The Grand Slam of Ultrarunning - 2000 Scott Hunter Prologue In September of 1998 I entered the lottery for the 1999 Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run to avenge my 35 mile did not finish (dnf) in the 1997 Western States. I began that month to run long trail downhills with abandon. I wanted to understand how trail runners could run so fast downhill. By the end of the month I had strained a ligament in my knee, but I had learned something about running downhill faster than I thought I was capable. Unable to run for about five weeks, I went into the weight room at the Hampshire Fitness Club and began my winter lifting program. Instead of lifting increasingly heavy weights and bulking up only to lose the bulk when I ran, I began training for endurance. I lifted low weights with increasing repetitions, eventually doing 60 to 100 repetitions of exercises to strengthen my chest, arms, back, shoulders, and legs. I also began my crunch program for my abs, 3 sets of 500 crunches three or four times a week. In November I began to run again. I began running hills. I realized that I was not prepared for the hills and trails of the Western States, so I plotted out courses comprised completely of hills. I began with a 15 mile/3 hour training run over Mt. Orient and Mt. Poverty in Amherst, Ma. I walked up the steeper parts of the hills and, realizing how fast I could actually run downhills before my injury, I began controlled downhill running. At the end of November I found out that I was not picked in the lottery for the 1999 Western States 100. I was pleased, because this would give me at least two years to train for Western States. I continued my hill training adding another 15 mile/3hour training run on the four loops of trails on North Sugarloaf Mountain in South Deerfield, Ma. I bought a pair for snowshoes during the 20% sale before Thanksgiving at Eastern Mountain Sports. When the winter snows came I began doing 4 to 6 hour snowshoe hikes in the Mt. Toby Reservation in Sunderland, Ma and on North Sugarloaf. When spring came I sent my application into the Massanutten Mountain 100 Mile Run in Virginia. Massanutten had a 36 hour cutoff. I knew I would learn to run through the night there. Having finished the Vermont 100 Mile Trail Run in 22 hours and change and Umstead 100 Mile Run in North Carolina in 21 and change, I had never run over 24 hours. I knew I would have to do that at the Western States, so Massanutten would be good for me. I also signed up for the Vermont 100, thinking that 100's two and a half months apart would only intensify my training for the Western States. I continued my hills and trail training runs on Mt. Orient and North Sugarloaf. I added a 31 mile/7 hour run on Mt. Toby, the 33 mile/8+ hour Robert Frost Trail from The Notch on the Mt. Holyoke Range to Reservation Road in Montague, and a 24mile/8+hour double Seven Sisters's run on the Mt. Holyoke Range. In May, I ran a solid race at Massanutten, finishing in 31:41. I was pleased with how well I handled the night running and loved the surge I got in the morning when the sun rose. In June 1999, New England got hot and humid. Training runs were excruciating, but I knew that hotter was better. The humidity and heat would make the dry heat in California bearable. Two weeks before the Vermont 100, Mike Kent, who would eventually suggest to me to try the grand slam, and I went to upstate New York for the Finger Lakes 50 Mile Run. It was too hot that 4th of July weekend. Both Mike and I settled for the 50k run. It was so hot that I became disoriented during the last 6 miles of the 50k. Chalking it up to experience, I felt pleased with getting through 50k in the over 100 degree temperature. With a 50k in the extreme heat under my belt, I figured that Vermont would be easy. It was not. The temperature was 78 degrees at 4 in the morning and rose to 98 degrees by 11 am. I struggled through the afternoon and though the weather cooled in the evening the humidity was close to unbearable. I walked the last 10 miles and finished in 25 hours. My determination hardened during the race and I felt like I was getting ready for the Western States. That Sunday night I was on the internet downloading an application for the Arkansas Traveler 100 Mile Run. Two and a half months later I was in Arkansas, running the Traveler in 27 and a half hour. I had a real letdown during the race at 37 miles. I walked a couple of miles and was going to drop out, but a guy from Texas got me going again and I finished strong. During the last training run of the year, the JFK 50 in Maryland, Mike Kent introduced me to Succeed Caps, sodium tablets. They did wonders for fatigue and muscle soreness both during and after the race. Directly after the race I ordered some Succeed Caps, Succeed Clip and Hammergel. I have used all three ever since in all my long training runs and throughout the grand slam. The Grand Slam of Ultrarunning At the end of November of 1999 I found out that I had been accepted to run in the Western States 100. I was psyched. Mike Kent also was accepted in the Western States. Mike decided that he was going to try the grand slam. He suggested that I try it too. I thought that it was too much for me, but I decided that at 55, I would rather look back when I was 60 and say that at least I tried it. I entered Vermont, Leadville, and Wasatch Front. I became one of 24 runners attempting the grand slam. I continued my 15 mile hill and trail workouts and weight training through a very mild December and early January. When a string of 10 inch snowfalls came in January and February I spent many days on 6 hour snowshoe hikes. When the snows began to melt, I connected with a friend and did some 20-25 mile road training runs. When the trails cleared, I got back into the woods. In early April I ran a slow 30 mile run with two friends. In the middle of April my first test was at the Trail Animals Don't Run Boston 50k in the Blue Hills Reservation south of Boston. It was an orienteering race. I got lost a few times and finished in 9 hours. I was disappointed at my time, but it was a wake up call. I began doing speed workouts on a paved 5k loop near my health club. I took minutes off of my 5k time over a couple of months. I began doing a 5k training run up the paved road to the top of Mt. Sugarloaf. I ran up the hill and did three repeats of the loop at the top of the hill climbing the extremely steep eastside. It was good to run down the paved road as fast as I could without worrying about my footing. Also the uphill at the top was steeper than most of the trails on which I was running. After a month I found I was able to take minutes off this 5k run as well. In the next couple of weeks my landscaping business became serious cross training. I cut out all extraneous food, especially sugar in soft drinks, and I lost 10 pounds. To my surprise my 3 hour runs were now 2 hours and 40 minute runs. I was running even the steepest part of the hills. My 31 mile/7 hour run was taking me under 6 hours. The Robert Frost Trail 33 miles and the double Seven Sister's were taking me under 7 hours to complete. I entered the Seven Sister's Trail Run in early May and ran a 3:05, a personal best by 15 minutes, even though the temperature was in the high 90's. I went out on the course to run it again, but so many runners coming in were without water I gave mine away and helped some of the last runners back to the finish line. Another runner, training for Western States, ran by with a lot of water. He wouldn't share his water. I felt good. Even if I didn't do well at Western States, at least I shared my water with other runners in need. I continued to lose weight and got down to 163, twenty pounds lighter than I was when I ran Massanutten, Vermont, and the Arkansas Traveler in 1999. I ran another personal best at the Nipmuck Trail Marathon in hot, humid weather, two weeks before Western States. I felt ready for Western States and the beginning of the grand slam. The Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run Kate Hayes, my crew, and I flew into Reno, NV on Thursday morning. We stayed in Reno Thursday night so that I would have as little time as possible at altitude before the race. On Friday morning we got to Squaw Valley and checked in. I weighted 168 pounds and had a pulse of 56. I was calm and ready for the race. We ran into Bob and Rosemary Marston from Kansas, a grand slammer and crew whom I had met at Vermont in 1996. One hundred mile races are one big national party. After the mandatory meetings and a big spaghetti dinner, I was ready to sleep. I slept well and was pumped at the 5 am