WIND, RAIN, AND MUD - IT DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER THAN THIS!
WASATCH FRONT 100 - SEPTEMBER 2002 
Jeff Holdaway

"Two minutes!" John Grobben yells into the megaphone.  I give Karen a 
hug, offer a "Good luck!" to sister, Wendy; father, Grant; and friend, 
Troy Marsh - all signed up for the race -- and work my way near the 
front of the pack of 208 runners.  I recognize Brandon Sybrowski, Karl 
Meltzer, Ian Torrence, and several of the other top runners.    Knowing 
my own abilities and limitations, I realize I won't see them again 
until the awards ceremonies.  "Thirty seconds!" Grobben warns.  I turn 
on my tiny key chain LED.  It puts out a surprising amount of light 
and, at less than an ounce, is perfect for the first hour and 20 
minutes before daylight.  "Go!" Grobben calls out and we take off on 
our little adventure.

Quickly, the leaders work their way out of sight.  My goal is to stay 
near the front during the first undulating 4½ miles so as to avoid 
getting caught behind too many slower uphill runners when the first 
major climb begins.  The pre-dawn wind is blowing hard from the 
southwest.  I try to take advantage of the tailwind knowing that we'll 
soon make a u-turn and face even stronger winds when we top the Wasatch 
ridge line.  The temperature at this lower elevation is in the upper 
50s.  "Perfect," I think to myself.

My luck holds as we leave the Bonneville Shoreline Trail, make a sharp 
right turn and head up the switchbacks on the Great Western Trail.  In 
addition to my tiny LED, I'm traveling light.  Hat, long-sleeve shirt, 
single bottle waist pack with a Gu flask slot, and running shorts are 
about it.  I plan to refill my bottle at Cool and Landis Springs and 
thus eliminate the extra weight from a second bottle on the early 
ascents.  The strategy pays off as I make good time.  There are 
relatively few runners immediately ahead and I'm able to climb the next 
4 ½  miles at my own pace.  Heart rate feels good and my breathing is 
relaxed.  Omens of a good day?  Too early to say.

Clearing the protected cove of Chinscraper, my concerns are realized as 
a stiff 30-mile/hr wind launches a frontal assault.  Forty-mile/hr 
gusts require extra care not to be blown off the ridgeline.  Nothing to 
do but duck my head and move forward as quickly as possible.  Several 
runners pass as I travel south, including multi-winner, Leland Barker, 
who apparently forgot his supplies and had to run back to his vehicle 
just as the race began.  (Good to know even the big dogs make rookie 
mistakes.)  Betsy Nye - last year's top woman - flies by on a downhill 
section looking very strong.  In 2001, she beat my 27:38 finish by an 
hour.  I'd like to turn the tables this year but, at the pace she's 
going, my chances look dim. With 88 miles to go I refuse to get anxious 
about my position.  Time will tell whether I can do any of my own 
passing.  

I stop momentarily at Grobben's Corner (mile 13.2) to refill my water 
bottle, quickly pass by the Radar Domes and begin the four-mile descent 
into the Francis Peak Aid Station.  Rains over the past couple of days 
have eliminated the ubiquitous dust that permeates the course in normal 
years, making the gravel road pleasantly soft on my feet.  I resist the 
urge to crank it up on this easy section.  Last year, I hammered this 
portion and paid dearly with trashed quads that made later downhill 
running extremely painful.  I team up with Murray Schart and we chat 
about the day ahead.  I point out the personal markers I had put up 
earlier in the week to indicate the distance into Francis Peak.  I note 
that at each mile mark I intend to take a 30-second walking break.  
Murray plays along and we work our way down to the Aid Station 
together.

Pulling into Francis Peak (mile18.6) I'm surprised to see it's only 
8:56 A.M., some 14 minutes ahead of my target time.  I'm shooting for a 
sub-26 hour finish and know there's far greater risk in a fast pace 
than a slower one at this stage.  Karen, Mike (Grant's crew and pacer) 
and Alex (Wendy's crew and pacer) are there to meet me.  Everything 
feels fine so I change out my water bottle and gel flask, grab a few 
food items from the Station's ample spread, and head up the trail.

