From tennyson@gwi.net Sat Sep 6 14:31:07 1997 From: "M. Tennyson" To: Subject: A report for your file... Date: Sat, 6 Sep 1997 17:32:08 -0700 LEADVILLE TRAIL 100 - 1997 AUGUST 16 & 17 by Marjorie Tennyson Trepidation is the only word that can sum up the emotion that engulfs me as I disembark the plane at Denver International Airport on July 22, 1997. Last year, 1996, I spent six weeks and all available funds to attempt the Leadville Trail 100 in August of 1996, only to contract gastroenteritis just in time for the race. Oh, I started it, convincing myself that I was dizzy because my body wasn’t used to the 4AM start. I visited every bathroom between Leadville and the May Queen Aid Station, not to mention every clump of bushes or trees, yet still arrived at May Queen’s 13.5 mile aid station in a semi-respectable 2:37. Only when everything I ate and drank after 3 plus hours of running at 10,000 plus feet erupted somewhere at about 18 miles did I finally begin to understand that this was more than anxiety. Denial is the only term that can explain why I could have even run that far before an embarrassing rescue, first, slung over a kind gentleman’s back (upon whom I barfed frequently), then, bungee corded upon an ATV which had been used for filming by Marty Liquori’s film company, and thawed out with warmed Ringer’s Lactate and hot packs at St. Vincent’s General Hospital after collapsing on the Colorado Trail in a fairly inaccessible spot from dehydration, and succumbing to hypothermia in the sub freezing early morning temperatures. The ER physician condescendingly explained the effects of altitude and insufficient training to me in the emergency room. It was not until he received the results of my Complete Blood Count that he finally began to treat me with a modicum of respect. “Your White Blood Count is 26.8! You are sick!” he exclaimed with obvious surprise. “Your electrolytes are fine!” Finally, he believed that this “stupid” woman really had been at altitude and was prepared for a 100 mile race at 10,000 to 12,600 feet. Somehow, I wasn’t convinced. To me, the failure to complete the race was an inditement of my ability, potential and character. My will was broken. All that great time at altitude was squandered during the fall as I limited any competition to 5k races. What could possibly be further removed from 100 mile training than 5K races? In spite of improving by over 1.5 minutes in two weeks, I was convinced of my total worthlessness as a runner. A 1996 Thanksgiving snowfall led to an emotional rally as I traded in my running shoes for cross country skis. A frolic on our 1/2 mile dirt road with my 9 year old son resulted in a challenge. “Let’s ski down the Johnson’s driveway!” I said bursting with confidence. No motor vehicle short of a snowcat had ever made it up their road in snow. “No way!” said my son. “You can do it if you want to, but not me. I’m not that stupid!” Well, I was that stupid. No one saw the high speed run that ended when my skis struck a rock just under the new snow. Airborne, I wondered which part of me would hit first. It was my right buttock and elbow. The pain was excruciating and compounded when I fell again just trying to return to the road. There was a chip on my elbow and something very wrong with my hip and leg. No more embarrassment for me; no more visits to the doctor. I’d deal with this myself. By February 1997, at the Cape Elizabeth 10 mile race, I had to concede that my right leg didn’t work and my lower back was too painful to continue to live with. Finally, I called Dr. Kneebone (yes it’s really his name) who reluctantly agreed to manipulate me. He had first encountered me after my first 50 mile race when I had forgotten to wear my heel lift for my short side. “Marjorie, if you are going to run 50 miles at a time, I am not sure how much help I can be for you.” he said. “Your right side is over 1.5 inches off. Your whole body is torqued.” On the day of the new appointment, Dr. Kneebone’s office called. “Our parking lot is icy. Please come a half hour later so you don’t fall” the secretary said. It seemed a little strange as the doctor lives above his office thus must have been there. I arrived late, then sat and sat in the waiting room knowing full well that the Doctor was in. Suddenly, the door burst open and a huge figure burst in from the ice storm and went directly into the inner office. “You may go in now” the secretary told me. “Marjorie, this is Nathan, a medical student from the University of New England” Dr. Kneebone told me. “He is going to do your treatment today.” Nathan looked like a giant to me. His head nearly touching the ceiling, he had to be 6’5” plus. Well, I wanted to get better, so two doctors would be better than one, I convinced myself. Nathan