start. I remembered that at the meetings before the 1997 race I was told that not to be worried if it took an hour and ten minutes to climb the ski slopes at Squaw Valley, 4.7 mile. That year it took me an hour and a half to get to Emigrant's Pass at the top of the ski slopes. I felt that if I got to the pass in an hour and 15 minutes I would be doing extremely well and I would be happy with an hour and 20 minutes. The excitement at the start left me a little out of breath, but I quickly got into chugging up the ski slopes. I was focused to the first aid station and was totally surprised how short the distance was from that aid station to the top of the pass. I looked at my watch and it had taken me one hour and 6 minutes. I got a surge of confidence as I headed over the pass. In front of me was a vast field of wild flowers. I was in heaven with tons of energy. I maintained a good pace on the slight downhill for the next 7 miles through the Granite Chief Wilderness Area. The 8 miles along Red Star Ridge, which killed me four years ago, was fun to run. Majestic views, the trees, the smells, the sunlight and an easy pace made for a good morning. During the three miles downhill into Duncan Canyon I prepared for the long 3 mile uphill to Robinson Flat at 30 miles where I completely lost it in 1997 and had wandered into the aid station deflated and defeated. I felt great crossing the creek and I powerwalked out of the canyon. As I began the uphill out of the canyon I saw a runner lying on the side of the trail with black tights and a long sleeve black shirt on. He obviously was overheated and probably parboiled. I mused that I was in his situation three years ago. I realized that I was much better prepared for the race this year. I was able to push it up the hill and run into the aid station. It was a fantastic feeling to be at Robinson Flat in 7 and a half hours, right on the 30 hour pace. My training on the hills in Massachusetts paid off in the canyon section of the Western States. With the help of the 5k Mt Sugarloaf training runs, I relaxed on the downhills, maintained a good pace, and I powered up the hills. On the uphills I passed tons of runners complaining about the switchbacks and the heat, neither of which bothered me. Constantly running hills in training made trudging up the switchbacks easy. The humid heat of the last two New England summers and a slight breeze made the dry California heat comfortable. I also practiced thinking about what was in my sight instead of thinking about the next aid station or what was to come. I have sometimes found it frustrating to be looking forward to something that wasn't in my immediate present, like an approaching aid station. I began to practice, especially on the uphills, to not think about anything that I couldn't see. I practiced staying in the present completely. I think by doing this I minimized my use of mental energy. Whenever I began to long for the top of the hill, the next aid station, something other than what was, I began to lose focus on what I was doing. The more I ran the uphills and downhills of the canyon section and enjoyed the moment and what I was experiencing, the shorter the hills were. In fact, many times I was surprised when the top of the hill or the aid station would appear in the present. Suddenly I would find myself there, at the top or bottom, or coming into an aid station, instead of wishing that it were so. I certainly used less energy not longing for being somewhere else. Coming out of Robinson Flat, the course descended for 7 miles. It was impossible not to wear out your quads. After the Deep Canyon aid station at 35 miles there was a 2 mile downhill and a 2 mile uphill to Dusty Corners aid station. Those 2 miles of uphill were little respite from the long downhills. Immediately out of Dusty Corners was a 3 mile downhill and a little flat stretch to Last Chance, then another 2 mile downhill to the canyon floor and 2 miles uphill to Devil's Thumb. Coming up to Devil's Thumb aid station I was having fun because of the slight breeze and the complaints of all the other runners. Compared to the thick air and humidity of the East Coast weather it was cool. I approached one runner at the top of the hill whom I recognized as the runner with all the water at the Seven Sisters race in May. I passed him feeling the support of all the runners I gave water to who needed it at the Seven Sisters. I was reassured that life was more than personal training. I found out later that the runner who had not shared his water had dropped out of the race. Another 3 miles downhill and 2 miles up hill and I arrived at Michigan Bluff. Fifty-five miles were completed and I was feeling ready to run. Kate was all smiles at Michigan Bluff. The happier I was and the better I was feeling, the easier her job was. She is a bundle of encouragement at all the aid stations. It would be a lot harder to find only drop bags at aid stations. The next 3 mile downhill was more pounding on my quads. I knew that eventually I would pay the price for all the downhills. I got to the bottom of the canyon and the stream crossing where it was hot and still. It was the first time the heat was affecting me. I remembered that at Vermont last year I had thrown 2 cups of ice down the back of my shirt at each aid station in the extreme heat. I asked for 2 cups of ice and put them down my back at the astonishment of the crew at the aid station. I was cooled immediately and headed up the hill to Foresthill. The last time I saw Foresthill I was a dnf'er and bummed. Coming into Foresthill School right on my estimated time was a joy. I had hoped to see Foresthill in the daylight and I had just made it. Kate had tried to arrange a pacer for me out of Foresthill, but the pacer ran off before I got there. It was nine o'clock and just getting dark when I left the aid station. I was a little disappointed about the pacer, but there were runners with pacers around me and I figured that if I couldn't run through the night alone, I wasn't a grand slammer. I headed into the dusk with a lot of confidence. Here I was on California Street and running the Western States. Luckily I saw the course cut off the road on to a trail and followed it. The two runners behind me were also relieved that they saw the cutoff and took it. I certainly didn't have to run any extra miles at this point. The path followed the slope of the hill above the American River canyon. It wandered up and down, in and out, and along the canyon wall. At times I could see lights 100 yards above me and would find that I had to go a quarter of a mile in to a stream and another quarter mile out to get to the place where I saw the flashlight 10 minutes before. I ran and talked with pairs of runners whom I overtook or who overtook me. The aid stations were oases with good cheer, lots of bright lights, food, and quick breathers in chairs. I had one big rush when I got to Ford's Bar aid station at 73 miles. I first thought I was at the 70 mile aid station. Suddenly I did not have to run 3 miles. That made the final descent to the American River very easy. In 1997 Kate and I had walked the road to the river crossing at Rucky Chucky on the Monday after the race when I was in despair about my dnf. Now running this familiar section was very uplifting. I knew I was tired, but the thought of still being in the race at 78 miles with lots of time to finish was exhilarating. Finally, ahead I could see the lights of the river crossing. I was about to come of age as an ultrarunner. Like Camp 10 Bear the second time at Vermont and Twin Lakes inbound at Leadville, Rucky Chucky is a rite of passage for any 100 miler. At Western States it is baptism. I put my fannypak around my neck and braced myself for the wonderfully cold water, waist deep and rocky. Emerging on the other side is a little like rebirth. I met a happy Kate and a kind doctor who lanced a couple of small blisters and I was on my way up the hill to Green Gate. Kate and I had a very good time climbing out of the River Ford aid station. She was as excited as I was about the possibility of me finishing the race. I'm sure she was relieved that she did not have to face another day after like my previous dnf. I reached Green Gate aid station. The 18 miles along California Street, across the river, up the hill to Green Gate got me to 80 miles at 2 am. I had eight hours to do 20 miles. I headed out on the Auburn Lakes Trail knowing I would finish. I tried to run out of Green Gate, but my quads were cooked and I quickly tired. I settled into a fast walk and after 40 minutes came to a sign which said 19.5 mile to go on the