Leadville Training Camp -- Night Run

Driving back into Leadville yesterday (Monday) evening as the sun was setting with the top down and singing along to Thunder Road (RIP Big Man), I knew I'd made the right decision to head back up for the last event of the training camp -- the night run from Twin Lakes to the Tree Line crewing area. 

The night was sublime.  Even though there were dozens of runners participating, we spread out quickly, and I spent almost the entire run utterly by myself on that mountain trail.  It was definitely a new and memorable experience for me:  the quiet of the night, the explosion of stars and visible bands of the Milky Way, the crisp air, the dancing shadows, the peaceful solitude...  I'm actually looking forward to running that section of the trail again during the race itself, even though that will happen around mile 60.

Before last night, the only other night run I'd ever done was a few months ago when Tim was visiting Fort Collins with his kids over their spring break. 

Side note:  I live in both Fort Collins and Denver, and I split my time between the two.  I'm up in Fort Collins every weekend, from Friday until Monday morning (or Sunday night), where I live with my kids (my 18-yr-old daughter Savannah is currently in Melbourne, Australia for a few months enjoying Australia's liberal drinking age (18), and my 17-yr-old daughter Michal is a senior at Ft. Collins HS and just informed me that "blogging is for narcissistic d-bags") and my ex-wife (no, it's not weird; we've been sharing the house for four years, but we've been divorced for 13 years, and it works great).  During the weekdays, I stay in a small apartment in downtown Denver because I work downtown, and there are few things more frustrating to me than the I-25 commute.

Anyway, when Tim was visiting back in April, the only time we could sneak in a long run was after he put his kids to bed.  So, we took off one night around 10pm and ran through the night along the trails between Fort Collins and Loveland (Blue Sky, Indian Summer, Devil's Backbone, Rimrock and the aptly named Coyote Ridge, on which we actually heard coyotes on the ridge howling back and forth).  That run was a milestone for me not just because it was my first night run, but also because it was pretty long (seven hours or so).  Back in April, I'd only just become somewhat accustomed to 20+ mile runs, so I was glad I was physically able to put in the distance that night with Tim.  Now, fortunately I'm able to get in a couple 20 to 30 mile runs almost every week, usually up in Fort Collins (or Rocky Mountain Nat'l Park) back-to-back on Saturday and Sunday. 

The best part of my weekend runs is the moral support I get from my kids.  Typically, when I return home after a long run -- dirty, sweaty, salt-stained and completely exhausted, but feeling a sense of accomplishment that occasionally, I'm sorry to admit, swells into self-satisfaction -- Savannah will immediately burst my pride-bubble by sarcastically congratulating me, "Wow, Dad, you ran almost one quarter of the actual distance you'll need to cover in your race!  Great job!"  Then, Michal will scrutinize my haggardness and earnestly encourage me to increase my life insurance before August. 

Actually, that may not be a bad idea.

Leadville Training Camp Days One and Two

I'm back in Denver after two days up in Leadville at the LT100 training camp.  I dropped Tim off at the airport early Monday morning, so he's on his way back home to Michigan for only about 24 hours with his family before he has to get back to work (pilot for American).

The camp was fantastic.  The mountains were magnificent, the running was challenging and rewarding and the people were fun, friendly and very motivating.  In fact, I had such a great time up there over the last two days that I'm considering driving back up tonight for the final run of the camp -- a four-hour night run from Twin Lakes inbound to I-don't-know-where.  I was planning on skipping this run because I couldn't stay up in Leadville all day Monday, but then somebody put the idea in my head that I could just drive back up after work today, and now that the thought's in my head, I can't get it out. We'll see how I feel this afternoon.

Saturday was a great day as we ran from May Queen to Twin Lakes, about 26 miles with about 3,200' gain and 3,900' loss.  It took just under six hours.  I ran with Tim and Chris Sullivan most of the day.  Chris is a buddy of mine from Denver who needed a place to stay during the camp, so he crashed on the floor in the tiny hotel room with me and Tim. 