was just what I needed. He hauled on my right leg, torqued my hips, and caused me more pain than anyone in the waiting room might have wanted to know was possible. I had a child without crying out, but Nathan was able to make me wail with pain. Somehow, after many minutes of effort, he was able to force my leg to budge by leaning on it with his considerable body weight. I had to laugh when he began to drip with sweat from his resistance work on me. “Nathan wants to work with athletes so I thought I would let him experience you!” Dr. Kneebone explained as Nathan cooled off with a hand held electric fan. I didn’t know whether to be honored or embarrassed at the time, but, the results were excellent. I could train again. Although I had been accepted, it was too late to be ready in time for the July Hardrock 100 in Silverton, Colorado, although I seriously considered trying it anyway. The logistics for living and training at altitude require either huge amounts of money or local connections. Not one with money, my connections are only in Leadville where my sister Lynn and her husband, Peter Day, have just completed building a lodge with another family for their eventual retirement, and weekend retreats in the mean time. They are all geologists which makes them a very fun group to be with in the Rockies. Lynn is with the USGS, Peter with Philips Petroleum, Mark with Texaco and Judy now teaching high school. I am one of several “Auntie M’s” (Marjorie, Mary Lynn, Martha etc.) as we are called by the various nieces and nephews. Hitting the ground running, I ran roughly 10 miles per day for the first week while remaining in Arapaho County at 5,000 feet. Altitude didn’t seem to be noticeable, as I tried to take it easy and keep a slow pace as my body began adjusting. Living literally at sea level on the coast of Maine, my adjustment is among the maximum required by Leadville runners. On the weekend, we headed to Leadville and unlike last year when I trained too hard too soon and got bronchitis, I took a few easy days of biking and 4 mile runs. On one bike ride with Mary Lynn, Mark’s sister from Florida, I was reminded of the dangers of high mountain travel. After following the Leadville Bike 100 route over the first climb, we turned upward to the 10th Mountain Division Hut at “Uncle Bud’s.” Unfortunately, we were immediately engulfed in a fierce lightning storm and pelted with huge hail. The hail accumulated to about three inches deep before the precipitation turned to rain. The storm seemed to be attempting to wash us off the mountain. Huddled in a grove of trees, we were both soon numb with cold and wet in spite of our rain jackets. What had seemed funny at first, when we laughed at the funny noise hail made on our bike helmets, began to turn scary. We were at 11,500 feet, soaked and beginning to shiver uncontrollably. To turn back meant a five mile descent with hands too numb to work the brakes. There was the hut just a mile or two ahead, but if no one was there it would be locked up tight. Considering our options, we decided to continue up, in order to, perhaps, work up some heat. If no one was there, we’d at least have warmed up our muscles before attempting to go down. Luckily for us, the hut had several guests who kindly let us warm ourselves by their stove and even loaned us dry clothes while we dried our wet ones. The pain of thawing hands, and the hour before the shivering stopped, reinforced just how important both keeping your head, and having proper emergency clothing can be. Had either one of us not had a rain jacket, or had we not gone up to make heat, the story might not have ended so benignly. It was a great reminder as the rains and snows continued with little respite for the next three weeks. Almost every run led to a full soaking or pelting. Fort Collins almost washed away, Denver flooded in sections, and nothing ever seemed to dry out. I alternated long and short days with very long days >30 miles. I felt great. When the others went hiking, I’d run from the house to the trail head and then do the hike. Most times, we went above treeline at about 11,500. Swimming was also a big part of the schedule as the kids wanted to go to the Rec. Center’s indoor pool daily. Their hot tub and sauna had a certain appeal to me as well! Steve, my husband, arrived on August 9th. Any excitement about this was dashed when he staggered from the car to bed, having acquired a severe headache upon landing in Denver. This was all the more ominous as the prior week, the 16 year old son of friends from California, had been diagnosed with pulmonary edema 36 hours after arriving with headache and nausea, and been put on Oxygen and Diamox and sent back down to Denver. After two days he was able to return (on Diamox) without