“Run Like a Gentle Breeze” – Bighorn 100

“Pace Yourself.”

Seth and I sat in the hotel lobby on race morning reading the paper while sipping coffee. As we flipped past the comics section, Seth settled on the horoscopes, in the way that two nervous people killing time often do. My Taurus horoscope began with the two-word sentence: “Pace yourself.” I grumbled in response, since this advice from the cosmos echoed what my friends and coach had been telling me in the weeks leading up to the race. “But running fast is fun!” was my silent, mental pushback each time someone recommended that I take the race slow. With three hours until race time, perhaps it was time to start considering their advice.

After packing and re-packing gear, Sara, Seth, my parents, and I took off for the starting line in our rental Tacoma. As we rode to the start, I tried to ignore the gravel road we were driving on: in 95 miles, it would be this gravel road stretching on to infinity that would carry me to the finish.

After an hour of milling about, it was time to place myself in the mix of hundred-mile hopefuls for the 9 AM race start. As the race director began a count down, I felt a surge of nerves and emotion. “I’ve never cried on a starting line,” I thought. Before the tears could come, however, we were running down the road and up up up to a grand adventure in the Bighorns.

An ‘Aha’ Moment

Once we hit the singletrack, I found myself in a train of runners working our way over the rolling trail. Everyone seemed to be hiking the uphills and running the downhills, so I followed suit, getting accustomed to running with trekking poles, which I’d never done before. Soon the downhills disappeared and we were hiking straight up into a basin on the first 3500 ft climb of the day. A good number of men, and the occasional woman, passed me at the beginning of the climb with a strong power hike or jog. I hiked on at my own pace, although I was starting to feel stressed that I should be going faster. I came upon a man hiking effortlessly, to the point that it almost looked leisurely. “I like your normal person pace, I’m going to stick with you, what’s your name?” And thus a race friendship with Greg was formed. Greg was a PT from Virginia, and had completed numerous hundreds, his favorite of which is Hardrock. As runners continued to cut around us at a faster pace, he noted how we would be out moving until tomorrow, and that there was no rush. Whew. Thank you for your sanity, Greg. A friendly woman named Maggie joined us, and she said that she had run hundreds with a fast start and a slower start, and preferred the conservative pace. Sandwiched between two hundred-mile veterans, my stress melted away and I was able to enjoy the incredible scenery. I kept sneaking glances behind me as we got higher and higher. Wildflowers and green grass-like plants waved in the breeze, and big rocky outcroppings took shape in the background. “This looks like Hardrock,” Greg commented as we entered the last basin before climbing up to the pass. And just like that, my delusions of running the climbs disappeared.

Once we finished the climb and started traveling net downhill to the first major aid station, our little group drifted apart. Usually in ultra races I constantly think about distance covered and anticipate aid stations long before I arrive. In this race, however, I found myself adopting a new mindset. I didn’t worry about how far I’d come or how far I had to go. I intentionally did not allow myself to think I might be close to the next aid station. Instead, I focused on enjoying the experience and soaking it all in, smiling and reveling in exploring a completely new mountain range. Because you only run your first hundred miler once, right?

As a result, when running down a dirt road towards a clearing with a bunch of cars, and even a helicopter, in the middle of the wilderness, I asked a man running next to me, “is this Dry Fork aid station?”

“Uh yeah, don’t know what else it would be…”

I smiled and prepared to meet my crew.

Did This Trail Turn into Mud Because of That Little Rainstorm?

I ran into the aid station (mile 13ish) cheered on by a surprising number of onlookers (so cool!), and my crew facilitated the ultimate pit stop. Sara ran off to fill my bottles, my mom brought over the bag of fun foods that I might want to stuff my face with, and Seth refilled my vest with more calories for the miles ahead. I took two huge swigs of blue Gatorade, ate two Oreos and three pickles, and ran out of there in 3 minutes elapsed. Efficiency! The Oreo-pickle-Gatorade combination did not sit well in my stomach, but luckily this brief moment of nausea would be the only time my stomach felt bad the whole race. My nutrition plan was to eat one Spring Energy gel every thirty minutes and sip on electrolyte drink mix, which adds up to about 200-300 calories per hour. Additionally, I hoped to eat whatever food looked good in the smaller, less stocked aid stations. And in the five major aid stations, fully stocked with a plethora of good looking salty and sweet options, I planned to turn myself into a human vacuum cleaner and inhale as much as possible. Often in training runs I put off eating and probably don’t consume enough calories, usually out of laziness and sometimes because I’d just rather save the expensive gels for the next run. For this race, I was determined to fuel diligently to keep the engine burning.

