The 2013 Bighorn Mountain Run 50 Mile

Having ran 46 miles through the mountains, a guy can be left feeling a bit emotionally vulnerable. I suppose that's my excuse for my sudden welling-up with tears as I coasted down the Tongue River Canyon trail. It wasn't because I was in pain. It wasn't because I was having a tough day of ultramarathoning... it was because I was doing waaaay better than I had ever imagined I would ever do that day. Crying because something is going really well?! Men don't do that. What had caused me to get so weird?

The day began as usual, waking up at 3:30am and driving to the starting line at the top of the Bighorn Mountains. I was scared. I was sleepy. And I was drinking some chia seed concoction know as a “Synergy” drink (available in the hippie drinks aisle at your local grocery store). Having run an ultramarathon before, I knew what was coming for me. Even worse, I knew that I had forgotten a lot of what was coming for me, and that I would soon remember why I swore off ultrarunning for three days after the last one.

We arrived at the starting area and saw the scene... a bunch of people with fantastic calf muscles and running attire trying to stay warm. We pulled into a parking spot, and I initiated warmup-for-an-ultra routine... apply sunscreen, go tinkle a few times because I was cold and scared, then sit in the car and stay warm. You'll be pleased to know I executed a perfect warmup.

Then the call came for us to report to the start line. Two hundred or so of us crowded in behind an RV, myself gravitating toward the back of the pack because I intended on taking this one slowly and I didn't want to get in anyone's way. A bundled-up, middle aged man grabbed a microphone that was attached to a single speaker and belted out the national anthem. The field of runners counted down from 10 (well, except for us in the back who didn't know what was happening), and then the entire field began moving forward like a heard of cattle. Feeling equal parts excitement for the great trail running ahead, and dread because there was about 30 miles too much of it, I was now on my way to the mighty struggle that awaited me mere hours away. The key for the first part of the race was to attempt to keep the “mighty struggle” section of the day from coming to visit me too soon.

Hanging in the very back seconds after the start.

The first few miles of the course involved a number of bottlenecks that left me walking and waiting as the runners ahead of me cleared out. Having to stop and walk was not of real concern to me, as I welcomed the opportunity to keep it slow.

We proceeded from the starting line over a small ridge, and then down the Little Horn Canyon, splashing through mud holes and swamps, hopping streams, and generally having a lovely time in the mountains. I made sure to walk any uphills, and occasionally I even stopped and walked for a minute just for the heck of it. No need to get in any hurries this early in the game. I found that, even though I was walking at times, my overall pace was causing me to pass quite a number of people. I was moving up from the back of the pack, and I barely felt like I was exerting myself. The day seemed to already be going better than expected.

The first 18 miles of the the run go quite quickly. In a flash, we had gone from the top of the Bighorn Mountains (9000ft), down to the Footbridge Aid Station at the base of them(4200ft). Other than my expected flare-up of runner's knee, I felt great. In fact, even though I had been running like a slacker, I had covered the first section of the run in the same time as I had achieved last year... a somewhat puzzling finding.

At the Footbridge Aid Station, I popped some electrolyte tablets, restocked my pockets with gels, slapped a strap around my knee to keep the runner's knee at bay, and I set off to begin “The Wall”. “The Wall” was so named because it causes many runners to hit “the wall”. It is a section of trail the gains 2000 vertical feet over about 3 miles. During last year's run I was a victim of “The Wall's” uh... “walliness”. Last year, I tore into the climb lacking patience. I nearly puked as I approached the top of it. This year, I relaxed, pretended I was out for a hike, and set my burly mountaineer's thighs to work eating up the hill. This time, I felt great! The variation of getting to power hike for a while made me feel almost entirely fresh.

Over the course of my hike up “The Wall,” I had managed to pass a multitude of people. I saw others getting the life sucked out of them as had happened to me last year, so I encouraged them along and joked about the situation. Cheering on other competitors is a trait that makes ultramarathons the best type of runs out there, and through helping the morale of others through quips and encouraging words, I found that I began to enjoy the day that much more.

I arrived at the Bear Camp Aid Station and was met by a friendly volunteer who filled my water bottles. As I gathered a few handfuls of food, I noticed a woman who was doing the 100-miler doubled over in tears at the table. The 100-milers had begun the previous day and had been going all night. She was on about mile 70 of her journey. A man had his arm around her and was pep-talking her and helping her break down the remaining section of the course. I couldn't help but think about how bizarre of a sport ultramarathon running is. She had put herself into that “pain cave”. It was her choice to be there, at the end of herself, wanting nothing more than to be out. But given her position on the course, I knew that she had committed to at least another 13 miles that she would have to complete before she could get out. Even in her condition, she wasn't stopping anytime soon.