incident. Steve was to be my pacer for the second 50. He had to be OK! The next day, he seemed better, that is, until 4PM when his headache started up again and he began barfing. Once again he retired to bed without dinner. After tucking Steve in and serving him chicken broth, I discovered my son Nate hugging the porcelain fixtures in the bathroom, also violently ill. He simply had hiked too far and waited too long to eat, until he couldn’t eat. Gradually, I was able to bring him to a full recovery in time for the evening’s entertainment which was old slides from Lynn and Mark’s geology research in the North Cascades of Washington. I was there too, as an 18 year old field assistant. Until last summer, I hadn’t seen Mark for 25 years. Perhaps it was all the rain, or the stress of a sick husband and son simultaneously, not to mention an impending 100 mile quest, but one week before the race my throat was sore and eyes and nose watering with a cold. There was still time to recover while tapering, I assured myself. On Saturday, August 9th, our group covered three turns, and a major railroad crossing at Leadville Junction, both out and back, on the Mountain bike 100 mile race course. This was spectating at its best, as well as giving something back to the race directors Merilee O’Neal and Ken Chlouber who work so hard on these events. Keeping bike racers safe from speeding trains, RV’s towing jeeps, and the occasional unsupportive locals out drinking and crusing, kept us on our toes, but it was the cold rain and wind which arrived two hours before our job was finished which did the worst damage. Now it wasn’t just a cold, it was a “sick” cold. I moved inside the house from the camper I had been sleeping in. I slept, read and kept wrapped up in my down sleeping bag. No more swimming, hiking or running except for a 14 mile walk with Nate and Steve to Uncle Bud’s (which was locked this time!) and a bike ride to town for groceries, as everyone with cars had gone back to work until the weekend. By Friday, I was excited. The cold had abated. I was going to get a chance to see what I could do! It was reminiscent of my long lost adrenaline high which used to take a minute per mile off of my race times in younger days. I couldn’t wait for the race to begin. I couldn’t sleep a wink before the 4AM start. The AT&T representative and his wife who mounted the stand with a shotgun to start the race looked dazed at being up in the middle of the night and surrounded by 396 excited runners. But at 4AM, he fired the gun with a resounding BOOM and we were on our way. Only 43% would make it back. Of the female starters, only 11, or 18%, would cross the finish line. My plan was to stay completely within myself, expending little to no effort until after 25 miles. The plan seemed to be working well. I ran along listening to two guys chatting casually behind me, enjoying their conversation and feeling confident that the pace was also casual. As we passed a couple at about 5 miles, with numbers 100 and 101, representing last years finishing place, my talkative companions remarked how nice it was for a husband and wife to run together the whole way. As we moved on, they commented quietly, “They are going to be in trouble. We are numbers 25 and 40 and they went out way faster than we did!” I had that funny feeling in the pit of my stomach which hadn’t occurred since 1982. Part dread and fear, and part tantalizing hope. The dread and fear was caused by the many crash and burns of the last 15 years. The hope by an early career that included several sub 2:50’s and marathon wins (Huntsville, Erie, Nittany Valley, Casco Bay and a 3rd at Marine Corps in 1980). The missing factor was training and commitment. But how I had trained this year! Snaking around Turquoise Lake in the dark on a single track trail, we took turns leading as it was difficult to see very far ahead in the trees. This path is in no way straight. Crossing a parking lot and boat ramp, I found myself behind a man far braver than I on uncertain terrain. Suddenly, he was down. In looking past the pavement for a sign of the trail, he failed to clear a parking curb. He said he was OK but such things can come back to haunt, later in the run. We proceeded uneventfully for the next half hour or more. From the dark ahead, a voice called out: “Is Attorney Charlie back there?” I couldn’t resist quipping: “What? You brought an attorney with you?” Sploosh, I was down in the mud, mittens firmly buried in the ooze. One break in concentration in the dark was all it took. Luckily, I wasn’t hurt. Shortly there after, my chatty escorts began conversing with a woman they appeared to know well who appeared in the dark. 15 minutes later, she dropped behind us and out of conversation range. For