Chris Sullivan in the thin air

I think it's fair to say, after spending two days in very tight quarters with me and Tim, Chris will never ask to share a room with us again.  I won't get into any of the details as to why I think this, but I will say that my brother has what some might politely call an irreverent sense of humor, and Chris saw things that, despite his growing up in Jersey, will leave scars on his retinas for years to come. 

Still, we had a great time on the trail on Saturday, and I learned a bit about what that section of the course is like.  For example, there's a several mile flat stretch of road (pavement then dirt) coming out of the Fish Hatchery that I had heard people complain about in the past.  I remember doubting these complaints and thinking that I would probably enjoy a nice flat stretch of road after all the ups and downs on the course.  I figured it would be a good place to relax and maybe even make up some time, if needed.  I was wrong.  There's nothing relaxing or fun about that road.  It's flat, straight and, I don't know, somehow annoying.  My plan for that stretch of road during the race will be to put on some music, go to a happy place and just wait for it to be over -- kind of like ________ (you can insert your own joke here).  

I also got to experience the run down Power Line, which was a bit steeper and a bit more of a sustained downhill than I expected.  The lesson for me is to control that particular descent.  I could easily bomb down that hill -- it's got a decent fun-factor to it -- but I would pay a heavy price for it in terms of my quads and feet later on in the race.

Tim at the bottom of Power Line

 Same goes for the descent into Twin Lakes, which was beautiful, by the way:



Twin Lakes



After the run, we had an hour or so to kill before the spaghetti dinner the camp was catering.  Tim, Chris and I were so hungry that we couldn't wait that long, so we went out for a pre-dinner dinner at the Grill -- two enchiladas, beans, rice and Fat Tire to tide me over for an hour til the real dinner.

Between that pre-dinner and the spaghetti dinner, I lost $20 to Chris in a bet.  Earlier in the day, I had learned that there's a tradition at the Silver Rush 50 (a 50-mile race in July in Leadville) that the first man and woman to make it up the short, steep hill at the very start of the race each wins a coveted silver dollar.  I'm planning on running that race as a long training run to prepare for the LT100 because many sections of the run climb above 12,000'.  So when I heard about this silver dollar thing, I started thinking maybe I should go for it (since, as Tim reminded me, it's about the only thing I conceivably could ever win during a race like that).  So, to check out this hill more closely, the three of us drove over to it so I could climb up and see what it was like. 

Tim and Chris stood at the bottom of the hill while I, with my belly full of green chili and beer, scrambled up this very steep hill, which I later learned is used as a ski training slope for what must be incredibly brave kids.  I got half way up and I started to feel my heart thumping in my ears; three quarters up and I could tell the green chili was considering staging a revolt; nearing the top, I felt my heart's palpitations in my eyeballs, and my lungs burned as I imagined my alveoli bursting like bubble wrap.

I stood on the top of the hill, hands on knees, gasping for air for a few minutes then stumbled back down to Tim and Chris' jeers and taunts.  I told them I would rather re-run the 26 miles we had just finished than hike up that friggin' hill again.  Their mocking continued, so to shut them up, I told them I'd give either of them $20 if they could run up the hill without stopping.  Chris leaned his head back to look up the slope and asked, "Does it count if I puke?"  "Sure, it'll still count as long as you don't stop running," I answered.  So, without another thought, Chris took off up the hill.  I watched in awe (don't tell him) as he motored up that hill with barely an effort -- only a slight falter or two on some loose rocks near the top, which unfortunately didn't cause him to stop running.  He reached the top breathing casually, struck an Arnold-pose, then scrambled back down to collect his $20. 

For the next day and a half, about every two to three minutes, Chris found a way to casually mention, to whoever would listen, his newfound wealth, his hill climbing prowess, and my corresponding wimpiness.

Day Two of camp, Sunday, was one of those days I won't soon forget.  Tim, Chris and I, though we didn't run together, did repeats up the Winfield side of Hope Pass, which represents to many people, one of the most heart-breaking sections of the LT100 course -- it's about 2.5 miles with about 2,700' of gain topping out at 12,600'.  It definitely loomed large in my psyche as one of, perhaps the, main hurdle on the course.  Recall that it was on this section last year that my brother, while I was pacing him, collapsed on the side of the trail and announced he was "done."  