The section to Bountiful is always a mixed bag for me.  The first 3½ 
miles are generally flat to slightly uphill causing me to think I need 
to run the entire stretch; however, for some reason I always get my 
initial wave of fatigue here and begin to question my overall fitness.  
The second half of this section has several steep ascents that force 
everyone to a power-walk pace.  As uphills are my forte, I look forward 
to these climbs and, as usual, pass a handful of runners. "One, two, 
three, four, five", I count as I reach the top of each hill.  I ignore 
the three false summits that used to be so depressing.  Recent rains 
have blessedly eliminated the four inches of black talcum powder dust 
that normally cover this area.  Relatively quickly, I reach the top and 
trot over to the waiting station attendees.

The Bountiful Aid Station (mile 23.8 - 10:11 A.M.) is playing its 
customary "Rocky" theme song.  Kind of corny but it gives me an 
emotional boost.  I wonder how the poor volunteers can listen to it for 
three hours straight.  Perhaps they're distracted by the fierce wind 
that blows continuously on this exposed plateau.  The wind, at a 
minimum, is good incentive to not dawdle as I grab some food, refill my 
bottles, and continue to the southeast.  Bountiful to Sessions, is 
rolling terrain, has few steep climbs and descents and thus, is very 
runnable.  I begin to get a little discouraged as 3-4 additional 
runners pass me.  I note that I've fallen back to my 2001 pace.  
Nothing to do but continue slogging forward into the wind and gathering 
clouds.  

I reach Sessions (mile 28.1 - 11:02 A.M.) just eight minutes ahead of 
last year.  I look forward to the steep climbs ahead hoping to make up 
some time.  Again, the recent rains have made the trail dust free and 
slightly springy.  On the protected north slope of Sessions Hill, the 
wind-free, cool conditions are almost perfect.  I catch a couple of 
runners near the top of Grandville Peak and then fall back again as we 
hit the rolling ridgelines into Swallow Rocks (mile 34.8 - 12:41 P.M.).  
The Swallow Rocks volunteers, like all the stations, are wonderful.  
Standing out on the unprotected ridge for hours as the wind howls and 
rain "falls" horizontally, they are in high spirits and are quick to 
respond to my requests.  After Swallow Rocks the trail continues 
generally southward on the exposed mountainsides.  With few exceptions, 
there is little more than sagebrush and occasional scrub oak to provide 
protection.  It gives added incentive to my general effort to push the 
pace, especially on the final downhill mile into the next stop.

There's a festive atmosphere at Big Mountain (mile 39.24 - 1:37 P.M.). 
Someone rings a cowbell for each approaching runner and the sizeable 
crowd cheers.  A great emotional lift.  Karen is there to greet me.  I 
quickly weigh in - 146 lbs, two over my starting weight.  I'm a little 
disappointed that I'm only 15 minutes faster than last year and just 10 
minutes ahead of my 26-hour pacing chart.  I grab some calories, change 
out my bottles and walk up the trail a couple hundred yards with Karen 
before she turns back to the station.  In year's past, the Big Mountain 
to Alexander Ridge segment is a mixture of heat and wind.  There's not 
much cover on the exposed ridgeline and plenty of rocks to give the 
feet something to complain about.  Today, everything's the same except 
for much cooler temperatures and threatening skies.  After sporadic 
showers throughout the morning, we experience our first heavy rain 
shortly after leaving Big Mountain.  Not sure if it is the rain, the 
mud, or simply the accumulated miles, but I feel pretty bad during this 
stretch.  My pace slows as several runners pass me.  I begin to mutter 
to myself,  "Six months of hard training.  Why do I feel so lousy?"  
Shortly, I'm passed by Pam Reed (of Death Valley fame).  She's running 
with a pacer and chatting like it's a weekend social run.  Without 
saying a word, I tuck in behind the two of them and try to draw upon 
their seemingly boundless energy.  