the first time, my companions addressed me directly. “Who are you?” seemed somewhat abrupt, but what the heck. “I’m Marjorie from Maine.” I responded. “Well, Marjorie from Maine, #25 informed me; “You have just passed the 1993 Women’s Champion, USA 100K team member, and last year’s runner up, Theresa Daus Webber.” Uh Oh....This was either a dream come true, or a night mare. What had I done? Repeatedly forgetting that my mittens were muddy, I wiped my face several times, and arrived at May Queen, the 13.5 mile aid station looking like Pigpen’s cousin. Having studied the women’s split times from 1996 rather extensively, I had noted that last year’s women’s winner had arrived at May Queen in 2:22. Those faster than that had either suffered drastic slow downs or failed to finish. My time was 2:15. Rationalizing, I convinced myself that slowing down now would save my legs before any damage set in. I might have been correct. The first climb was relatively easy and I recalled Ann Trason’s ESPN comment that: “If you push it up Sugarloaf, that early in the race, you’ll be toast!” I jogged the easier sections but walked frequently and even made a pit stop. The calendar gods had decided that my monthly cycle must coincide with this event. My judgment, prior to exploring running the Leadville Trail 100, was that it would be suicide to run hard down the descents. My quads had always been totaled just by the Boston Marathon’s downhills. At Leadville, Sugarloaf plummets for about 3 miles, Twin Lakes is approached down another steep, 3 mile, single track trail, and of course the back side of Hope Pass drops 2,600 feet in two plus, very steep miles. Variations on this theme are repeated on the way home. What I discovered in trail running is that running all downs like a kamikaze is a badge of honor and considered essential for the fastest times possible. Perhaps Joe Schlereth of Fresno, a perennial top 10 finisher at Leadville, who fell and had to drop out for the first time this year, exemplifies one risk of this tactic. Dana Roueche, of Niwot, CO, who authored the race strategy suggested on the Internet, warns that “Sugarloaf can be a real quad trasher,” then adds, ‘but I usually run it at 7 minute pace.” No one, anywhere, that I spoke with prior to the race, suggested caution. There is time to be made up on the down. I started over the top of Sugarloaf chatting with a man from Ohio running his first Leadville. As the terrain dropped ever more steeply, I lost contact with him. Eventually, it seemed that the entire field could run down faster than me, and was, in spite of all the times I had run this descent flat out in training to practice. After six or seven women had passed me, I abandoned any restraint and flew. The passing stopped, saving my ego. My family saw me for the first time at the Leadville National Fish Hatchery at 23.5 miles. Last year they had waited and waited, finally deciding they had missed me. Then they got the note. “To the family of Marjorie Tennyson - In hospital.” This year relief was on all of our faces. No 26.8 white blood count or hypothermia. Just a good solid 4:28 split. I felt wonderful. The next 7 miles were largely uphill, although parts were quite runnable. I got a lift out of discovering that another woman who seemed determined not to walk one step, kept falling behind me as I mixed power walking and jogging according to the terrain. I attempted to offer encouragement but she did not respond so I left her alone. At 30.5 miles I was surprised to see Marge Adelman (another past winner and 10 time finisher) sitting on a chair looking very tired and unhappy. Dressed in white, she was due at her wedding to another runner on Hope Pass at 45 miles. I didn’t dally as I still felt great and anxious not to cause my family any worry by being “late” at the Twin Lakes 40 mile check point. Turning onto the Colorado Trail under Mt. Elbert I steamed up the first, very steep climb. This was great. On every up, I seemed to pass anyone in sight. But what goes up must come down, and it seemed I didn’t. Everyone I passed on the ups surely rolled by me on the downs. It was that hitch in my gate, that grabbing pain in my quads, that seemed to burn worse the faster I went. I’ll recover in a few miles I assured myself. Allowing myself to speed walk the downs helped, but my quads were clearly complaining still. This is my favorite section on the course, yet, my 1:29 split in training for the section without 30 prior miles, provided a very different experience than this 2:05 for miles 30 to 40. Once again, I tripped over my ego descending down the 1,000 foot drop into Twin Lakes as a bevy of women cruised by on legs that appeared to work, and I flogged my screaming quads to run. It is supposed to hurt