I had a great deal of respect for her. I knew well that I may end up in her same position in an ultramarathon someday... maybe even later that day. In fact, at about mile 40 last year, I was in a similar position in my own little way... tears welling-up in my “man eyes,” wanting nothing more than to be out of there. But stopping wasn't happening. I had to keep going... at least to the next aid station. I wasn't in great physical danger, but my mind had thrown-in the towel, and it wanted me to be done.

So why on earth would I come back for another round, even though last year ranked as one of the top 5 most horrifying (but strangely wonderful) things I had been through in my life?

Well, I really don't know. After wasting approximately 5 hours of my life attempting to write an adequate explanation this afternoon, I carefully crafted a pie chart and a thought map in hopes of expressing why I returned. Enjoy!

I made my way out of Bear Camp Aid Station and finished my snack on the move. My knee was twinging a bit more, so I tried to keep my right leg as relaxed as possible. I continued the process of walking the uphills and running the downhills and flats. The section of the course between Bear Camp and Dryfork aid stations measures about 13 miles. It is a beautiful section of course that crosses in and out of meadows, but it's uniformity makes it somewhat if an unmemorable place. What I do recall is that I continued to pass people. I started feeling a bit fatigued, but compared to the aching pains that I had around my chest, back, and the nausea from last year, I felt like a new man on this go around. I couldn't believe that I had already traveled 30 miles! My only developing concern (aside from my knee) was that I was moving too fast. I'd told my family that I would be at the Dryfork Aid Station at 1:00 at the absolute earliest. It was looking like I was going to get there at about that exact time. I hoped they weren't late, or they would miss the show.

As I hiked up the steep hill into the Dryfork Aid Station at about 7700ft in elevation, I spotted my dad on the road above. Whew! They had made it... barely. And if it wasn't for my dad's conservative “let's plan ahead” approach that caused him to walk ahead of the others to keep an eye on things, they may have missed me entirely.

The trail coming up to Dry Fork Aid Station.  The first 18 miles goes down a the valley cutting across the picture just below the horizon.  Then it's 16.5 more miles to get here.  

As I got my bottles refilled and had a snack, my wife, mom, and Grandma Mary showed up on the scene. I feel kind of odd when I suggest that people come see me at an aid station. I mean, it's not exactly like going to a football game. After driving an hour to a remote corner of the mountains, all they get to do is watch me eat, drink, and pop mysterious white pills containing electrolytes. Then after about five minutes, I'm off. At least we had a chance to snap a picture with me and a couple of my favorite ladies... my mom and grandma. Unfortunately, my wife was the photographer, so she wasn't able to sneak into the picture... darn.

Me, Grandma Mary, and Mom just as I was leaving Dryfork Aid Station.

As I rushed out of the aid station, I began to ponder something: There was a real chance that I would finish this thing in under 11 hours. “What's special about 11 hours?” You might ask.

Well, 11 hours just happens to be the fastest possible time in which I figured I could conceivably finish. In fact, I was actually a little embarrassed to admit my idea of crossing the line within 11 hours, because odds were that I would finish a lot slower than that, leaving me looking really silly. Beyond being the far reach of my own personal goal, 11 hours also happens to be a qualifying time that allows you to enter into the Western States 100, a legendary race that is the ultramarathon equivalent of the Boston Marathon. It's not that I actually want to enter into Western States at this moment in my career, but it would be fun to know that I could if I wanted to. To run a qualifying time on a course like Bighorn, which is more difficult than many 50 milers... well that would be one of my greatest personal achievements!

But it was too early to dream of 11 hours. I still had 16 miles and 3000 vertical feet of downhill awaiting me. It was during the last 16 miles that I blew my transmission last year. Would it happen again this year?

I continued to walk out of the aid station while I finish my cookies and my slice of pizza. Even though I could feel the time press, I knew I couldn't hurry and risk making my body fall apart on me. As I finished my pizza and cleared the ridge above Dryfork Aid Station at about 8100ft, I began running again. I had a nasty side ache springing up, and my knee hurt, but I generally felt pretty solid. I alternated running with a few stretches of walking to prolong my strength, and before long the side ache was gone and I was settling into a rhythm. I sailed down to the Upper Sheep Creek Aid Station, making quick work of the 5 mile stretch from Dryfork that seemingly lasted an eternity last year.

I didn't linger at the aid station, only stopping for a quick hit of Sprite before being on my way. I ran down the hill along Sheep Creek, and that is when I encountered the obstacle that was my undoing last year... the steep climb to the top of Horse Creek Ridge. I tied into the climb up the ridge and passed a man who was attempting to cut the size of the hill down through the use of some well-placed expletives. I gathered that it wasn't working for him, and gave him some space and let him know it was the last major climb as I went around him.