Western States Trail. I had only gone a half a mile from Green Gate. I could not believe it. I figured I must have fallen asleep on my feet, but other runners nearby were also amazed. Luckily, the rest of the mile markers on the trail were a little closer together. Auburn Lakes Trails is a relatively flat section of the course. Again like on the California Street section, I would see a flashlight across an open section just above or below me and I would think I was catching up to someone. I would then proceed away from the light for a long time until I came to a stream and began heading back out on the other side of the stream. The 10 miles of Auburn Lakes Trail to Brown's Ravine aid station is excruciatingly long. Luckily I was almost sleepwalking for most of it. I came out of Brown's Ravine at sunrise. The course follows a road through the bottom of a large open canyon. It is less wilderness with a hint of civilization. I passed runners up the hill out of the canyon and felt good until I heard the music coming from Highway 49 aid station. I was not in the mood for loud patriotic music. Maybe it was to help runners get out of the aid station quickly. I moved through the aid station and picked up a pacer for the last 6 miles. I made a feeble attempt to run down the hill to No Hands Bridge. I had nothing left. No Hand Bridge is another point of distinction in the Western States 100. I was happy to be there, but too tired to celebrate. I confessed to my pacer that all I could do was walk the road to Robie Point. The temperature was heating up and I was dragging. Runners passed me but I did not care. I walked and exerted little effort until the final hill to Robie Point aid station. Kate met me at Robie Point and ran to the finish with me. I had 19 minutes to do the last mile and a quarter to break 28 hours. I told Kate that I was going to run it in and she said she would try to keep up with me. I was running as hard as I could and I looked over at Kate who was jogging along. It's funny how fast you think you are going at the end of 100 miles. I rounded the track at Placer High and finished in 27:50. One monkey off my back and three quarters of the slam to go. The Vermont 100 Trail Run The first week after Western States, Kate and I toured northern California, staying in Mendicino for three days. The second week after Western States I did two 5k training runs up Mt Sugarloaf just to try to loosen up my legs. My legs were heavy, but I was able to run the course in a little over a minute slower than my personal best. I did not run the week before Vermont, though I did work hard trying to keep my landscape customers happy. We had arranged a four day stay at the only B&B in Brownsville, VT. I had read Grant McKeown's article in Ultrarunning magazine on his experience at Vermont in 1999. He wrote that the Millbrook B&B was a wonderful place to stay. We had to rent for a three day weekend. Since you got a fourth day for free, we drove up to Brownsville on Thursday and stayed through Sunday. Kay, the owner, is a dynamo, cooking wonderful breakfasts, including a 2:30 am breakfast on Saturday morning of the race. Grant and his friend, Mike Martin, who was running his first 100, were staying at the B&B, too. Kate and I toured the raptor sanctuary in Woodstock on Friday morning. Later in the afternoon I checked in at Smoke Rise Farm weighing 172 pounds. I had eaten like a madman for two weeks and had not had the time in the remaining week to lose the weight I had gained. We ate the spaghetti dinner at Smoke Rise Farm and crashed early on Friday night. Saturday morning was at least 20 degrees cooler than it had been at the start of the race in 1999. At about 10 minutes before the start of the race it began to pour buckets of rain. Luckily by the start, the rain had stopped leaving only slightly puddled roads and runable trails. My legs felt heavy at the start, but the weather was cool and I knew the 30 hour cutoff was soft. All I had to do was keep running. I chugged up the first trail section of the course and was a little worried that I wasn't going to feel well throughout the race. My body didn't hurt, but it was protesting that I was running too early in recovery from Western States. Mentally another 100 miles so soon was daunting. I walked the uphill road section and took the trail section into Densmore Hill aid station slowly. I still didn't feel like running on the road to Beaver Pond aid station. I was familiar with the course so it was interesting to know about where I was and what was coming up. I must have picked up my pace, because I was surprised when I hit the paved road into Happy Valley aid station. It was downhill into Taftsville Bridge and, though my legs were not fresh, I was loosening up. Coming into Taftsville Bridge at 12 miles at around 2 and a half hours, I was running beside a woman and man who were talking about their speed workouts on a track and their 5k times. I giggled to think about the long haul ahead of us. I felt I was in better shape with a 100 under my belt and knew a little more about what I expected of my body than they did. I knew the hills between Taftsville Bridge and Pomfret at 18 miles would give me an indication of how well I would do. I powerwalked up the hill out of Taftsville Bridge and many runners ran by me on the pavement. I began to catch many of them on the dirt road at the top of the hill and on the jeep trail over the ridge. I felt good coming down the other side of the mountain and up the hill into Pomfret aid station. Last year at Pomfret I was feeling queasy from the heat. I wasn't fresh this year, but I was feeling good and I was almost one fifth into the race. I struggled a little into Stage Road and Route 12 aid stations at 28 and 30 miles and I was a little behind my estimated times. I was disappointed on the hill to Route 12. They had clearcut the woods and I thought back to the course in 1996 when I ran Vermont for the first time. So many of the foot trails were now ATV trails, the woods had been logged, and new million dollar houses had been built on the back country roads. Civilization was encroaching on the wilds of Vermont. By the time I got to the Lincoln Covered Bridge at 36 miles and Lillian's at 40 I remembered that there is no easy 100 miler, but I was into a good pace and felt good considering I had done a 100 miler three weeks ago. Then it started to rain. I got soaked, but later found out that I was on the outskirts of the main downpour. Others had gotten hit harder than I had. By the time I pulled into Camp 10 Bear the rains had stopped. I was at 44 miles in 9 hours, right where I wanted to be. I changed my shoes and socks, took a deep breath, and headed out on the 24 mile loop back to Camp 10 Bear. I knew the hill up to Smith's aid station was a bear, but the weather was mild compared to the 90's+ degrees in 1999. I began to realize that my hill training was making this attempt at the slam possible. I worked hard up the hill and felt good on the flats to Pinky's. Because of the Hammergel and Clip replenishing drink I was carrying with me, I was not eating much real food at aid stations and zipping through them. I wasn't wasting any time at aid stations and was right on my estimated pace. My motivation into Tracer Brook, mile 54, was that it could be worse and that I was doing fine. About two miles from Tracer Brook, I noticed that my stride was shortening, that I felt dizzy and tired, that I was wandering a bit over the road, and that my pace was slowing. I figured that I was hitting a wall. I walked with Kate from the aid station to where she had parked the car, saying that I was going to slow down, that I felt terrible, and that I hoped I could finish. I sat down in my chair, exchanged my water and replenishing drink bottles and Hammergel for fresh ones, and drank part of a Pepsi. The sugar and caffeine did the trick. As soon as the sugar and caffeine hit my system I jumped up, grabbed my toilet paper, and headed off into the woods. The huge breakfast Kay had cooked us at 2:30 am had made its way through me. I came out of the woods ready to run. I try to do as little sugar and no caffeine except at the end of races. The first hit of caffeine is usually an eyeopener. I attacked the three mile hill out of Tracer Brook and was feeling great by the time I reached Cox's at 60 miles. Over the next 8 miles back to Camp 10 Bear I began to notice a strain at the base of my right hamstring behind my knee. I backed my pace off just a little and the slight pinch went away. On the flat out of Brown's School House aid station I felt good and knew I was going to finish