sometimes when you run this far isn’t it? I lost my balance running down the embankment into the Twin Lakes Medical Check, but the screaming crowd somehow kept me on my feet as I skidded out of control, skiing without skis and sending up a giant dust cloud. Thankfully, I was gaining weight and being pulled for excessive dehydration was not a worry. More food and drink, a quick stretch and onward and upward! Well, first there was squish, slop, slap, as the unusually heavy rains had turned a field into a swamp of knee deep water and mud for a good quarter mile. Adding to the ambiance were the clouds of mosquitoes, a new twist for this year’s race. They were viciously hungry but it was impossible to run in knee deep muck! Thus the slap was added to the relentless forward motion. Crossing Clear Creek was a huge relief as the cold water numbed the bites. Unfortunately, the biting continued at least half way up Hope Pass. My already high spirits soared climbing Hope Pass. It is hard work, but once again my relentless forward motion seemed to be a relative fast forward. I passed about 15 people during the climb to the top. I was even able to semi enjoy a brief lightning and hail storm just below treeline. The last person I passed was Danna Michels whom I had run much of the early miles with. She sounded discouraged and said she was “getting pretty weary.” She was barely able to say her number at the Hope Pass aid station. I was worried she might not make it. It was her first 100 also. As I crested the pass, Steve Peterson charged by on the downside, having already been to the turn at Winfield. His pacer looked terrified at the speed of their decent but seemed to be hanging in there. It was a good 5 minutes before runner #2 came by. Runner #3 had left his pacer far behind! It wasn’t possible for me to appreciate the backside descent of Hope Pass, as my legs screamed with pain whether I walked, ran or slid. The pitch made it painful on my toes as they slammed into my shoes. A stone lodged in the toe of my left shoe added to the pain. No way would I stop till the bottom to remove it. An added challenge were the ascending runners, now with pacers picked up in Winfield. Passing runners in twos, on a single steep track, is harder than runners alone. I defer to them as they are clearly ahead of me, but this requires even more braking with my screaming quads. In reality, they are only one hour ahead of me, with more than 13 to go before the 25 hour “Big Buckle” cutoff. In the second 50 and hour can slip either way for any number of reasons. The first returning woman I see is Julie Arter of Arizona, last year’s 4th place woman. Not too far behind is a group of three women which include last year’s champion and 14th place overall, Martha Swatt of Wyoming. It is confusing from here on, as many men, if not most, have female pacers. Some women have no pacer and some have female pacers. Women are everywhere. I can’t tell where I am in the women’s race. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. It is where we all are at the finish that counts. More friendly faces are awaiting us as we roll off the Colorado Trail onto the dirt road into Winfield. I am ecstatic to be almost at 50 miles in this terrain and still high as a kite mentally, if not physically. At the Winfield Medical Check my weight is still above starting weight, although down from Twin Lakes by two pounds. Finally, I remove the rock from the toe of my shoe. I decide to sit down briefly, to stretch out my lower back and give my feet a break. Steve has been waiting for me for an hour, but now decides he must hit the latrine before departing Winfield. I chuckle to myself and tell him I’ll walk until he catches up. Actually, I am glad to have the excuse to walk. Steve has run a 2:16 marathon in younger days and is extremely excited about attempting a potential trail 50 as my pacer. Fearing unbounded enthusiasm on his part, my offer to let him pace me was all or nothing. “You must plan to go the whole 50 with me or not pace any of it.” I told him by way of invitation. Having never stepped past 26.3, this was indeed sobering for him. Worse yet, he hadn’t ever had to run past 2:30 at a time. I was likely to be out there for 14 hours on the return. Starting up the back side of Hope Pass would subdue anyone expecting to cover 50 miles. But still, I hadn’t been able to run from Winfield to the trail head as just about everyone else seemed to. My legs were more like wooden stilts with no shock absorbers. Still, I was confident. I had made the out trip with lots of walking in 12 hours. I had 16 hours for the return. Once again I passed several runners on the upward climb. Ominously, however, near the top, several passed me. It was an absolutely beautiful evening, all