As I ran and hiked my way along the relentlessly rolling section, storm clouds gathered in the distance. I certainly appreciated the cool, gray weather, but I was worried about lightning since I had recently read a book about a disaster in which an 8-person climbing party got trapped on the Grand Teton after being struck by lightning, requiring an incredibly elaborate rescue. Note to self: don’t read wilderness disaster books before big mountain adventures. I zipped my jacket on over my vest and kept going, trying to think of something else. At an aid station dubbed “The Bacon Station” I ate a piece of bacon, which I was very proud of since I’ve never been able to eat bacon in a race before. This pride in a very miniscule thing carried me towards the storm clouds through a winding forested section. I counted the seconds in between the thunder and lightning, though in my overwhelmed race brain I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do with that information.

The rain itself didn’t last for all that long, but all of a sudden there was mud. Slick, muddy mud. The famous Bighorn mud. I’d heard about it, dreaded it, dreaded it even more after a muddy training run with Forrest and Seth in Anaconda, MT (“if Bighorn is this muddy, I can’t do it”), and here it was. While I’d already been enjoying using my poles to hike uphills, now they proved indispensable to keep my balance on the slick descents. I was running with a woman when we went through a deep muddy section, and emerged on the other side with only three shoes between us. We teamed up to rake our hands through the mud and when that didn’t work, used my poles to stab down to try to locate her shoe. Just as she began to panic, we found the shoe!

After running through a mountainside thickly carpeted in wildflowers (Balsamroots, blue ones, purple ones) the trail plunged steeply downhill. I allowed myself a moment of dread, for I knew that Sara and I would be tackling this terrain as a climb at mile 66 in the dark, due to the out and back course. Perfectly reasonable to experience a moment of doubt, I reassured myself. The photographer was stationed in a lower field of wildflowers and I channeled my nervous energy as I whipped by: “thank you so much for being out here! You picked a really great spot to hang out in!” I soon heard cheering down below and knew I had reached the next major aid station (mile 30ish) where my crew would be awaiting me. Woohoo!

Just Plain Fun

I cruised in to the Sally’s Footbridge aid station at 3:35 PM, right up to a volunteer who was holding my drop bag. Wait a second, why does a volunteer have my drop bag? Where was my crew? Unsure of what to do next, I thanked her and carried my drop bag to the shade tent, then back to the volunteers…then back to the tent once more, then finally settled on the volunteers. “Ummmm,” I think I said. Luckily, at that moment my mom appeared, signaling the arrival of my crew. They had a long drive from the previous aid station, and I had moved faster than they anticipated on that section. I sat in a chair continually eating as they loaded up my vest with mandatory gear for the night ahead: warm fleece layer, buff for my ears, gloves, headlamp, and long pants. I don’t remember what I ate, but I ate a lot. The next section would be an 18 mile, 4000+ ft climb to the Jaws aid station. To cut down on their driving time, we decided that my crew wouldn’t go to Jaws, and instead wait through the afternoon and evening for my return to Sally’s Footbridge, 36 miles later. After double checking one last time that I had everything I’d need, I jogged on out of there.

In 50-mile races, I often have a low point around mile 30 when I realize that I have 20 miles left until the finish line. As I ran along the trail next to the roaring river, however, 70 miles still to go was so incomprehensible that I didn’t feel any such low point. I put in headphones and started listening to music, something I’d never done in a race before. I settled into the climb, already elated by the scenery as we climbed out the canyon.

I got into a groove, hiking uphills with a purpose and jogging the flat intervals. I passed a guy here and a guy there, which was very unexpected – I rarely pass people on uphills! Suddenly I felt euphoric – overwhelmed by excitement and happiness to be out in the mountains, full of food from the last aid station, intrigued by what it would be like to keep running after sunset, and propelled by some good tunes on my Bighorn playlist. “I Feel It Coming” by the Weeknd is a fantastic climbing song, as is “You Can’t Hurry Love” by the Supremes.