well. On the downhill trail and the road to the end of the 24 mile loop and uphill into Camp 10 Bear I began to think about a possible 24 hour finish. I cruised into Camp 10 Bear at 7 o'clock in the evening, right on my schedule. I flew up the hill to Gerry's and changed my shoes and sock, took two Aleve and a Pepsi, put on a jacket, and stowed my flashlight. I wanted to get as far as possible before it got dark. I knew where it had gotten dark in 1999 when I finished in 25 hours in the heat. If I could get further than that I knew I had a change to break 24 hours because I had run out of energy after Bill's aid station last year and had walked the last 12 miles to the finish. This year I got to the trailhead where it had gotten dark last year and it was light. I was pumped on the trail and ecstatic on the road into Queen Elizabeth aid station. It was still light. I was at 75 miles when it got dark, at least 4 miles further than in 1999. With darkness falling, fumbling with my flashlight, trying to turn it on, I came to an intersection and took a right. I asked the other runners if we had taken the correct fork. They said that we had. As we continued we heard yelling behind us. Just as we had come through the intersection a family had come out of their house and noticed us as we had made the wrong turn. We retraced our mistake and went the right way. If they had not come out of the house at that exact time we might have been lost for a while. Good luck is essential to grand slamming and any 100 mile race. Then it started to drizzle. I got wet and the water began to drip from my running shorts onto my hamstring. It started to tighten up. By 78 miles it was raining hard. I pulled into Yates Farm aid station. All the volunteers there were helpful as they could be, but they were not enthusiastic about runners continuing out into the rain. They offered me a blanket and shelter, but I got out of there as fast as I could even though my hamstring was really hurting. It was too tempting to stop and stay with the weather as bad as it was. I knew that if I stopped I would never get out of there. After the race I found out that many runners dropped out at Yates Farm. I limped down the hill into Bodley aid station at the bottom of the hill near Brownsville. I remembered some advice Jeff Washburn had given me at the Arkansas Traveler. If you get tired, just walk five miles. I grabbed a Mountain Dew, lots of caffeine, at Bodley and walked up the road in the rain to Ashley aid station sipping my soda. The rain is interesting in a hundred mile race. Once I was wet, it didn't matter what happened, I couldn't get wetter. I was just there. Even though it was pouring and I was in pain, I was happy. Eighty miles were over and I was walking with another runner. Company is nice at night. My hamstring eased a bit into Ashley aid station and I powered up the hill to Bill's aid station. I made it to Bill's, mile 83.6, about three quarters of an hour past my estimated time. The Mountain Dew had woken me up and I was feeling much better, except for my hamstring. I did two more Aleve and was off. I knew that last year the next miles were difficult and they had been where I had crashed and burn. I got up the hill out of Bill's and into the fields where I had realized last year that I was not going to break 24 hours. Even in the rain I felt great and began feeling confident about a 24 hour finish. Aleve and Pepsi works wonders with pain. I was surprised how fast I got through the fields and woods and out onto the road. I picked up my pace, worked the downhill, and powerwalked the pavement to Blood Hill. I walked the pavement and the first part of Blood Hill with another runner. Again it was good to have company on this long stretch. I noticed up the hill to Bill's and now on the steep part of Blood Hill that I could kick into another lower gear and powerwalk away from other runners on the steep parts of hills. I was thankful for all the hard training I had done. At the top of Blood Hill, instead of an unmanned aid station in disarray, there was a cheerful guy dishing out soup. I took the soup and left for the downhill. The soup was spicy and I recognized it from the Arkansas Traveller 100. A volunteer from the Arkansas race came up to Vermont to man the Blood Hill aid station. That soup was the best pick-me-up during the whole grand slam. By this time it was raining buckets of cats and dogs. I was in and out of Jenneville at 90 miles. The faster I finished the happier I was going to be. I pushed up the hill through Gary T's aid station and on to Densmore Hill. At Densmore Hill it was raining as hard as I could ever remember and the wind was at a gale. The volunteers were trying to keep the aid station in one piece and at one spot. I sat in the pouring rain and changed my batteries in my flashlight. I had six more miles and I didn't want my flashlight to fail. As I left Densmore Hill and headed into the woods the rain made the muddy trail slippery as ice. As I past a couple of runners, I heard comments about how bright my flashlight was and how dim theirs were. I slogged my way through the next mile and onto the road down to the horse barn at South Woodstock. Kate was there with a dry vest and jacket. It was good getting out of my wet shirt and vest if only for a second. I headed out into the rain and up the hill to Smoke Rise Farm. I had an hour and a half to go 4 miles. I told myself 15 minute miles. Running through the six inches of mud on the trail was a challenge. I stayed off the trail as much as I could so the muck wouldn't suck my shoes off. At the farm after first steep rise of more than a mile, the course leveled off a little and was almost runable. The next mile uphill was doable, then the downhill. I slipped, slid, and amazingly kept my balance down the hill. When I finally crossed the road with a hundred yards to the finish, I kicked a fallen branch and ripped a toenail off. The pain was immense. I limped across the finish line and collapsed on a chair. I had done 15 minute miles through the worst weather and worst mud I have ever run through. I might just be a grand slammer. I finished in 23 hours and 27 minutes. My second buckle and I was half way through the grand slam. The Leadville 100 After Vermont my hamstring was like a hinge which needed oil. I could hear it creak when I bent and straightened my leg. On Tuesday I had to work and I was in so much pain, I arranged for a doctor's appointment in the morning and got a cortisone shot. Cortisone does wonders for muscle and ligament pain. I was able to work on Tuesday with a little pain and by Thursday the pain was completely gone. Without the pain in my hamstring I was much less worried about running Leadville. I rested for two weeks and did an 18 mile training on North Sugarloaf and Mt. Sugarloaf in just over three hours. The next weekend with two weeks until Leadville I did a 30 mile training run on the M&M Trail in just under 6 hours. I had a little pain in the instep and heel of my foot that was becoming aggravated. I had had it since November when I came down hard on my heel at the JFK 50 Mile Run in Maryland. On Friday a week before Leadville I decided to get cortisone shot in my foot. The cortisone again did wonders and I haven't had any pain in it since the shot. Kate and I flew out to Leadville on Thursday, staying in Colorado Springs on Thursday night. We went up to Leadville early Friday morning and got to Leadville's altitude of 10,600 feet at 10 am, 18 hours before the race. I felt that the less time I spent at altitude the better off I was. I weighed in at 164 and was pleased. At the pre-race meeting we saw Bob and Rosemary Marston. Bob was crewing a woman from Arkansas and Rosemary was running the Pike's Peak Marathon. After the meeting Bob and Rosemary drove us to May Queen, the first aid station and gave us all kinds of advice. The Marstons were a wealth of information, not only before the race, but also during the race. Kate and I ate an early spaghetti dinner with Mike Kent and returned to the hotel to sleep. It was pouring rain when I awoke at 2 o'clock. The rain slowed considerably by the start of the race. Kate and I took our time getting to the start since it was only two blocks from the hotel. We strolled to the main intersection of Leadville and the start about five minutes to 4 am. Kate asked if I had checked in. In a panic I ran to find the check-in tent. I checked in with about three minutes to go to the start, said goodbye to Kate, and the gun went off. The first mile was on pavement and then the next two were downhill on a dirt road. When I reached the dirt road