Subject: A happy WS100 finisher
Date: Tue, 26 Jun 2001 20:33:27 -0500
From: Mary Gorski <mgorski@execpc.com>

Okay, I apologize if this race report is a little long, but hell,
that Western States 100 is a little long.  Anyhow, if you are
interested, here's how my WS experience went:

*****************************************************************

I was soooooooooo tired...

STUDIO AUDIENCE: "How tired were you?"

I was sooooooooo tired that I fell asleep in the bathtub and when I
woke up, I forgot that I hadn't actually taken a bath. I mean sure, I
was sitting in a tub full of water, but I had neglected the important
task of taking soap to skin and rubbing it clean. Just woke up and
figured that since I was wet, I must have done so.

But there was dirt on my toes, dirt on my nose, dirt just about
everywhere it could show. Unfortunately, I didn't notice my condition
until I had put on clean clothes and headed to an awards ceremony,
where others soon pointed out that I had dirt on my toes and dirt on
my nose and dirt just about everywhere else on me that showed. [I
should also note that my husband, who was a bit fatigued himself
after a sleepless night, never noticed my soapless condition.]

Alas, I am getting ahead of myself. Got to back up a bit to give the
dirt some reference. Two years ago, I made my first attempt at
running the Western States 100. The concept wasn't totally out of
reach. I had run several ultras already, including a 100-miler. Heck,
I had done Ironman, climbed Rainier, and completed a variety of
events that were seemingly out of my league. But, as noted, I always
somehow completed them. It wasn't always pretty, but I was ALWAYS a
happy finisher.

That is, until I went to Western States in 1999. Ouch! We pulled into
the Squaw Valley starting area and I looked up, and keep looking up,
and keep looking up and I STILL couldn't see the top of Emigrant Pass
-- the first climb of the race. Ohmygod... what is this that I have
gotten myself into? Well, I figure, I'll muddle through. I always do.
Yet many hours and many cookie-tossings later, I was done at Devil's
Thumb (a check point at the top of a god-awful climb, which follows a
god-awful descent). Had this been the official finishing point of the
race, I would have won it in record time. Unfortunately, I was only
about halfway to the end. I let the medical folks cut my wristband
off, and I fell into a sobbing, nauseous awe, trying to comprehend
the day I had just had. Ohmygod. Trying to see the bright side, I
finally decided that while I had retched quite a bit, it was one of
the most beautiful areas of the country in which I had ever vomited.

Okay, it's November of 2000 and I find out that I had gotten into
Western States again. I am overjoyed that I have another chance to do
the course, yet a bit terrified as well. But surely I won't drop
again? Will I? Certainly having seen the course will have prepared me
for the ordeal ahead -- won't it?

I looked ahead and decide that my goal would be to finish and I had
30 hours to do so. There would be no silly ideas of "Yeah, So-and-So
did this time, so I should be able to as well." I had a slew of
clothing leftover from WS 1999 (race apparel and other toys) that I
didn't feel justified in wearing. And I knew that I would get a slew
more (whatever the heck a "slew" is) because I was signed up again.
The organizers give you an incredible amount of stuff just for
entering their race.  If for no other reason, I told myself that I
had to finish so that I could wear my Western States togs. As long as
I am under that clock in 29:59, I'll be a happy camper. My goal
seemed noble -- I was running for the privilege of wearing a
poly-cotton blend tee-shirt that said Western States on the front. I
know, people die for greater causes, but this was significant enough
for me.

In the days leading up to the event this year, I was feeling
confident and happy... that is until about 5 p.m. the night before
the race. Ohmygod. What the hell was going on? I was feeling sick as
a dog. My insides were rapidly making their way outside. My pulse was
racing. My mind was racing. What the hell was wrong with me? My
husband said I had a case of the butterflies. Butterflies hell, there
was a whole gaggle of squawking geese inside of me at the very least!
In between bathroom breaks, I got about an hour's worth of sleep
before my alarm went off at 3:30 a.m. Originally, I had wanted to be
up early enough to eat a good breakfast. I made an attempt at pushing
some oatmeal around but the idea of food was just wasn't sitting well
with me.

I decided that I needed some inspiration and wrote on my arm in black
magic marker, "I CAN!" Whenever I felt like I couldn't finish this
devil of a race, I was going to look at my arm and try to remember
that I could. Or at least I thought that I could.

I get to the starting line and see other fearful faces. We all
figure, once we get going, it's going to be okay. And basically, it
was. I mean, in a sort of nauseous, exhausting, always on the edge,
wondering what the hell you are doing sort of way. On the climb up to
Emigrant I hung in the back of the middle, letting friends go by,
huffing out my best wishes. We get to the top -- the highest point at
almost 9,000 feet -- and I tell myself that it's all downhill from
there.

What a crock.

Downhill, uphill, downhill, uphill... I knew what I was in for, but
when you live in southern Wisconsin it is mind-boggling to
contemplate ups and downs that stretch for miles at a time. And while
we didn't have to deal with any snow this year, there were clouds of
loose dirt that were starting to make us sound like a bunch of miners
with black lung. I pulled my bandana around my nose and mouth much of
the time (always ready for an ultra or a bank robbery) trying to keep
my lungs intact for as long as possible.

