Grand Slam Adventure 2003 by Terry Parks Rain, close lightning strikes, snow, fog, sleet, temperatures ranging from a low of 38? to a high of 114?- those of us who endeavored to run four 100-milers this year between June and August encountered them all. Yet compared to earlier years, this was an easy year to compete in the Grand Slam. Most of the weather was perfect running weather - overcast, in the 70's - 80's during the day, and dropping down to the high 30's at night. No major fires, no major rainstorms, no deep mud - just normal mountain weather any hiker would have to prepare for. The Grand Slam is ideal for a middle of the pack, 47 year-old runner who likes trail running and wants a new adventure (and has a loving wife who said 'Sure, take the summer off from work. 8 weeks of not working won't matter 10 years from now. Completing the Grand Slam will.") After running Western States, the Vermont 100, the Leadville 100, and the Wasatch Front 100 in one summer, I'd have to say that the Grand Slam is also not for the faint-at-heart, for the folks who will quit because it is too cold or too hot, whose bodies can't recover in 3 weeks from one 100-miler to be ready for the next - or those who aren't willing to just slug it out to the end. Yet, I know many a hardy sole for whom I have the deepest admiration who have had to drop out of one of the four. I guess I both got lucky - and had pacers and crew who wouldn't let me quit. There were 30+ of us who signed up to give up our summers to try to cross the finish lines in under 30 hours (or 36 hours in the case of Wasatch). I'm fortunate to be one of the 16 who accomplished it. I'm a western trail runner, having trained in the Marin, California headlands and in the Sierras. I like the ups and downs for the balanced use of muscles, the single-track trails running in and out of forests, and the low humidity. My background on this 'home turf' may color the following view of the four races. I found the first two races just very long. It wasn't until Leadville and Wasatch that I really got tested. Here's my experience this year: Western States 100 (Climb: 18,790'; Descent: 22,970'; Elevation at start: 6,250'): Doing this for the second year, the run, in comparison to the other three Grand Slam events, was a sleigh ride through beautiful country - after the first few hills. The temperature in the Canyons (from Devil's Thumb at mile 47.8 to Michigan Bluff at mile 55.7) was a brutal 114?, but the Canyon stretch lasted only an hour, and a cold plunge into El Dorado Creek revived me. The impact of altitude was minimized because the race started with a quick jaunt up to 8,270' feet and then came down to reasonable breathing level quickly. Finishing the race in a stadium with friends all around makes it all worth it. After doing the other 3 races, I realized that this race was extremely well organized. Aid stations with trained volunteers and medical staff offer appropriate food and support, and the course markings were well laid out. A pacer was allowed beginning at Foresthill (mile 62), so I had Florencia Gascon-Amyx keeping me on course and running faster through the night. Yes, it was hot. Yes, I had cramps which were fixed only because Gordy Ainsleigh, the true founder of 100-milers, came back to give me salt to eat. Yet doing this a second time allowed me to cut 90 minutes off last year's finish, coming in at 27:15. Vermont 100 (Climb: 14,160'; Descent: 14,160'; Elevation at start: 1,340'): This picture postcard race has at least two great features: the pre-race dinner and the post-race feed. Help yourself to all-you-can-eat bricks of Ben and Jerry's ice cream, whole BBQ chickens and lots of hamburgers, good camaraderie, etc. Furthermore, at the start of the race, fireworks exploded while a concert pianist played "Chariots of Fire," and the musical support continued with a local classical guitarist providing music from his front porch. Gordy Ainsleigh and another good Western States buddy, John Dewey, made the trip to Vermont at the last minute, thus providing me with running partners and great advice for the first and last 30 miles. With my western bias, the easy (and therefore somewhat monotonous) course deceived me. The course altitude and profile made me think that I might be able to finish in under 24 hours. However, I typically cannot sleep before a race. At mile 93, I had to stop and take a nap. Happily, the course was gentle and kind enough that as I literally fell asleep on my feet running, I somehow didn't fall into trouble or wind up in Canada. I managed this race without a crew or pacer, using only one drop bag. One main complaint: although this one has almost double the aid stations as the other 3 courses, at the unmanned Aid stations, supplies were left to the taking, and by the time I arrived at these, it looked like a tornado had hit them. Litter was everywhere, the water dispensers were dry, and the bowls were empty of food. For someone slightly faster than me, the 24 hour buckle is doable. I finished in 25:25, having learned that running 100 miles was still running a 100 miles. The finish line was disappointing after my tumultuous Western States experience. There were 3 people there: the official timekeeper and two young teenagers who half-heartedly clapped as I arrived. Next time, I'm bringing my own cheering section. Leadville Trail 100 (Climb: 15,600'; Descent: 15,600'; Elevation at start: 10,152'): Leadville began the true adventure for me - and tested my willingness to keep going. The race starts at 10,152' above sea level, where walking at a fast pace can leave you out of breath. I came three weeks early to become acclimated