it started to rain hard again. My legs felt appropriately like lead and it was a chore running, but at least it was downhill. The road was so slick that I slipped and slid down most of the hill and finally fell at the bottom. It was a momentary lapse of focus and I went down. But, just like Vermont in the rain, the more you are into it the easier it gets. The fall relaxed me a bit and I got into some slow running on the flats and tried to stretch out. My plan was to run a fast pace for the first 13.5 miles to May Queen, the first aid station, gain some time on the cut off, and then run the suggested splits between aid stations. I got to May Queen in 2 hours and 35 minutes, forty minutes ahead of the cutoff time. I felt good and headed up the hill to Sugarloaf Pass. The five miles to the pass was mostly uphill. I maintained a steady walking pace through some beautiful woods and worked up the hill. After two and a half miles the course follows Hagerman Road, a slightly uphill dirt road, that was tempting to run. I tried a little running but quickly lost my breath. I settled back to plain walking, enjoying the wonderful scenery. After Hagerman Road the course headed up the hill through a series of switchbacks. It was nothing more than what I trained for and I found myself at Sugarloaf Pass feeling good. The downhill into Outward Bound aid station was a chore. Four miles down a steep jeep road with huge ruts and occasional uphills. After running two 100's it was just more of the same. I pushed it downhill when I could, but I kept thinking that slow and steady wins the race. At the bottom of the hill I was psyched. I felt good and just losing a little altitude from the pass made the air a bit more breathable. I was 23 miles into the race with four miles of relatively flat pavement ahead. I walked the uphills and felt sluggish running on the flats. I had picked up another 5 minutes on the cutoff time at Fish Hatchery aid station, so I just kept moving forward without too much worry about my pace. The 3 miles to Treeline, a crew station, was on hot open pavement. I felt like a roadrunner at the end of a marathon. I don't really like to run on pavement and here I was. Compared to the woods and trails this was boring and tiring. After the pavement there was 3 miles of uphill dirt road. It was tempting to run, but any extra effort sapped my strength. I powerwalked to Half Moon aid station. After Half Moon and an easy jog for a mile on the dirt road, the course went into the woods and up the hill. I geared down and powerwalked. My ultrarunning strength is definitely powering up the hills. After 3 miles the course leveled out and I was able to run a little. It seemed easier to run in the woods than lower in the valley on the pavement. The beauty and freshness of the woods makes the mental aspect of 100's easier. Eventually the course started downhill into Twin Lakes. The path was very good for running and the slope was excellent for letting gravity do the work. The training runs on the paved road up Mt. Sugarloaf began to pay off here. I tore down into Twin Lakes. It was exhilarating passing runners and making good time. Kate met me at the Twin Lakes aid station and walked me to the parking lot where the car and Bob Marston awaited me. I sat down in the chair Kate had for me and I felt like a boxer between rounds. Kate was exchanging my supplies, giving me water, and asking what I needed. Bob was pumping me up with advice. I was trying to keep my act together, knowing in minutes I would be back out on the trail getting more exercise. Bob was saying that this was the big one, five miles up to Hope Pass. He said I was going to get short on breath, but all I had to do was take another quarter breath with each inhale. I should just take my normal breath and then suck in more. I walked out of the parking lot with Kate. I was excited to be here at the base of Hope Pass. This is what I had been waiting for. There was a mile across some fields and stream before the beginning of the uphill. I contemplated Bob's advice and it sounded good. I tried to run a little, but any exertion quickly tired me, so I walked. I was able to powerwalk up the hill without becoming tired and out of breath, taking that extra quarter breathe that Bob told me about. I pushed up the hill for what seemed like forever. What amazed me during this uphill was the determination that I was feeling. As I powerwalked mile after mile of beautiful uphill trail I began to realize how determined I really was. Maybe I could be a grand slammer. I awakened a bit to what I was made of inside and who I was. The trees thinned and there were occasional meadows. I knew I was nearing the aid station and I felt good. I was breathing that extra quarter breath. When I got to the aid station I sat down and had some soup. I don't waste time at aid stations so I tried to get up and get going. I could not seem to pull myself out of the chair. Finally the woman manning the soup suggested that I go to the medical tent and get some oxygen. She added that I could get some oxygen and not be disqualified. It sounded like a good idea. I was able to pull myself out of the chair and walk over to the medical tent. I looked inside and saw three guys lying under blankets with oxygen masks on. I asked the person who looked like he knew what he was doing if I could get some oxygen. He said sure come on in. I asked if he could come outside, because I had to meet someone at the bottom of the hill in Winfield. There was no way I was going to go into the tent. He laughed and come outside with an oxygen tank and mask. I put on the mask and breathed for about 30 seconds. I immediately felt better. I thanked him and took a few more breaths as he turned off the valve. I walked away from the tent, gave a whoop, and was off up the last half mile to the pass. As I reached the pass I saw the downhill ahead of me. It was serious, a very steep trail over scree as far as I could see. I thought slow and steady wins the race. I took my time for a mile as the course switchbacked and descended over fist size rocks. It was tedious, but eventually the trail became more runable. The last mile was on easy wooded trails and I was able to tear down the trail to the trailhead as I had into Twin Lakes. Bob and Kate were at the trailhead to meet me. I changed my shoes, took two Aleve, drank some Pepsi, and left my gear with them for the 4 mile round trip into Winfield. I powerwalked the slight uphill road into Winfield and jogged the slight downhill back to the trailhead. I got to Winfield at 5:15. I still had 45 minutes on the cutoff time. Back at the trailhead I was again the boxer, sitting in my corner, being taken care of by Kate, and listening to Bob's advice. He was saying that if I could get up to Hope Pass in an hour and 20 minutes I was home free. I could then take it easy into Twin Lakes and coast the rest of the way to the finish, because the cutoff times got progressively softer. Bob kept telling me, an hour and 20 minutes, just trudge up the mountain. All I had to do was trudge up the mountain, especially at the top, just trudge. All I had to do was breath that extra quarter and trudge up the mountain in an hour and 20 minutes. I was on a mission. I drank more Pepsi and I left the trailhead feeling great. I was off up the mountain. I powerwalked up the bottom half of the mountain at a good pace. Then I began to trudge. I passed a runner with two pacers. He was talking about how he was disappointed in his marathon times. He just couldn't break 3:10; 3:15, 3:18, 3:12, but he couldn't get it below 3:10. I wondered what he was doing behind me, because I was happy if I broke 4 hours for a marathon and here I was passing him. In 100's speed means nothing, pace is everything. I kept looking at my watch as I approached the rocky final mile to Hope Pass. If I kept trudging, I had a chance to make it in an hour and 20 minutes. I dug very deep and pushed up that last mile. I crested Hope Pass in an hour and 21 minutes. I was elated as I started down the slope to the aid station. I looked around me at the magnificent view. A few runners passed me as I come into the aid station, but it did not matter. There was a chance that I could complete Leadville. The descent from the aid station to Twin Lakes was enjoyable. I was confident about downhills and I maintained a good pace to the bottom. The mile across the fields and streams into Twin Lakes was a chore and I walked, letting runners pass me. It started to rain as I neared the parking lot and continued as I changed shoes and got my Pepsi and new supplies. Bob reassured me that being an