my brain around doing everything I just did, but now in reverse. Snapping back to the present moment, I feel tired but excited to still be winning. In fact, I figure, I must have had a pretty good lead at that point.
With another quick patch-up, Dom and I set off for the long return trip to Straight Canyon. I have a pacer now, which is normally nice, but a small bit of dread flashing in my brain as I realize I’ll have to huff and puff and summarize 51.5 miles of the day, all while running back over all that chunky vomit.
On the way out, we pass the second-place guy about 10 minutes from the aid station,. We figured I have about a 23-minute lead. There a bit of a gap and then bam, bam, bam, bam. Four or five other guys all another 5-10 minutes off second place. It’s a little tighter than I thought. It might turn out to be a race after all.
Up and over Pink Cliffs, the sun beats down on us mercilessly. By now, I’ve developed a new technique with my ice bandana: Once it’s mostly melted off but was still nice and wet, I slip it under my hat, letting it dangle over my head to make my own makeshift Marathon Des Sables desert hat. It looks silly, but I’m in Fuck-It Mode at this point.
Coming down the bushwhack/shaley section from Pink Cliff, I really start to feel my ankles. And the feeling is pain. Another mile or two down the long dirt road, and my ankles not-so-politely declare, “No more, thankyouverymuch.”
Every single step on my right foot shoots white-hot pain through my ankle. I slow to a jog. Then to a walk. And finally, I can’t even take another step. I pull out of my body for a instant and see that I’m leading the race, on a nice, juicy downhill, and I can’t even take one step forward.
Dom’s selfie game can be a little over-the-top, but man, it’s good to have him around during a tough race. He orders me to lay on the ground, and we try to drain the blood out of my leg through a series of stretches. After a few minutes on my back in the middle of the road, it does the trick, or at least enough to get me back down to Straight Canyon. I still can’t believe I’m in the lead.
By now, we’re passing a stream of runners headed out to the turnaround point. Their kind words of congratulations lights a nice fire under my ass.
That said, there’s one woman who takes a look at me and blurts out, “Are you OK?” “Uhh, yeah. I’m fine. Why?” “You’re going the wrong way.” “Oh, no. I’m headed to the finish.” She looks back at me skeptically.
To be far, my makeshift desert bandana probably looks dumb, and I most definitely look like shit.
Back at Straight Canyon, the party has swelled. It’s almost overwhelming. So many people hovering around. I come in and collapse on the ground so Dom can stretch me out again. A very nice volunteer offers to help out by throwing a few ice cubes at my which immediately bounce off my chest and into the grass. I think to myself, This is one of those scenes that makes all the other crews tell their runners, “Yeah, the first-place guy was here 12 minutes ahead of you, but he looked like actual dog shit.” Screw it. I don’t care. I have to patch myself back together. Where’s the fucking duct tape?
I take longer than I would’ve liked, but so be it. My right ankle feels like it’s holding on by a thread. And the left one? Maybe four threads. Dom and I set off. We have a stout climb ahead of us, back to the top of the rim. And in the late-afternoon sun, I start to feel pretty haggard. We pass yet another woman going in the opposite direction who grunts at me, “Where are you going?” as if I’m going in the wrong direction. “To the finish line,” I grunt back.
Up on the rim, things start to deteriorate even more. All day I’ve been right at the edge of my pace, which isn’t more than a comfortable jog. But now, back above 9,000 feet for the fourth time today, my engine was running on fumes. Sixty-plus miles at this altitude have finally caught up to me. I’m just depleted. There’s no other word. Depleted. Oh no, I realize. This is exactly what happened last time. Suddenly the specter of my old DNF is breathing down my neck. Not again. I try to keep my head straight. Last time I was barely surviving. This time, I’m—miraculously—in first place.
But it feels like only a matter of time.
Somewhere around mile 70 or so, as we power hike up a rock-strewn doubletrack, a runner and pacer saunter up behind us. We exchange the customary head nod and “great job, man” and that was it. Swift and painless. I’m out of it.