to the altitude, staying at the Leadville Hostel, which I highly recommend. Both Wild Bill, a truly caring host, and all the guests (either fellow runners, or cyclists) were great sources of information, fun, and support. We racers poured over Dana Rouche's course strategy, previewed most of the course, or went up to the top of Mt. Evans, 14,264', for hours at a time. It took a while, but getting acclimated was a wise choice. I actually got a good night's sleep before the race, so I was almost chipper for the 4 a.m. start. Going around Turquoise Lake in the pre-dawn hours was easy; it's totally flat, but the dust kicked up by runners would turn into a breathing problem later on. Because it was so flat, I decided to make a run for it. I did the first 50 miles, including the 3400-foot climb to Hope Pass, in 12:25, almost keeping pace with swift Matt Mahoney. This may have been a good decision, or it could have contributed to my respiratory challenges later on. Because of the toll that altitude can take, Leadville allows a pacer at mile 50. I met my first pacer, Ana Braga-Levaggi from Mill Valley, California, at the Winfield turnaround. Leadville has some of the best (loosest) rules for pacers that I've ever encountered. The pacer can be your 'mule,' carrying your water, clothes, music, and lights - anything except you. Merilee O'Neal, the race director explained it this way: "We want you to finish. We'll do anything within reason and safety to allow you to finish, as long as you actually run the whole race in the hours allowed." Still, Leadville usually has a 40%-50% finishing rate. Ana's run was less fun than what Leadville had offered to me up to this point. Going back up Hope Pass, we passed the 36 llamas used to bring up food and water to the 'Hopeless' aid station. That was her only fun. Dense fog and the tail end of a rainstorm got us soaked. Reaching the flats going into Twin Lakes, my fast pace, the dust, the altitude - who knows what - caused me to have great difficulty breathing (as in, I felt like I was drowning and wasn't sure if my next breath would actually help me.) Twin Lakes aid station was well prepared; a huge canister of oxygen was offered to me and I sat there for 20 minutes sucking air - literally, as my patient crew (I was sort of nasty at this point) stripped me and redressed me, brought me lights, forced me to drink my 2 cans of Ensure and got me up on my feet and going. Ana and I left right after dark. The rest of the race was a forced walk. Going up the long, steep hill in the cold dark, we got lost for 15 minutes, following another runner rather than the glow sticks. Ana let me watch stars as she ran back down to find the right path. This was the beginning of my 3 hours of despair. My lung volume went down to 30%; I lost energy and hope as my asthma medicine stopped doing what it was supposed to do. Not being able to breath was an unpleasant surprise. In my mind, I would get to Half Moon aid station, a mere 9 miles away, where I would DNF (Did Not Finish). This, ladies and gentlemen, is where pacers and crew come in. As we VERY SLOWLY made our way to Half Moon, my mother was rushing back into Leadville to get stronger medicine. Then Jane, my wife, found a way to legally take it up to the aid station (no crew allowed). As Ana and I arrived at Half Moon 20 minutes prior to the cut-off, Robin, the medical aid worker, who had been briefed by Jane, met me. Looking like Santa Claus, he came up to me and said 'I have a little present for you' and handed me the new medicine. Sobbing, I told him I was going to DNF. I was at the lowest of the low. Ana told me that to DNF was ok, but she "suggested" that I could DNF at the next aid station - down the hill. She forcefully told Robin not to cut my wrist-band, thus ending my race. Other runners were still going by, so we stood up and went on. 2.7 miles later, in the dark of the night, I lay in my Mom's car, moaning about going through Hell. Ana had run ahead, yelling for Jane, and telling her: "Don't let him drop out. He has the strength to finish - he is just scared." All three, my Mom, Jane and Ana, kept saying I only had a mere 50K and that the next 4-5 miles were totally flat. Plus, I would be picking up my next pacer who had been waiting for me since 11:30. I went on. Jamie Boese, my patient pacer, whom I had met only two week before (he's a burro racer from Denver) picked me up a mere 5 minutes before the 3 a.m. Fish Hatchery cutoff. The last hill seemed to be enormous as we went through a snowstorm; I was still wheezing and trying to catch a deep breath. Yet, the camaraderie of ultra-racers, who all want the others to finish, continued as a Canadian woman shared her even stronger asthma medicine with me, allowing me to actually feel like I could breath freely for the first time in hours. Jamie kept me talking (if I could talk, I was breathing ok). He told me when not to talk (going up the hills) and kept me focused on sharing ultra-running tips versus the effort. We arrived at May Queen, 13.5 miles from the finish at, 6 a.m. I finally had hope that I could finish. In pre-race practice, I had power-walked to Leadville in a little over 3 hours. Leaving May Queen, I had 3 hours and 40 minutes - plenty of time. Absolute jubilation was mine (and Jane's, my Mom's, and my pacers') when I arrived at the finish with a 20-minute margin, at 29:39. I kissed the ground - this was a total surprise to me that I finished this race. I had gone into it with neither fear nor anticipation that I might DNF, yet I had had to scrape by with what I felt was my life in order to make it. Wasatch Front 100 (Climb: 26,882'; Descent: 