Our little train of three continues for the remainder of the section 
into Alexander Ridge (mile 47.28 - 3:28 P.M.).  As is so often the 
case, the funk I'm in fades and I start regaining some enthusiasm for 
the race.  I thank Pam and her pacer for letting me tag along and leave 
the station intent on accelerating my pace a bit.  While my mood has 
improved markedly, the clay soil on this trail section creates huge 
buildups on my Montrail Wasatch shoes to the point where every couple 
hundred yards I have to pause and kick off an inch thick "adobe" brick.  
Nonetheless, I'm gaining momentum and move from around 30th to 25th 
position as I slog into the halfway point, Lambs Canyon (mile 52.97 - 
4:43 P.M.)

Reaching Lambs, I decide to make a shoe change.  My mud-soaked 
Montrails have caused several blisters.  I retape my heels and decide 
to take a gamble.  The next 25 miles are generally uphill with a 
combination of paved roads and groomed trails.  I grab my road shoes 
(Asics DS Trainers) slip them on, grab some chicken soup and head out.  
Not sure whether it is the extended down time or the lighter shoes but 
something clicks.  I start motoring up the 1¾ miles of pavement, 
passing six or seven runners before reaching the trail turnoff.  The 
legs still feel good as I work my way up to Bear Ass Pass and then down 
to Elbow Fork.  "This is great," I think and decide to run most of the 
uphill 3-mile paved section to Upper Big Water.  Now we're cooking.

Reaching UBW (mile 61.5 - 7:01 P.M.), I'm pleased to see I've shaved 20 
minutes off last year's time for this 8.5 mile section.  Karen is 
surprised to see me so soon, nonetheless, she quickly hands me the 
items off my checklist and I head up the trail. After three hours of 
strong running, I keep waiting for the inevitable down cycle.  
Fortunately, it holds off as I push up to Desolation Lake (mile 66.75 - 
8:35 P.M.) and then to Scotts Peak (mile 70.61 - 9:41 P.M.).  My only 
second guessing on switching to road shoes comes on the descent into 
Brighton.  A mile after Scotts Peak, I encounter the steep, rocky ATV 
road that risks chewing up my feet.  I carefully pick my way through 
this stretch and soon hit the final 2-mile paved section into Brighton.  
I resist the impulse to open things up, which proves difficult when 
Betsy flies by.  We've been leapfrogging one another for the last 
twenty miles.  I let her go and figure I'll save my quads for the final 
25 miles.  

I reach Brighton (mile 75.43 - 10:45 P.M.) feeling much stronger than a 
year ago when the last 20 miles were more death march than run.  I try 
not to get too comfortable but can't resist the urge to run to the 
bathroom with toothbrush in hand.  After 18 hours of carbo-loading, 
it's great to have clean teeth, if only temporarily.  Knowing the rough 
trail ahead I switch back to trail shoes, put on an extra shirt and 
begin the march to Lake Mary.

Within a mile I come across Betsy.  She's a tough competitor but is 
hitting a bad patch on her way up to Catherine's Pass.  I wish her well 
and push as hard as I can to the top of Point Supreme.  The steep, 
rocky descent into Dry Fork is always challenging, but doubly so in the 
middle of the night on tired legs.  I slip and slide but otherwise 
avoid disaster.  Upon reaching Ant Knolls (mile 80.06 - 12:32 A.M.), I 
resist the urge to sit down on the several inviting camp chairs.  I spy 
a couple of runners with their pacers and quickly move out.  They 
shortly follow as we make our way up the horrendously steep, but 
mercifully short, Grunt climb.  Judging by my splits, I feel confident 
of hitting my 26-hour objective but wonder whether I've got a shot at 
my top-15 goal. Pulling into Pole Line (mile 83.23 - 1:28 A.M.), I ask 
the volunteers how many are ahead. They run a quick count and yell out 
"13 or 14".  "Right on the bubble," I think and scamper out knowing 
there are at least six runners not far behind.