Well, Tim didn't collapse yesterday.  Not even close.  In fact, he ran up and down that mountain twice without stopping.  He was doing so well that -- to use his words -- he was able to give out his excess chi to other runners who were struggling up and down the mountain.  If you don't understand what that means, ask Tim.

Me on Hope Pass

Chris did great on the mountain too.  He summited twice, and we ran into each other at the top on our second trip up.  We hung out at the top for a few minutes with race founder Ken Chlouber, who had hiked up to the pass to paternalistically tell each runner individually how proud he was of him/her.  Frankly, it was nice to hear.

To me, the best part of the camp was doing those repeats because it took a good bite out of the mythical aura of that mountain.  I'll probably run it again soon, and when the snow clears some more, I'll include the Twin Lakes side too.

By the way, that fleeting concern I had when we first got to Leadville on Friday ("who am I kidding, etc...") is under control.  It'll probably try to pop into my head a few more times, but I'll be more ready for it.  After this weekend, I feel much better about running my own race and more confident in my training so far.  Though, with less than eight weeks to go, I have a lot left to do.  

Leadville Training Camp

Tim and I are up in Leadville sharing a tiny room at the Delaware Hotel.  We arrived late this afternoon after a beautiful drive up from Denver.  We checked in with the Training Camp folks, checked into the hotel and then checked on the two houses I rented over the internet for our respective crews to use during the race in August.  It turns out renting a house sight unseen can be a hit or miss proposition.  In this case it was both:  the house I rented for Tim and his crew is a "hit" -- big, spacious and clean.  The house I rented for me and my crew is a solid "miss" -- small, dark and sticky.  The only good part was the pungent odor coming from the kitchen region; it stung my eyes and burned my nose so as to distract me from the small, dark stickiness of the house.  But, I'm sure it'll work out just fine because we won't be spending all that much time in the house during the race weekend anyway.

After we checked out the houses and we had a hearty meal, we took a walk down 6th Street, which happens to be the first and last mile of the LT100.  It's just a neighborhood street running out of town, but because the race starts and ends there, that stretch of road has seen some powerful and dramatic moments.  We both felt it as we walked down the hill out of town where in the distance we could see later sections of the race course:  Turquoise Lake, Sugar Loaf, the Power Line and the Fish Hatchery. We felt that energy even more so after we turned around and walked a mile back up towards where the finish line will be in August.

Setting sun casting a shadow over 6th Street

 I was chatting away (when I could catch my breath), and Tim asked me to be quiet so he could enjoy the moment and the view of the approaching finish line in silence "... so I can remember this view in case I never see it again."  He's not fooling me -- I don't think for a minute that he has any doubt that he'll be seeing that finish line again on August 21.

I, on the other hand, felt my confidence dip a little when we got to Leadville.  When we got to town and checked in with the Training Camp staff, there were many other runners out and about in the area -- serious looking ultra runners.  I couldn't help but notice how damn fit and athletic they all seemed.  I also couldn't help but notice how I was out of breath just walking up the steps at the hotel, so I didn't feel particularly fit or athletic.  I felt a twinge of that what-have-I-gotten-myself-into feeling mixed with that who-am-I-kidding feeling.  It was fleeting, but it shook me a little, even though I should know better.  I'm sure I'll feel better after our run tomorrow morning.

I shared this thought with Tim, and I expected him to say, "Of course you feel inadequate -- you ARE way out of your league."  Instead, he told me he's felt that way a time or two in the past, and I shouldn't worry about the feeling; I should embrace it and use it to train harder.  Ultimately, he said, my race is my own, and the only real competition will occur inside my own head.  It's just the runner and the trail and that's it.  Like Yoda he can be sometimes.

Zero to Two Miles

Tomorrow, eight weeks before the LT100, my brother Tim and I will drive up to Leadville to get in some high elevation running at the LT100 Training Camp.  The plan for Saturday is a 26-mile run from May Queen to Twin Lakes, apparently with some ice climbing near the top of Sugarloaf (or so the trail reports suggest).  Sunday's run was supposed to be a Hope Pass double crossing, but the glaciers on the Twin Lakes side of the pass have not receded enough to allow us to run that side of the mountain yet.  So, we'll get a reroute for Sunday, but at least we'll get to climb and descend the steeper Winfield side of the pass and log probably 20 or so miles.