hour ahead of the cutoff at this point was plenty to finish and I believed him. Kate walked with me to the check in at the aid station and alerted me that there were people who wanted to be pacers. I asked her to find me one. Rick Bennett became my pacer out of Twin Lakes. As we headed up the trail I had a lot of enthusiasm. I was in good shape, with plenty of time, and someone to talk to. We got to know each other as we powerwalked up the hill. It was dark and I began to chase flashlights. We passed runner after runner and we made good time up the hill. We pushed on over the mountain and down the trail to the road into Halfmoon. As we came out of the woods and onto the road, we began to walk. The energy that had taken me over the hill had flagged and I was content to walk into Halfmoon. We ran the 3 miles of road out of Halfmoon to Treeline where we met Kate and Bob. It was around 1 o'clock am when we got to Treeline. I had 9 hours to run 27 miles. If I could walk the 3 miles of pavement into Fish Hatchery in an hour, I would have 8 hours to go 24 miles. Twenty minute miles with the last 13 nearly flat was doable. Rick and I walked the 3 miles to the Fish Hatchery and the next mile of pavement to the trailhead to Sugarloaf Pass, then we geared down for the uphill over the pass. Again I felt the determination that I had felt during the ascent to Hope Pass. There was an acceptance of the fact that for the next hour or so all one's effort will be going into climbing up the hill. All else was forgotten. I became in the present. Past and future was forgotten. All the effort was just here in the moment. As I went up there was less and less mountain above, and eventually, I was at the horizon. The aid station at the pass was a happy place. Hope Pass is the top of the world, but here at Sugarloaf Pass it is the top of the world at night. The sky and stars were intense. Walking away from the aid station, I looked down upon Lake Turquoise and the lights of Leadville. We were so close, and then so far. We started down the mountain. It was not really running that I did at this stage of the race. It was an attempt at running that is probably not much faster than walking. So I faked running down to Hagerman Road. I thought about running on the road, but I was too tired. We walked, pushing forward. From the road the trail descends to a point slightly above May Queen aid station. I could sense it just below. The trail continues around May Queen for at least another mile from the east to the south to the west before descending into the station itself. It was a very long walk. I reached May Queen at 5:30 am. It was near dawn and Rick and I set out with flashlights along the lakeshore. As the sky and trail became lighter we ran as much as we could. Fatigue was becoming a factor. My hamstring was beginning to hurt. Two Aleve were lasting about 4 hours. I decided to try to run as far as possible. We covered 6 miles in an hour and a half. At the boat ramp we met Kate and Bob. I exchanged water bottles and nothing else and didn't linger. I wanted to get to the finish and wished to waste no time. Digestion fatigue had set in and it was difficult to swallow my Hammergel. I was able to take small drinks of replenishment drink and water, but even the water was a chore to swallow. We pushed on for 4 more miles until we had skirted the lake and walked the road to the railroad tracks. It was slow going. I suggested to the runners around me that we might be able to break 29 hours. Someone replied that the last 3 miles were uphill. Disheartened, we pushed on. The dirt road to the pavement in Leadville is barely uphill, but at this stage it is another mountain. I knew I would finish, so in a state of exhaustion, I strolled on and on. The rise onto the pavement is uplifting, but I had nothing left except the forward momentum that took me over the last rise and in sight of the finish line. I would have liked to run in to the finish, but I continued to stroll. I crossed the finish line in 29 hours and 9 minutes. I felt I had accomplished a major achievement in my life. I had finished the Leadville 100, the Race Across the Sky, the race I learned about on ABC's Wide World of Sports when I was younger and never thought about myself as a runner. And now with Leadville over, three quarters of the slam and the hardest part was completed. The Wasatch Front 100 Mile Endurance Run The last thing I remember Bob Marston said to me before he left Leadville for home was, "Don't worry about Wasatch, it's a walk in the park." Little did I know he meant that I would be doing a lot of walking in a national park. The three weeks between Leadville and Wasatch went quickly. Kate and I stayed in Colorado until Friday, then flew home to direct the Mt. Toby Trail Run on Sunday. I worked for a week, Labor Day weekend was restful, and then it was time to get ready to fly to Salt Lake City. The only significant thing that happened was that a friend gave me some arnica lotion for my hamstring. I put the lotion on for 10 days before the race and it seemed to loosen it up and take the soreness away. The hamstring certainly did not hurt as much as it did after Vermont, but the arnica lotion did what my friend said it would. I had no trouble with it before, during, or after Wasatch Front. We flew into Salt Lake City on Thursday morning. We rented a four wheel drive vehicle, because the crew directions said that we would need one. It was a very good suggestion. We drove to the first two aid stations, Francis Peak Maintenance Shed and Bountiful 'B', and decided that during the race Kate should skip Francis Peak and met me at Bountiful 'B'. On Friday morning we went to Big Mountain, Lambs Canyon, and Brighton without any problems. The directions to Pole Line got us completely lost for more than two hours. We never found Pole Line, though Kate did during the race. We found Alpine Crest and headed for the pre-race meeting. The pre-race meeting was short and sweet. We talked with Monica Scholz and Hans Dieter Weisshaar who were running 18 and 22 100's respectfully this year. I guess there is no end to what the body and mind are capable of doing. We ate and went to sleep early. We woke at about two thirty in the morning and talked until three thirty, then began to get ready for the race. It was a nice slow morning. I was neither excited nor anxious. It was just another day at the office. We were one of the first cars to arrive at the start. We watched everyone walk up the hill to the start and about 4:55 am we gathered at the very laid back start. We were at the end of the paved road where a small one lane path headed into the darkness. At 5 am we were off. The first 4 miles of the course was relatively flat with a few ups and downs along the side of a mountain. My legs were tight, but I ran a good pace with the rest of the runners around me. At about 5 miles we started up a hill. It was a serious 8 mile climb. The only climb comparable to it around Western Mass is the first uphill in the Seven Sisters up to Bare Mountain. I was feeling very good and passed a long line of runners in the first two miles. When the climb leveled out slightly they all passed me. Then the trail got steep, then steeper, then into the amphitheater known as 'Chinscraper', then up the side of the amphitheater. As the trail became hand over fist, I knew I was in for a long day. The phrase that came into my mind was 'course management'. I was going to have to run this course intelligently if I was going to finish. I knew the 36 hour cutoff was doable, so I decided to take my time, run a little when I felt good, powerwalk when I needed to, and focus on the present and what I could see. After the top of Chinscraper the course slowly ascended the side of the mountain ridge. Just as I was finishing the last of my water and replenishment drink an aid station appeared. I awoke to the fact that the first uphill was over and I was into the race. The day was brightening. The course ahead was a gravel road. I was psyched. I filled both my water and replenishment drink and began walking towards 'Paul Bunyan's golf balls," the white globes on top of Francis Peak. With slow and steady course management I was going to finish this race. I ran the descent from Francis Peak to the maintenance shed aid station. The descent was steep enough that I knew it was going to be deadly on my quads. I began to realize just how long a race this was going to be. The 30 hour cutoff time at Leadville made Leadville harder than Wasatch Front. However, Wasatch was the purest hard running of the grand slam. At the maintenance shed I had completed 18 miles