In each of the nine 100 milers I've run, I generally hit 3-4 rough 
spots during the race.  At these points, my energy level sinks and the 
mental demons begin to play their tricks.  Surprisingly, since 
Alexander Ridge, I've ridden a positive wave that has continued 
unabated.  The usual aches and fatigue are there but I haven't had any 
significant crashes.  My diet consists primarily of water, 
Gatorade/Power Ade, Power Gel shots every 30-45 minutes, Succeed 
tablets hourly, and limited helpings from the Aid Station buffets.  
Whenever my stomach gets queasy, I chew on a piece of sugared ginger 
Wendy has given me which seems to settle things down.

I continue the Ade/Gel/water routine until shortly before Rock Springs 
when my stomach finally rebels and says, "enough!"  I've never thrown 
up during a race but suddenly I'm heaving all over the place.  
Expelling the contents seems to help but I know I'd better get some 
fluids and calories in quickly or I'll be in tough shape the last 17 
miles.  Reaching Rock Springs (mile 87.23 - 2:45 A.M.), I dutifully 
refill my bottle, nibble on a banana and continue down the trail.  The 
stomach's still a problem but I sip Power Ade regularly to stave off 
dehydration.  Fortunately, the night is cool and I'm sweating 
minimally.

I'm an average downhill runner and the trail from Rock Springs to the 
Homestead is principally a rolling descent with some wicked drops.  The 
"Dive" and the "Plunge" live up to their names.  The saving grace is 
the earlier rains that have eliminated the dust.  I only have rocks to 
navigate.  A further frustration is the taunting lights of Midway that 
beckon but never draw closer due to the serpentine course Irv has 
fiendishly laid out.  I'm pretty good at estimating distances on 
trails.  I'll bet Grobben my next year's entry fee that the section 
from Rock Springs to Pot Bottom is longer than the stated 5 ¾ miles.

Finally, I approach Pot Bottom (mile 92.97 - 4:45 A.M.).  I ask for 
Saltines and Coke and smile when the volunteers say they have both.  A 
gentleman mentions it's been a long time since the last runner came 
through.  I catalog this information and conclude my objective now is 
to hold my current position.  Having no idea how close the next runners 
are, I scramble out of the station with a fist full of crackers.  

I work as hard as possible on this final extended uphill climb.  It's a 
rutted road that improves as I near the top.  I glance back 
occasionally looking for the tell-tell signs of other runners.  
Fortunately, I don't see any lights.  At the top of the pass, the trail 
turns into a tormented rocky 4WD road that dips and drops for an 
eternity.  I carefully keep a lookout for the ribbon markers and 
occasional glow sticks.  Now is no time to put in any bonus mileage. 
The weather holds and, as dawn breaks, I try to enjoy these closing 
moments.

Finally, I reach the trailhead and pop out on the paved road next to 
the Blue Boar Inn.  Less than one mile to go!  I feel surprisingly 
fresh and decide to pick up the pace and run the last ¾ mile hard.  I 
glance one more time behind me - no one in sight - as I turn into the 
grass field and run the final 200 yards to the finish line.  It's early 
morning with only a few hardy souls around.  However, the two 
individuals I'm most interested in seeing are there - my long-suffering 
wife, Karen, who gives me a big hug and Race Director John Grobben who 
provides a hearty handshake and an offer of congratulations

With my time of 25:36:37 and 14th place, I've achieved my goals for the 
race. I trained hard for this one, averaging 80+/miles a week over the 
summer, with three weeks over 100 miles. Considering the many variables 
that go into a 100 miler, I figure this is about as good as I'm capable 
of performing.  Immediately after the run I wonder if it may be time to 
retire or at least look at other racing opportunities.  And yet, a week 
later, that little voice is saying, "if you shave a minute here and a 
minute there . . ." 

Oh, the curse of the ultrarunner.  

Jeff Holdaway