the clouds having disappeared. Sun lit the peaks, the llama were grazing around the Hope Pass Aid Station, and the soup there tasted wonderful. It was getting harder to eat and drink because nothing held much appeal, but I did my best. Another problem for me on the downs is stitches. If I try to drink going downhill I can get into some excruciating pain making breathing difficult. I’ll drink on the flats at the bottom, I told myself, forgetting about slapping mosquitoes and slopping through the swamp and hanging onto the rope to cross the creek. Finally, I caught someone on the way down. Ingrid, whose accent matched her name in spite of 25 of her 48 years in the USA, was also “saving” her muscles by walking down rather than running. We, and our pacers, talked for quite a while until somehow, I rolled too far ahead and began to concentrate on swatting the biting mosquitoes. A quick stop in a privy to handle the female thing, and a change of mud and water soaked shoes at Twin Lakes, where for the first time I’ve dropped below starting weight, and we are off again. Up up up another 1,000 feet and it is dark enough to illuminate the flashlights. It is also spectacularly beautiful. Moonlight is bathing the Twin Lakes behind and now below us. The peaks are silver and here and there aspen groves reflect the moonlight off their bark. I truly believe I am going to make it. We had left the 60 mile mark with a 2 hour cushion. At times on the Colorado Trail, it seems that Steve and I are the only people in the world. We relentlessly move forward from glow stick to glow stick. Suddenly, flashlights would appear with voices from behind and runners and pacers would roll on by us. I consoled myself that since none of us would make it under 25 hours, how far over didn’t make too much difference. After all, everyone said if you can make Half Moon under the cut off, you can crawl in under 30 hours. Crawling was beginning to seem within the realm of possibility. Steve kindly offered me the encouragement that “At this pace I guess I better put my jacket on.” which I tried to understand wasn’t meant to sound the way I took it. But it did get worse, as several slippery log bridges had to be negotiated and balanced upon in the dark. I hadn’t even noticed these on the way out! When we hit the long down hill section just before exiting the trail, my legs wouldn’t respond. “Steve, can I hang onto your pack to steady myself?” I asked trying to make it seem no big deal. Now Steve could feel the jolts and slips that my worthless legs were causing, but he wisely kept quiet. This last down hill caused terrific gas pains to flare, and a funny dry scratchy throat with a catch in my breathing led to a pitiful weak hacking when I breathed. “Steve, just let me lie on my left side for a minute by the side of the road while I move these stitches out” I begged. In that minute or two that I lay there, at least 20 runners must have passed on by. Ken Chlouber was telling someone that Marge Adelman wasn’t going to get her finisher’s jacket this year, having DNF’d then hiked up to Hope Pass from the far side for her wedding. 58 years old, Ken, as usual, was headed for a solid finish for the umpteenth year in a row. Back on my feet, I began to shiver and to weave. Each bump or dip would cause me to stagger sideways as the leg muscles failed to compensate. My coughs were more frequent and I couldn’t find enough balance to take a drink or eat. Soon I was steadying myself by holding on to Steve’s pack again. Runner’s were streaming by at an alarming rate. “What do you think Steve?” I tentatively raised the question. Should I go on after we get to the Half Moon check point? With his usual tact, Steve replied: “Well, the pace certainly is demeaning.” I inwardly chuckled again, knowing that he might find it demeaning, but I was damn proud to have even made it 70 miles on this course. If there was a reasonable chance of finishing under the time limit, I was game to stagger along, crawling if necessary. The Half Moon split would provide the direction. In the 10 miles from Twin Lakes to Half Moon, my two hour cushion had dropped to one hour. In my fatigue, I pictured no cushion by the 76.5 mile check point. Only after Steve and Peter had assured me that if I didn’t miss the cut off at Outward Bound, I surely would at May Queen, did my resolve to continue crumble. Unfortunately, neither they, nor I, realized that the cut offs become far more lenient in the last third of the course. I had 3 hours to go 7 miles on roads to Outward Bound. I had 3.5 hours, plus any not used for the 7 miles, to go the next 10 miles to May Queen. That left another 3.5 hours for the final 13.5 miles to the finish. After 20 hours of running, I was shown to a cot and told I had an hour