and I was doing well and feeling good. I sped through the aid station and headed out on a rocky gravel road towards Bountiful 'B'. The rolling uphills and downhills were difficult, especially the footing. I had to constantly focus on choosing where I was stepping to avoid the large rocks. Also the altitude and lack of recovery time made progress tougher. The final ascent to Bountiful 'B' was on a trail and it was a relief not to be on the rocky gravel road. When I met Kate at the aid station I said, "That was hard." That would be the first words out of my mouth at each aid station. It was noon and I was running about 4 and a half miles an hour. The next 17 miles was more of the same, beautiful mountains, beautiful views, wonderful trails, rocky roads, uphills, and downhills. The uphills were steep. It took a lot of effort to push up them. The downhills were steep. It took more effort to maintain a good pace down them. I had to stay very focused on the roads so to maintain easy footing. The trails were a slight respite, though they were hard work as well. The flats, especially the rolling ridges, were enjoyable, even though they were still chores. The views down into the valleys on either side when atop the ridge and down into the valley when the trail paralleled the ridge on one side of the mountain were exquisite. I pulled into Big Mountain aid station with the usual "that was hard." I had run 40 miles in 12 hours, a 3 mile an hour pace over the last 15 miles. I knew I had used a lot of energy over those 15 miles. I was tired and sore. I changed my shoes and put on a vest and gloves. I headed up the path to the next mountain. The next 8 miles were more of the same, steep hills, rocky footing, and beautiful views. Eventually the course reached the top of the mountain and the view of the valley and Interstate 80. I had false hopes at seeing I80. I thought I was near the Lambs Canyon aid station. After a long two mile downhill, the trail leads to the aid station 5 miles before Lambs Canyon. As I left this aid station I could see that the course flatten out relative to the slopes on which I had been. I was so tired and sore that the flatness did not help. I pushed forward with a walk that could no longer be called a powerwalk. It was all I could do to keep going forward. I was on the verge of stumbling. Realizing I had five miles to go to Lambs Canyon was mentally deflating. I reached a little deeper and continued on the grassy road over some rolling hills. I recovered a bit when we turned off of the road and headed up a trail over a small hill and onto a road down the other side of the hill. Again I could see I80 and again it would be a while until I got to the aid station. I descended some switchbacks to a flat path on which I could only walk. Then the course descended onto a grassy path across a creek and continued until finally it ascended to the aid station. It was night. I had gone 14 miles in 4 and a half hours. Again I said, "That was hard." I thought 3 miles and hour and I am home and a grand slammer. After two Aleve, a Pepsi, and warmer clothes, I left the aid station with a surge of new energy and strolled up a slightly inclined paved road for a mile and a half. It was night and adventure was afoot. The beginning of night is always exciting. There is something less human and more animal about running at night. The course turned off the road and onto a trail and directly uphill. The hills in the daylight were tough. This hill left me looking for a lower gear and a lot more determination. Trudge was definitely the description of the pace up this hill. I sucked it up a couple of times and pushed forward. I stayed in the present and was actually surprised when I rounded a bend a came to the pass. Now it was directly downhill. Surprisingly, I found myself running. I came upon another runner and we ran together. We then came to a runner whose flashlight had gone out. I had my spare and gave it to him. The three of us ran together to the trailhead. We made good time and came out onto the 3 miles of slightly uphill road to the Upper Big Water aid station. I walked up the paved road drinking a Pepsi that Kate had given me at Lambs Canyon. I was getting digestion fatigue and I hoped that the Pepsi would calm my stomach. I reached Upper Big Water at 12:30, 9 miles in 3 hours. I was doing just fine. At the aid station I began talking to a runner who had run Wasatch before and he described the terrain ahead. A 3 mile gradual uphill, then a mile downhill, uphill to Desolation Lake, uphill to Scott's Peak, and 4 miles downhill to Brighton at 75 miles. I was psyched about the gradual uphill. Kate got my supplies together and I decided to drink one more cup of soup before I left. The soup was very salty and I began to gag on it. I walked to the check out tent and threw up all that I had ingested at the aid station, including the Pepsi I had drunk on the way up the paved road. I immediately felt better and headed up the hill. I had an enjoyable walk up the hill and a painful run down the hill to Dog Lake. Then came the uphill to Desolation Lake. It was endless. It took me two hours to do 5 miles. I was exhausted, so I got out of the aid station at Desolation Lake as quickly as possible, which took 5 minutes. The uphill to Scott's Peak was long, but not endless. At the top of the mountain I could see the next aid station. The distance to that aid station along the side of the mountain, around the butte, down the road, and across the ridge, all the while the aid station was in sight, was endless. Finally, I arrived at Scott's Peak. Moving as quickly as possible, so as to not waste time, I left the aid station after seven minutes. Usually for me three minutes in an aid station is long. I was moving slowly. Time and distance was becoming quite surreal. The 4 mile downhill into Brighton was runable, but I had no energy. I walked painfully down an excruciatingly long rocky jeep road, to a similarly long dirt road, to a similarly long paved road to Brighton. After a fifteen minute rest, some hash brown potatoes, the first food I had eaten since Upper Big Water, I brushed my teeth, changed my shoes and wandered towards the uphill to Catherine's Pass. The last miles of Wasatch, as they are in 100 mile runs, were very interesting. I had no energy, but I could not sit down. There is nothing to do but go forward, inevitably moving forward. I took one step after another up a very rocky trail similar to Bare Mountain in the Mount Holyoke Range. Luckily, I was with other runners at this point. I could have easily gotten lost if I were alone. The morning began to lighten. Catherine's pass is atop a marble amphitheater atop a marble mountain. The walk to the top in morning sun was beautiful. About 300 feet from the ridge, two bull moose appeared coming the other way on the trail. The other runners and I spent about 2 minutes at an impasse, yelling at the moose to get off the trail. Finally one of the runners I was with took off his gloves and the moose moved off the trail. We proceeded upward to another quarter mile and then down, down, down, through false bottom after false bottom. I was moving so slowly that the distance between aid stations became unbelievably long. Time and distance were dragging out so that I felt like I was running forever. I was so glad to get to the aid station after the downhill I buzzed through it with a surge of energy. After a short downhill and a jog across a meadow along a stream, another uphill appeared. At this stage of the race each uphill at first was depressing. Gathering myself for each hill was difficult. Then, a quarter of a mile into the hill, I was geared down and the hill was just the next inevitable challenge. Inevitably moving forward was the watch phrase of the morning. I trudged up the hill, across the ridge, and down through an Aspen grove. Through each section there was the first momentary letdown, then the settling in to the trail at hand, then the anticipation of the next aid station. I never lost focus through all the ups and downs in the last half of Wasatch. There was always the underlying determination that I would finish the grand slam. The scenery changed dramatically when we neared Pole Line aid station. The Aspens were new to me. I sensed I was lower in altitude than I had been since Lamb's Canyon. Pole Line aid station at 17 miles indicated that the end was near. It was nine o'clock and Kate met me. She had found Pole Line after a harrowing trip on a nearly impassable road. We were both excited about the prospect of finishing the grand slam with 17 miles and 8 hours to go. It was a new day