But then, to add literal injury to insult, things get worse. I start to kick rocks. At the time it doesn’t dawn on my, but in retrospect, my busted-ass right ankle must be causing my foot to rotate externally, just ever so slightly. And by doing so, smack, smack, smack. I catching just about every single rock between mile 70 and the finish with my right big toe.
The one reprieve from the pain is the amazing sunset we snag, right above Blubber Creek. This is where I dropped, in the middle of the night, four years ago, so it feels like I’m putting some demons to bed.
As we hurtle down off the rim towards Proctor Canyon, my knee joins the symphony of pain because, why not? I don’t remember a whole lot of this section, mostly because I start to go into a fairly dark place (literally and metaphorically). Dom does his best to keep my spirits up, but isn’t able to do too much. “Man,” he quips out loud. “At least, I’m just glad I get to be here to see you feel so shitty. Now I know it can actually happen to you.” Funny. Katie says just about the same thing a few hours later.
Dropping into the Proctor Canyon aid station, I get passed by two (three?) other runners. At this point, I don’t care. I’m deep within the pain cave. I sit down in a car, scarf down a freshly made bowl of ramen noodles, swig a whole can of Coke and then aske Dom and Katie’s permission before I pop two ibuprofens. I know it’s not great idea, but at this point, it feels like the difference between finishing in four hours and finishing in eight.
After a quick squabble between Dom and Katie over Dom spilling soda on Katie’s puffy, Katie and I set off to stalk the finish line. Instantly—thanks to the miracle of ibuprofen—I feel better. Amazingly, I’m also still right at or right under my original 22-hour target pace. So, things aren’t so bad. Or at least at this point they’re not.
Remember all those descents in the morning? Those ones I knew would turn into ascents at night? Yeah. I start to hit them. And there are way more of them than I ever remember. (There always are.) The night becomes a power-hike punctuated by kicked rocks and maybe one or two more runners passing us.
Finally, we arrive at Thunder Mountain, our last aid station, mile 92.5. More soup, more Coke, let’s roll.
This final section of the course is also the first. So, it’s all those super-fun rollers through hoodos and draws from earlier in the day. And in fact, I had been excited about it all day—partly because it’s objectively fun/cool, partly because I wanted Katie to see it and partly because (FOR SOME REASON) I didn’t think it had too many climbs.
It is steep. It is so steep. I’m reduced to a painfully slow and painfully painful power hike. At one point, I can feel the exact moment the ibuprofen wore off. A snap of pain floods back into my legs, ankles and feet.
And that’s when I thought the thought. You know, The Thought. Capital T, capital T. The Thought. The Thought where you think it. The Thought that goes, At least it can’t possibly get any worse.
Because you know what always happens next…
We’re power hiking a super steep incline, and suddenly I hear a SQUISH from below me. My right foot slides back in my shoe. What the hell was that? I wonder. And then I know. I know because I feel it. And what I feel is a giant blister that—unbeknownst to me—had been forming under my entire right heel and at this very moment decided to pop. Now, suddenly, every step is excruciating pain. My pacer and all the forest creatures know it because I scream expletives with every step.
This is officially a comedy of errors.
We soldier on. We get passed by yet another runner, solo. He’s fucking flying. How? By now I just want to be done. Unfortunately the course isn’t.
One bright spot is the gaggle of hoodoos. Suddenly, like giants congregating in the night, our headlamps light them up. In the pitch-black night, they’re ghostly. “HOLY SHIT!” Katie starts screaming. “THIS IS SOOOO COOL!” It was the first time she had ever seen hoodoos. Like, ever. And it was blowing her mind. We snapp a few photos and enjoy a brief reprieve from my grim task of kicking every rock I could find. I cherish the moment of levity.