Now, I casually describe this upcoming 46-mile weekend (above 10,000' with several thousand feet of elevation gain) as if it were a normal, no-big-deal thing for me.   And frankly, in the last several months, it's almost become that.  But what I need to remind myself -- in fact, my main goal in writing these things down here -- is that ten months ago a 50-mile weekend was unthinkable.  I truly started at zero-mile weekends (hell, I was logging zero-mile years), like this blog's title says, zero to one hundred.  Now, I'm not "there" yet -- I haven't gone one hundred miles, yet -- but I've made modest progress in the right direction.  And though it is against my nature (usually) to look backwards or to pat my own back, in this situation, I think it's worthwhile to remind myself of that progress and that my training is working (mostly) -- especially when I feel like I'm way out of my league, like my ignorance has colluded with my arrogance to allow me to bite off way more than I can chew.  Sometimes, when such thoughts try to creep into my head, a quiet reminder of where I was ten months ago, and where I am today, gives me confidence (hopefully, not false confidence) that I'll be where I need to be in eight weeks.

So, with that purpose in mind, over the next few blog entries, I'm going to recap for posterity the last ten months of this adventure as best my waning memory will allow.  I've kept a haphazard training log on my refrigerator, and I began using a Garmin early on, so I should be able to recount at least some of the training details with reasonable accuracy. 

2010 LT100: me & Tim

As you know, my experience last August pacing my brother at the 2010 LT100 inspired me to run the race in 2011.  However, registration for the 2011 LT100 didn't open until sometime in November.  So, between August and November, I merely considered running the race, without actually committing (mentally, financially, spiritually) to it.  I knew I wanted to run the race, that it was exactly the kind of goal I could get into, but I'm not as impulsive as I might seem.  So, in that three-month period before I'd fully committed, I kind of tested the trail running waters.  




Horsetooth Reservoir

  For my first training run, in August 2010, I drove to the east side of Horsetooth Reservoir in Fort Collins to run on the trails that I assumed would snake around the reservoir because that seemed to be where a real trail runner would run, and I didn't know where else to go. 


Note:  the main photo at the very top of the blog is another view from the top of Horsetooth Rock, which months later became one of my bread and butter training grounds.  But back in August 2010, I had no idea where any of the trails were.  So, I just parked my car at one of the car pullouts on the side of the road, put on my six-year-old Brooks road shoes and ran through the knee-high grass near the side of the road for about 20 minutes, covering about two miles and never finding an actual trail.  I didn't realize that I had parked at about the only car pullout along the reservoir that didn't have a trail right next to it.  So, for my first trail run I never ran on an actual trail at all -- an inauspicious start.

I wasn't exhausted by the end of that run, but I was tired, hot and thirsty.  Twenty minutes was definitely enough for me that day, I recall.  I was also a bit frustrated because I knew there were actual trails all around the Reservoir, but I just didn't find any of them.  Still, I remember feeling a small confidence boost after that first 20-minute run and thinking that, despite the objective audacious absurdity of the thought, I just might be able to pull off this Zero-to-100-thing after all. 

Most memorably, I felt a tiny bit of that primal and free feeling of running in the wild, and I liked it.  

Inspired

I’m not a runner.  

Until about ten months ago, I’d never run more than about six miles in a row.  Sure, I’ve jogged through a recreational BolderBoulder 10k or two, but that was my max distance.  It never occured to me to run any farther, and my 42-year-old body was just fine with that. 

Despite this, I now find myself a mere eight weeks away from running 100 miles through the Rocky Mountains in the Leadville Trail 100.

The short explanation for this unforeseen turn of events is I'm running it because my older brother Tim ran it last year.  Tim would say that I'm doing it because every time he tries something new, I have to try it too, and see if I can do better.  For example, when he tried to be a cowboy, I just had to be a cooler cowboy with a sweet vest and scrunched hat.


The Wild West circa 1971.