and beginning to warm up. I took off a layer of clothes, ate some more hash brown potatoes, cleared my system in the woods, and felt for the first time that I was going to be a grand slammer. I left Pole Line very upbeat and walked the flats. It was getting hotter and I was very happy we had rented a 4 wheel drive vehicle and Kate had found her way to Pole Line. If I had not taken off a layer of clothes here I would have fried. I came to another uphill that I had not anticipated. I had thought it would be downhill to the finish from Pole Line. I agonized climbing up to the top of the hill. The number, steepness, and duration of the hills at Wasatch made the canyon section of Western States seem short and sweet. The downhill into Mill Canyon was steep and rocky with many false bottoms. I was close to agony on this downhill, but I kept repeating, at least it's a downhill. Finally the Mill Canyon aid station appeared and I looked back and wondered how I had made it this far. I had 11 miles to go. Mill Canyon to Alpine Crest was just long, with a long gradual uphill into the aid station. I was looking forward to aid stations and it was sapping my energy. I tried to forgot everything and put one foot in front of the other. I rested at the Alpine Crest aid station and with a little energy ran down the 3 mile hill into Alpine Grove. I thought I was at Sundance and the race was nearly over, but actually, I had 3 more miles to go. When I realized that I still had miles to go, I had a mental collapse. I became discouraged and decided that I didn't matter how long it took me, I would finish within the time limit. Many people past me. Finishing time for this race had no meaning for me. If I finished I would be a grand slammer. I walked on and on. I lost perspective on time and distance because I was moving so slow and my mind was racing to the finish. I kept gathering myself together and walking what I could see. The course went into a canyon and back out at this point. It was a long trek when tired. Finally I came to a downhill which led to a stream and a road on the other side. I crossed a bridge, crossed a road, and began climbing again. I took one more deep breath and walked on. I came out of the woods and onto a road next to a ski lift. The finish line was below me. My shoelaces had started to untie after I left the Alpine Crest aid station. I had stopped tying them, because I had to sit, or bend to tie them and that was too painful. Fifty yards from the finish I decided that since time was of no consequence I would tie my shoelace here. I savored the moment crossing the finish line a little bit longer. I was going to be a grand slammer. I crossed the finish line to a hero's welcome. I became a slammer. Only 10 runners of the 24 who started the slam finished it. I became one of 97 runners who have completed the grand slam since its inception in 1986. Postscript Early in training for the grand slam of ultrarunning it crossed my mind that I had taken on more than I could accomplish. I wondered how I was ever going to do it. I remembered seeing people run the Boston Marathon with people's name's on the back of their t-shirts and I had talked to many people who related that they dedicated a marathon to someone who had passed away. Selfishly I thought that having the help of someone who had passed away would help me get through these four races. My father who died 20 years ago would be very proud of me if he were still alive. A close friend of mine, Bruno Matarazzo, died of cancer this winter. His dream was to run the Boston Marathon. In lonely times during training runs and many tough or lonely times during the actual races, I thought about my dad and Bruno. I called to them to run along with me, to enjoy what I was enjoying through my eyes, and help me if they could. If there was a sign that they were running with me, it was the weather while I trained and participated in the grand slam. When I needed to get some confidence for running in the heat of Western States, it was in the high 90's and humid for the Seven Sister's and Nipmuck Trail Marathon. Western States was in the dry 90's with a breeze. Vermont was mild until the end when the rains reminded me how adverse weather could effect a race. After the first 3 miles of rain, Leadville was pleasant, barely hot during the day and barely cool during the night. Wasatch Front was in the 70's all day Saturday and only got hot Sunday afternoon, a final reminder of what adverse weather could be like. I could not have asked for better weather or better company. That spiritual connection to Bruno and my dad are a large part of my grand slam experience. I learned a lot from pushing myself so far. I learned how to shed doubt. I learned that when I gradually increase what I ask my body to do, it will respond. I realized how determined I was when I began the ascent up the front side of Hope Pass. I took another step towards living in the present on the uphills in the canyon section of Western States. I learned to enjoy adversity during the rains of Vermont. I learned to click off any negative thoughts throughout Wasatch Front. I took another step towards understanding the eternal working out of things. If I can take care of the things I can, everything else seems to fall into place. My faith that life is a dream and I will wake up someday is strengthened. I deepened my relationship with many people who are dear, dear friends, including Kate who is the best crew ever. I think the most important part of my training came after I had completed the Seven Sisters Trail Run on an unbelievably hot day. I had prepared myself to do another out and back on the course. I got fresh water and replenishment drink bottles out of my car and started back on the course. At the top of Bare Mountain I stopped and gave some water to a runner who was leaning up against a tree, exhausted. I gave some more water to another runner a little further on. After a couple of miles I met a runner who hadn't had any water since the turnaround. I gave her water, proceeded on, but turned back. I returned to the last runner I gave water to and gave her more. With the extra water she was about to eat a power gel and gathered some energy and continued at a better pace. We past others and I gave out liquid to each until I had none left. A runner came by and explained that he could not share his water, because he was training for Western States. I mused that it was more important that I help others than train and finish Western States. I passed that runner with the water in the canyon section of Western States. He dnf'ed later in the race. My advice to those of you who are thinking about trying to do the grand slam is do it. When you are older it will be better to look back and see that you tried and, with proper training and good luck, completed it. For training, I would suggest finding the toughest hills and learn to run them. Run them again and again. I started with 15 mile runs and increased to 30 mile training runs once a week, and one or two 5k runs during the week. You don't have to do megamiles. Practice powerwalking a little. Plan a diet that gets you as light as possible and still healthy. Do as much cross training as possible. The grand slam is more about endurance, survival, and running, rather than pure running. Endurance weightlifting, low weights and mega- repetitions, helps. I think crunches for your abs are essential. The stronger your stomach muscles are the less wear there is on you back. I am lucky to do landscape gardening for a living. Eight to 10 hours a day of digging, cutting, climbing, mowing, moving, dragging, and shoveling and getting paid for it is better than being sponsored by a shoe company. Practice staying in the present as long as possible and forget thinking about the past and future. Practice letting things evolve naturally, rather than trying to make things happen. You will have to set aside part your life for the most part for six months to a year. Make sure you can spend a couple of days after the race in the area of the race. California, Vermont, Colorado, and Utah are wonderful places to rest and enjoy a few days of recovery. My future goals are moderate at this time. Running ultramarathons is very addicting and I wonder if, by next spring, my goals will be loftier. I think I will run one 100 next year. I would like to do some crewing and pacing to see if I can enjoy ultrarunning without the work and stress of competing. I have memories longer than the road and it would be nice to share them with others by facilitating their adventures. I look forward to talking with you all - happy running.