Soon, we start winding in and out of the draws. Turning, climbing, cresting, turning, dropping. Over and over again. By now, we’re counting down the miles. Three miles… two miles… one mile… “The finish line must be right at the Thunder Mountain trailhead!” I said as if I knew. I’d never made it this far.
The draws keep coming. With every one we say, “This HAS to be the last one.” And nope, another fucking draw. After the race, Matt Gunn tells me, “Oh yep, those eleven draws, huh?” It would’ve really been nice to know the number eleven going in. Instead, every new turn is a heartbreak. The total mileage ticks 100 miles. Oh c’mon…
Finally, finally, FINALLY, the trail straightens out and we dip down to the trailhead. There’s nothing there. No finish line. No lights. No spectators. Just a pink ribbon to follow. Oh c’mon…
We turn left onto the dusty country road that I breezed along nearly 23 hours ago. “The finish line has to be right around this corner,” we both keep saying. But we take a corner and a corner and another corner, and all we see is a great big expansive of nothing. Pine forest. Dirt. Darkness.
You know when you’re just so over a race and ready to be done? Yeah.
The road seems to stretch on forever, with no indication that we were nearing any sort of civilization. I turn to Katie and only half-jokingly say, “I think I’m gonna drop right here.”
Finally, we see it. Or something. We see lights anyway. We get a little closer, and we see it. It’s the finish line.
You know that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where the knights are rushing a castle and it cuts and then it cuts back to them and it doesn’t look like they’ve made it any closer and then it keeps doing that? That’s essentially what happens here. Even when we can see the finish line, it feels out of reach. Once again, I turns to Katie and say, “I think I’m gonna drop here.” I was joking slightly more this time.
I cross the finish line. What a day. What a course. What a relief to be done. “How do you feel?” someone asks. “I’m just glad I don’t have to run this damn race ever again,” I say. And I mean it. Bryce 100 is a brutal race. I thought it four years ago when I DNF’d it. And I think it again today. 23:01, sixth place, and the utter stuffing beat out of me.
After offering me a beer (which I gladly accept), Matt Gunn urges me to go pick out my finisher belt buckle. Each one is handmade and unique. And as I peruse the table in a shell-shocked, sleep-deprived, mind-mushed state I grab the only pink-colored buckle I see. “The happiness of this belt buckle represents the exact opposite of how I feel,” I tell the poor volunteer standing there who has no idea how to respond.
In the light of day, it might be one of my favorite buckles for that very reason.
Utah lives up to its legend. It’s everything I wanted. It’s a land of wonderful brutality. And beautiful wonderality.
I feel like I’ve been baptized into it with the Bryce 100. And even if I never run it again, it will always hold a very special place in my heart.
This race took everything out of me. I knew it was a hard race at the time, but in the convening weeks since then, I gained even more respect for it.
For the first week after race day, I just felt like I’d gotten the shit beat out of me. Hour-long epsom salt baths (perhaps accompanied by a viewing of The Unbreakable Kimmy Schimdt) were the norm. All I wanted to do was lounge around. I got my ass properly kicked.
For those counting, 116 hours of recovery time is almost five days.
Beyond the emotional wear-and-tear I was physically brutalized too. Thanks to all those rocks I decided to kick for the last 30 miles, several toenails were full blackened and primed to eject themselves from my foot. So, in a moment of curiosity, I went to a podiatrist to see what official medical intervention could do. (In my all races, this has never occurred to me.) About 25 shots of novocaine to my toe later, all the blood was drained. And I’m happy to report I’m still the proud owner of ten toenails.
Beyond the toenails, my ankles and tesnor/upper IT were wrecked for weeks. Shit, I’m still recovering.
But every time I look down at my bruised toenails or feel a twinge of pain in my hip, I think back to Utah. I think back to the dust and the plateaus and the rocks and the washes and heat and the rocks again, and it reminds me of how brutally beautiful that damn state is. And how I can’t wait to get back.
You know, as soon as all this shit heals up.
The full Strava:
https://www.strava.com/activities/1043646531