Eventually I got to the Spring Marsh aid station in a stunning meadow. These men had packed in their aid station materials via horseback! A fellow runner was lounging in a chair and looked up at me as I approached. “Did you hear the news??” Even though I was still having a great time, my brain filled in the reply ‘the race is cancelled?’ But instead he said, “you’re 3^rd female!”

While this was good news I guess, it stressed me out because it was still so early in the race; being in 3^rd simply meant there were a lot of strong women behind me. I kept doing my thing for the rest of the climb up to Jaws, at one point hiking next to a complete double rainbow. There were a few snow fields in the last mile and a half before Jaws, but I had done enough snow “running” on training “runs” this spring that I was able to ignore my cold feet.

I reached the Jaws aid station (mile 48, 9000ish ft) at 8:45 PM, and spent 15 minutes inside the incredibly warm, comfortable tent sorting out gear from my drop bag and eating a delicious cup of hot broth with mashed potatoes at the bottom. Even though my crew wasn’t there, the volunteers took great care of me. I’d been running with the 2^nd place woman Jeanne up to the aid station, and now she sat in a chair shivering uncontrollably while her husband and volunteers tried to warm her up. After two DNFs (Did Not Finish), this was her third attempt at finishing a hundred miler. I stopped by on my way out, wishing her luck in warming up and getting back out there. Spoiler alert: Jeanne finished the race. Yay!

Slip Slidin’ Away

I exited the Jaws tent at 9 PM, invigorated by a chill in the air, sunset colors, and spectators lining the dirt road. This is the best I’ve ever felt after 50 miles, I thought to myself. All I had to do was retrace my steps, and then I’d be done. There was a steady current of runners heading up to the aid station, and I enjoyed telling them, “Great job! The aid station is just up ahead, and it is warm and delightful.” As I worked my way down the mountain, I could no longer tell them the aid station was close, instead throwing out “great job” and “you got this” and “you’re crushing it” like a broken record. Once the sun set completely and darkness set in, peals of thunder preceded an outburst of pouring rain. Thankful that I had made it up to the turnaround before the dark and the rain, I continued on as best I could. I had been looking forward to this downhill for weeks – I love long descents in the mountains, and I’d figured this one would be particularly fun. However, the trail now consisted of a 15 mile slip and slide of thick sucking mud, slick mud covered rocks, and wet grass covered with mud. I ran/hiked/slid down this section mostly on my own, although occasionally I would catch up to a friendly guy in front of me. I usually could see a couple of headlamps way ahead of and behind me, but a few times I turned around to realize it was just the full moon and not a headlamp at all.

I used most of my focus to discern between rock and mud with the beam of my headlamp (actually technically it was Sara and Forrest’s headlamp, thanks for letting me borrow it you guys), and tried to remain patient as I stumbled on. Reaching the aid stations on this descent was pretty darn exciting. The Elk Camp aid station (mile 52.5) had a crackling fire with runners seated around it. After chugging a cup of warm broth, I resisted the urge to join them and re-entered the lonely darkness. After another hour or so, my headlamp illuminated three pairs of eyes. Just before terror could take hold, I remembered that they were horses and that I must be almost to the Spring Marsh aid station (mile 56). After dropping multiple items on the ground, which a kind volunteer kept picking up for me, and almost forgetting a water bottle (“hey, don’t you need this?”), my slide down the mountain continued. No, I didn’t hallucinate anything during the night, but I did hear voices in the river which freaked me out. I don’t think they were real.

When I had left Jaws, I felt pretty incredible and ready to take on the rest of the race. By the time I made it all the way down to Sally’s Footbridge (mile 66), however, something had shifted. Maybe I was tired, or low on calories, but things started to seem more difficult. I arrived at Sally’s just before 2 AM, and was immediately greeted by my dad, who shouted to the rest of the crew that I had arrived. After the race, I would be informed that my dad had stood watch through the night, waiting for me to return to the aid station. I told Seth that I needed to change socks, since I’d been running on gravelly feeling rocks in my shoes for the last 40 miles. He convinced me to change shoes as well, despite my protestations that they’d simply fill with mud again. Impressed by Sara’s middle of the night energy as she bounced all over the place getting ready to pace me, I finished up my eating once I saw a woman appear in a chair next to me. Had she been chasing me down the mountain?

Good Pacers Pace You. Great Pacers Bonk You.