Everything felt so much smaller this year. I cleared Horse Creek Ridge with little exertion, and couldn't figure out why it was such a big deal last year. Perhaps it was because I was drinking more water. Perhaps it was my trail-heavy, mountain-loving training. Perhaps it was the sheer quantity of avocados I had consumed that spring (they're a super-food, you know).

Coming down off of Horse Creek Ridge involves dropping about 3000 vertical feet in four miles. This descent was the site of my breakdown last year, where I was reduced to a pouting little schoolgirl. This year my mindset was considerably different... I was on track for 11 hours, and I needed to finish strong. “Time to get 'er done, Nate.” I thought.

Horse Creek Ridge is the grassy one in the distance.  At mile 40, we cleared the ridge and proceeded down the canyon cutting across the picture just in front of it.  

As I chopped my way down the steep grade, my runners knee was loudly expressing its displeasure. I tried sideways, I tried little steps, I tried everything to make it happy. I was beginning to pass the back-of-the-pack 30k runners by the multitudes, and I could tell that most of them were in their own world of pain. To lighten the mood, I made it a point to speak for my knee as I passed them. “Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch!” I would report with each step. Most of them seemed pleased to hear that the guy passing was in considerable pain as well. Just doing what I could for the good of humanity, I guess.

Eventually the descent ended, and I was left cruising down the familiar stretch of trail in the lower reach of Tongue River Canyon, a place where I regularly go for rock climbs and training runs when I am visiting my wife's family in Dayton. With about 6 miles of relatively flat land to travel to the finish, the reality of the moment was upon me: I was actually going to finish in under 11 hours!

And that's when I suddenly found my eyes welling-up with tears in a way that shouldn't happen when you're a man. I'm sure it had a little to do with the heat and the 46 miles I had covered, but I suddenly was overcome with a deep respect for what the man in me was capable of accomplishing. We spend so much time watching reality shows and sports on TV, secretly wishing that we were those people, not our boring, normal selves. Being raised with the mountains central to my life, ultramarathon runners have become, in my mind, among the most elite of mountain people. They take week-long backpacking trips and multi-day mountain summits and turn them into single-day, or even just afternoon, jaunts. To become one of them is to change my entire outlook on myself. For whatever reason, my performance last year failed to allow me to see myself as a true ultramarathon runner. But this year, be it the speed or the style in which I was finishing, I found my view of myself to have changed. I didn't want to be someone else, someone famous and interesting on TV. I wanted nothing more than to be me. I was now a real life ultramarathon runner!

With renewed vigor in my step, I naturally stopped to tinkle for a minute. Moments later, as I finished the trail portion of the run, I found myself on the Tongue River Canyon Road... the home stretch for the finish line. With open road before me, I set to work eating it up as quickly as I could. Now that I had accepted myself as an ultramarathon runner, I was no longer merely going to survive the last five miles, I was going to attack them and log the best time I could!

Cruising down the Tongue River Canyon Road to the finish.

I took off town the road, mostly running, with the occasional walking break to mix it up. After a few miles, I met my escort to the finish... comprised of my wife, my mother-in-law, and my mom, all riding their bikes out to meet me. The last miles of gravel road can be a bit monotonous, so it was nice to have the entertainment and company. I passed a multitude of 30 and 50k runners, and maintained my place in the 50 mile race. My mom was engaged in her own race with my mother-in-law, Monique... only she never explained to Monique that the reason she was repeatedly speeding past her on her bike was because she was “beating” her. I guess now we know where my competitive side comes from.

Mom taking a break from her bike "races" with Monique to cheer me on with her little, plastic hand clapper.  

Passing some of the 30k or 50k runners on the final stretch.

I cruised into Dayton feeling good, and to commemorate my previous life as a hurdler, I sprinted the last 50 feet and leaned into the finish as if breaking the tape in the 110-meter hurdles. It was a perfect way to end, and it redeemed my finish last year, when I could do nothing but walk slowly across the line to prevent fainting. My finishing time was far beyond my wildest expectations: 10 hours, 35 minutes, 59 seconds (good thing I leaned!). I placed 26^th out of a field that I'm told was over 200 runners when the day began. Not bad for my second ultramarathon.

Coming into Dayton feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

About to start my sprint to the finish.

Why one uses electrolyte tablets.

Gaiters off, burly dirt lines.  Go Altra Zero Drop Shoes!

The whole crew who turned up.  Monique's bike made the photo, but not Monique.  

Me, my wife, and the finishers shirt.  Sarah had the pleasure of waking up at 3:30 am to drive me to the starting line so I didn't have to ride the bus.  She also regularly makes heaps of great post-run food that greet me after long training runs.