While there is a sliver of truth to his pet theory -- he is after all an accomplished ultra-marathoner and I am undeniably a coat-tail-riding neophyte -- it certainly doesn't capture my motivation in this case. 



The longer explanation is this:  Ten months ago, Tim assigned me the duty of pacing him for 10.5 miles over 12,600’ Hope Pass in his first attempt at the Leadville 100 last August. 


LT100 2010: Paul, Erin (pacers), Skyler, Spencer, Laurie (crew chief), Tim (runner) and me (pacer)

Note, he didn’t ask me, like he asked his other pacers, Paul and Erin; he merely told me my assignment.  He assured me that the three-day backpacking trip I’d done a few weeks prior was sufficient training, and I believed this lie.

So, last year, on August 21, 2010, I found myself climbing up Hope Pass with my brother, carrying his hydration vest and food and lying right back to him – “Not much farther…” “I can almost see the top…” “You’re looking great…” etc.  Of course, none of that was true.  In fact, after 50+ miles of running, he wasn’t looking all that great.  The altitude had taken its toll on him (a flat-lander from MI) causing his body – both his stomach and his quads – to rebel ferociously. 


LT100 2010:  Tim lubing some tender spots 30 miles into the race

Finally, at one point during the climb up the pass, with his leg pain becoming intolerable, he decided he’d had enough.  I sensed it coming for the previous couple miles based on his constant grimacing with every step, his audible moaning and grunting and the occasional knee-buckle and collapse.  He plopped down on the side of the trail and announced, through gasped breaths, that he was "done."  He said he simply could not continue up the mountain.  It was too much.  He just couldn’t get his legs to work.  Everything hurt intensely.  And even if he could move, he would never make the strict cut-off time at the Twin Lakes Aid Station. He told me he appreciated that I was trying to motivate him, to keep him going, but it was no use.  HE WAS DONE.

Tim’s not a quitter.  So for him to plop down and say “No mas” after all his training, all the money he’d spent, all the people who had travelled a long way to support him, AND to do this in front of ME, his younger (sweet-vested, scrunched-hatted) brother, of all people, he must have felt like he had reached the utter bottom of his well.  Dried up.  Nothing left.  Done.

I let him sit there on the side of the trail for a couple minutes (30 seconds really, but I told him it was two minutes), fed and watered him, and then explained to him that even if he wanted to quit right there on the mountain, he still had to get to the aid station where he could quit more formally.  So, he might as well keep moving forward.  And that’s what we did. 

We made it up and over the pass eventually, and Tim began to feel better.  The thought of quitting seemed to grow dimmer, like we left it on the other side of the mountain.  I knew we were up against the clock, so we upped the pace accordingly.  With a heroic final effort, he made the cutoff at the Twin Lakes Aid Station with no time to spare, and rather than quit there as he had planned, he changed shoes, fueled up and continued on into the dark night, as I knew he would, with Paul pacing him. 

And he kept going for about 24 more miles and nine more hours. 

Unfortunately, due to a miscalculation in distances, he eventually missed the cutoff time at Fish Hatchery (mile 76.5) by only a few minutes and was dropped from the race.  But to me, despite this disappointment, the real message was loud and clear:  His well was A LOT deeper than he realized.  

In my head, all I could see was the image of him moaning on the side of the trail announcing that he was “done,” but somehow finding it within himself to continue on for almost an entire marathon’s worth of mountain running through the middle of the night.  I tried to imagine a runner toeing up to the starting line at, say, the Denver Marathon, and before the gun even went off, feeling utterly spent, like he couldn’t take even one more step, yet somehow finding the strength to run the marathon anyway.  That level of mental toughness seemed inconceivable to me; an entirely new concept. 

And the really wild thing was… I saw many runners who had the same experience my brother had – the necessarily painful but rewarding experience of finding out that their respective wells were much deeper than they knew.  At some point during that race, almost every runner doubted whether they could go on, whether they would finish.  But they pressed on anyway.  The word I thought of that night, the word that still continues to resonate in my head today is “inspiring.”

No, I’m not really a runner, but I am curious to find out how deep my own well is.  That night I was inspired to find out how far I can go after I think I can’t go any farther.  

On August 20 (and August 21), 2011, I hope to find out.