26,131'; Elevation at start: 4,880'): Not wanting to lose my acclimation, I went directly from Leadville to spend the next 3 weeks in the Wasatch Mountains. Jane took her vacation - only to spend a week driving up and down canyon roads to check the aid stations. I was looking forward to the race because I had heard how beautiful it was. I did NOT run nor check out any of the race, except the last three miles. I just wanted to just rest my body, hoping it would make a full recovery. This really paid off, going into the race better rested than I had gone into any of the other Grand Slam courses. I looked forward to the race until I read John Medinger's race report. He said, "It was fun. It was beautiful. It was challenging, no, strike that, it was hard. Then it got ugly. Then it got very ugly. Then it got stupefying, Bataan death march, lurching, staggering, crying-for-yo'-mama-in-the-middle-of-the-night ugly." He quoted his pacers' mentions of 'unfair course'. He was right. You have 36 hours to finish the Wasatch with a pacer starting at mile 32. There is a reason for this. Wasatch requires slugging it out on LONG, steep up-hills and steep, rocky, there-are-few-places-for-your-feet-amongst-the-boulders descents. As someone said, 'There is a reason why they call these the Rocky Mountains'. The logo says 'Heaven and Hell'; there is mostly Hell, unless you can lift your eyes from the trail to look around, and then it is stupefying gorgeous. The first 31 miles was the hardest ultra I had ever done. When I picked up my pacer Florencia Gascon-Amyx at mile 53, it was the hardest 50+ miler I had ever done, taking me 16+ hours (compared to my normal 50 miles in 9 1/2 hours). At 7:10 a.m. at Brighton (mile 75.4), after being on the trail since 5 a.m. Saturday, I was wiped out. Florencia and I had just gone through a lightning storm. At Scott's Peak, we left in the rain and had an "interesting" discussion about feeling the electricity in the air. We were counting the lightening strikes' distances from 10,000 feet, to 3,000 feet, to 300 feet away. I told Florencia that when you feel the hair raising up on the back of your neck, to duck down but not put your hands on the ground. We were in the open, on top of the peak (at 9,996 ft.). The aid station was holding the runners from going on due to the storm - right after we had left. We couldn't go forward to get cover and we couldn't go back. As the lightning struck before we finished counting 'one' and then the next flash and boom were simultaneous, we just kept going. There was good news: it was hailing, snowing, and then sleeting at this time - keeping us from getting as wet as from rain. I had been looking forward to a nap indoors the Brighton Lodge aid station, but Jane told me to 'get my ass in gear' if I was going to finish in the 36 hours. Dry socks, shoes, clothes and then food and glorious caffeine (Starbucks, even!) - then out the door. This was where John Medinger's report really rang true. The course after Brighton was a double-edged sword. Leaving Brighton, it was very beautiful going over the highest pass of the race (10,450') - and then the ups and downs got increasingly harder until the finish. The final fifteen miles were excruciatingly technical. As Florencia said, "There is no easy downhill. Normally you look forward to the downhill to recover. Here, you have to pick your way down the hill, paying attention at every moment. Then you face the next steep uphill." There were a whole bunch of 1000-foot very steep up-hills and 1000 foot very steep 'blow your quads' non-runnable descents. Jane had put the fear of God in me - would I sacrifice my Leadville finish to come in just after 36 hours, causing me to officially DNF? I left Brighton with a hurried pace. This allowed me to catch up with a new good friend, Mike Bur, who was doing the Last Great Race. He kept us entertained, making fun of my knee-high gaiters and wondering why I was still wearing my gloves in the morning heat. He was absolutely fabulous, doing this race without a crew and without a pacer. His brain wasn't fried, and he could give us the race statistics. When we caught up with him, he let us know we had no cushion. Yet, a while later, he exclaimed that we had an hour cushion; at our pace, we could come in at 35 hours. All of a sudden, we had an hour and 30 minutes. So, I slowed down. Mike made it in 18 minutes before me. I crossed the finish line in 34 hours and 45 minutes, with Florencia at my side and Jane waiting to take pictures. The Grand Slammers, all 16 of us who finished, were given the Eagle Trophy, a special shirt, and most welcomed food and drink. Florencia had a well- earned massage. She had been with me for 18.5 hours to do 46 miles - a new 'duration' record for her. It was over; I had finished my adventure. I had made some new friends and had deepened old friendships from Western States. I had been supported by some of the greatest people on this earth - my Mom (June Taft) and my wife Jane. But the ones who really made it happen were my pacers, who put up with my bitching, moaning, and hemming and hawing, and who really were the ones who got me to the finish line. I will be forever grateful to Florencia, to Ana, and to Jamie, whose unselfishness and spirit kept me going despite myself. My hat is off to others who have gone before me and who will follow. I used to say "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger." A friend told me that's true, unless it makes you weaker, or if it has no effect whatsoever. Completing the Grand Slam is anything but the latter. Grand Slam Adventure 2003 Article for the Tamalpa Gazette Submitted by Terry Parks - 4 -