I plodded through the course, remembering pieces of it here and there
from my first attempt, noting with satisfaction that I was passing
some of the points at which I looked my roughest last time around.
Sure, my stomach was still bugging me, but it was more like the
whines of a bored young child, not the ear-piercing screams of an
infant with colic. I tried different combinations -- more
electrolyte, less electrolyte, protein, no protein, Tums, Zantac,
soup, melon, crackers... At one aid station the medical staff told me
to stop with the Gatorade, at the next they told me to increase it.
Whatever. I figured that as long as things were still staying down
and I was still moving, that was enough.

I finally got to the top of Devil's Thumb and let out a big "Yahoo!"
I was tired but had no intentions of dropping this time through.
Eight more miles and I would see my husband and friends, and just
seven miles more and I would be at the magical Forest Hill aid
station. How many times had I heard, "Yeah, if you can get into
Forest Hill feeling okay, you've got the run in the bag. The course
is much more runnable after that... blah, blah, blah..."

This was so engrained in my mind that I somehow assumed that the rest
of the course would be a cake walk. In reality, it was more like the
situation of the guy who was hitting himself in the head with two
hammers. When asked why he said, "Then when I am only being hit with
one, it's not so bad."

Well, I had a mission. There were 38 more miles to cover before 11
a.m. the next day and I needed to keep moving. Gosh darn it, a
tee-shirt (or two) was hanging in the balance. And by visualizing
that tee, hanging off a stick in front of me, I continued to chase on
after it. But then the chase slowed from a jog to a crawl as my
cranky stomach began to roar in complaint. I couldn't even tolerate
the single-bottle waist pack I was wearing. So, I took it off and
slung it around my shoulder, along with my hand-held bottle. Trying
to make the best of things, I pretended that I was a pioneering
frontiersman, winding my way through the mountains with a load of
pelts over my shoulder to sell at the next town. But then the snotty
side of my mind kicked in and said, "Oh hell, if you were a
frontiersman, you would be asleep next to the trail, not winding down
it in the middle of the night."

So much for trying to take my mind off of things.

Well, I checked my watch and was happy to see that I still had a
comfortable time cushion. I could afford to putz for awhile until my
stomach got back to merely being cranky, as opposed to rebellious. I
hit my lowest spot at the last aid station before the river crossing,
but after seeing me toss my cookies, the station captain kicked me
out, reminding me that sitting around his place wasn't going to make
me feel any better. It was just going to eat up precious time. He was
right and as much as I didn't feel like it, I headed out with my good
friend Stephanie Astell and her faithful pacer Frank. But I wasn't
able to keep up, so I slowly let them go as I muddled along on the
trail. If nothing else, I once again noted that it was a beautiful
place to be sick. In the middle of the night, in the middle of the
mountains, the stars were shinning brighter than the neon lights of
Vegas. I couldn't see it, but I could hear the river rushing below
me. It was great to be a part of it all.

So, I got to the river and slipped and slid across the rocks, posed
for my photo and headed to the aid station. My stomach was still
bugging me, but it was a lot better than before. Stephanie's husband
Luke was there to crew and run with me a bit. On the way up to Green
Gate, we were met by Dave, my husband, who was glad to see that I was
still moving and not as yet too snarly.

Well, the sun rose, the winners were well into their night's sleep,
and Mary had a few more miles to go before her day was done and
mission accomplished. I still had plenty of time, but remained
cautious, knowing that I couldn't be too careless about the time.
Coming into the Highway 49 aid station, I learned that a friend from
Wisconsin had dropped earlier.  "That's a shame," I said, knowing
that he had dropped before."  But while I felt bad for Mike, I
rejoiced in the fact that his misery was my gain.  Mike's pacer,
Julie Schroeder, joined me at 49 -- relieving Luke in time to see his
wife finish.

"I've got to get to Placer before 30 hours, I want to wear my tee
shirt!"  I told Julie as she asked me how I was doing.

"Okay Mary, we are going to run across this field, as far as that
tree in the distance," said Julie.  I ran (slowly jogged) behind her
chanting, "tree, tree, tree..." Until we started walking again.  I
had been mumbling to myself like this for quite awhile.  Kind of odd,
but it seemed to work.

Finally, we were off the trail with only the mile or so through town
to the stadium and the finish line.  Of course, there were hills.
And of course, after we turned, there were hills, and of course,
after we turned again, there were hills.   I asked a local who was
cheering me on from the sidewalk, "Do you know if the track is hilly
too?"  She assured me that it was relatively flat but I thought that
perhaps the locals had lost their sense of what flat actually meant
and remained skeptical.

But yes, it was flat, and yes, I did get there with plenty of time to
spare, and yes, I picked up my feet and ran like I hadn't run in
hours, and yes I crossed that finish line in a weird combination of
smiles and tears and YES, I FINALLY PUT ON THAT TEE SHIRT!!!!

Unfortunately, I hadn't really taken much of a bath first and the
shirt soon turned into a stinky mess, just like the rest of me.   But
I think that takes us back to where we started.  And luckily, there
was another Western States shirt waiting for my after my next shower.

Happy trails!
Mary
--
Mary Gorski
mgorski@execpc.com
Milwaukee, WI