to decide whether or not to go on. Peter had already gone to get the car, having made an executive decision that I’d miss a cutoff by May Queen. Steve disappeared choosing to remain silent rather than to influence my decision on stopping or going on. If only someone would have told me how much time was available to get to each remaining checkpoint, I might now be a finisher. However, it is also possible that my stomach, my legs, or what turned into a rip roaring, sinus infection requiring antibiotics, might have caused me to crash without choices before the line. The Emergency Room visit of 1996 was still too fresh in my memory, not to mention the bill covered only at 80%. I know I can run til I drop, because more than once I have done it. Was I being prudent or was I being a wimp? In the middle of the night, everything seems ominous and cold. The comments by Steve about the pace being demeaning, and requiring a jacket, replayed in my mind as I tried to get warm. He offered no encouragement, but we had discussed in advance that he was not to tell me to stop regardless of his thoughts on the matter. As I contemplated failure to finish, I interpreted his lack of encouragement and help in changing into warm clothes for the night as speaking without words. He was waiting for Peter and had no intention of talking me into attempting to continue. This is where my lack of experience played itself out big time. In uncharted territory myself, I should have arranged for either no pacer, or one who knew the black holes of fatigue and discomfort in the middle of the night after 20 hours of mountain running, and knew how to circumvent them. If Peter hadn’t been there with a car, I would have gone on. I hadn’t asked him to be there, he just was. Suddenly, husband and wife, #’s 100 and 101 were also climbing into Peter’s car for a ride back. In fact 7 runners took advantage of the lift back to town. # 100 turned out to be Odin Christianson who had been introduced before the race as about to complete his 10th Leadville Trail 100. Little did he know that his fate had been pronounced (along with my own) way back at 5 miles when #25 and #40 passed him and his mate, Phyllis Lucas. I have to admit it was pretty humorous watching and listening to this motley crew attempt to climb into and out of the Land Cruiser. Never had so few joints moved so poorly on so many. All of us were forced to hang onto anything within reach upon exiting the car. The prolonged sitting had been the kiss of muscle death. It was hard to face the family waiting at home after such enthusiastic support all day. In fact, the kids had gone to bed certain that I was going to finish early the next morning. We talked a bit in spite of the hour, and, I recall feeling terrific about my effort in spite of not finishing. I had known early that my legs were hammered from running downhill in spite of my better judgment. I had been told early that #100 and #101 were out way too fast for their finishing place from last year. I had run with a past winner for much of the first 50 miles. Strategy wise, I blew it. Good time and great experience wise, however, I’d had a ball. Knowing what I know now, God willing, I’ll toe that line again next year. I’ll walk the steep downs in spite of the conventional ultra wisdom. My pace will be much slower to 40 miles, and hopefully, much better from 50 to 70. There will be no misunderstandings about cutoff times. Steve will have more experience as a pacer (unless of course he is an entrant - as he has mumbled something about.) This year, I gained something very valuable. I had a great time making just about every mistake I could manage. I covered the hardest parts of the course well under the cutoffs. Had I walked the downs, I would have lost less time than I did when I couldn’t run because my quads hurt too much after 40 miles. Most of all, I had a ball. It was one of the most fun things I have ever attempted, both in preparing and in participating. Yes it was hard and there was some distress physically, but, gosh durn it! Next year I plan on getting my female finishers necklace and proudly wearing it home to Maine. My sister can keep the buckle as a conversation piece at her house in Leadville. Until this experience, I seriously doubted that I had a 100 mile finish in me. Now I know that I have what it takes and it is only a matter of time and opportunity until I do it. Leadville is the one that I want, the one that must come first. It is those mountains that I love, the state where my grandmother grew up and my mother was born. What a privilege to cover 70 of the toughest and most beautiful 100 miles imaginable at 10,000 plus feet, in 20 hours. The only greater privilege will be to cover the full 100 under 30 hours. No excuses!