Sara and I jogged out of the aid station sipping a Vanilla Coke, and then began our hike up the steep climb affectionately known as ‘The Wall.’ I wanted Sara to lead, hoping that I could follow her and let her set the pace. It was so fun to have a buddy for the rest of the night, and we settled into easy conversation as I told her about the race thus far. From now on, I wouldn’t have to check my watch anymore to keep track of when to eat. What a relief! At about thirty minute intervals, Sara would tell me in an exceptionally kind tone, “I know that you don’t want to hear this, but in a couple of minutes you’re going to need to eat something, so I just want you to be prepared and start thinking about it.” The woman passed us halfway up the climb hiking impossibly fast – she basically had smoke coming out of her shoes.

We kept moving, hiking the uphills and flats and barely jogging the short little downhills, and soon chirping birds alerted that dawn was on the way. The sunrise was beautiful, but I unfortunately couldn’t enjoy it because I felt the telltale headache signaling a bonk. I let Sara know, and sunk deeper into negative feelings with heavy legs. A male runner and his pacer came up behind us. The pacer asked me how I was doing, and after a long pause in which I didn’t respond, Sara answered for me and cheerfully said that we were doing well. The pacer (also cheerful) responded that his runner was in a low point, and a glance at the miserable looking man confirmed this as they jogged past. This moment was funny to me: two pacers having a blast with their non-communicative runners. Sara somehow got me to eat a disgusting amount of Mike and Ike’s, Snickers, and Spring gels in half an hour, until the headache began to let up. We figured out that we’d hiked up that climb too fast, and joked that Sara had “bonked me.”

I was very excited to return to the Bacon Station (mile 76.5) for some more bacon, especially because I was craving some salty food after all the sweet. The mud was particularly sticky and thick leading up to the aid station, but not as thick as the disappointment I felt when they told us there wasn’t any bacon ready. Feeling let down, I swallowed two salt tablets (NOT a substitute for bacon) and we kept moving.

The final part of this section involved steeply undulating hills covered in mud the consistency of cream cheese frosting (I’m running out of descriptive adjectives for mud…). At one point I desperately asked Sara, “what IS mud??” She responded with a lightly scientific answer, and that was enough to shut me up. Each time we crested a steep hill, we’d get a glimpse of the Dry Fork aid station, where my crew awaited and where Seth would take over pacing duties from Sara. It was probably at least 4 miles away the first time we saw it, and each time we got another glimpse it inched imperceptibly closer. Sara came up with a beautiful metaphor: approaching the aid station was like waiting for a pot of water to boil. Each glimpse was like lifting the lid off the pot to check on the water, and we seemed to be stuck at the stage where you see just a few bubbles on the bottom of the pot. We were moving slow, and I expected to be passed by a conga line of women at any second. But we kept moving.

A Poop, A Moose, and a Finish Line

As we hiked up the final climb into the Dry Fork aid station (mile 82.5) there was lots of cheering. Lots. A confusing amount. Seth was pretty much jumping up and down, and ushered me into the aid station chair. “You guys did that section GREAT,” he exclaimed. “No we didn’t,” I quietly mumbled around a piece of cantaloupe and an Oreo. Seth’s excited voice dropped to a whisper, “the 2^nd place woman is in a chair right over there, and she has been sitting here for a while…it’s time to race!”

I started crying in my chair, and my concerned mother asked me what was wrong. Was it that I was tired, or was something hurting? “No,” I responded, “it’s because I have to race.” Adopting a competitive mindset after almost 24 hours out on the course already was pretty unthinkable. This is where I have some big room for improvement. But anyways, back to the story.

After six minutes elapsed, we ran out of the aid station, and then immediately started walking the uphill once out of sight. Seth was so excited. “I have been waiting 24 hours to run with you! My stomach has been upset all day and that never happens!” I felt guilty and like I was letting him down, but told him pretty clearly that I hadn’t been running any climbs the whole race. This would have been the time to start running uphills, but I was nervous about bonking again after my experience earlier that morning.

Soon after we began our section, I had to poop. I mentioned this to Seth, who immediately bounded off trail to dig a hole for me. It was an impressively large hole (like I said, he was very excited), which I happily used, and then he returned and filled it in for me as I kept going. Teamwork.

We settled into the kind of run-walk program where you run to a landmark not very far away, walk for a little bit, and then repeat. Again, I should have been running more of this, but I didn’t. I was looking forward to Seth getting to see the views I’d marveled over the day before, so used this as motivation keep me moving. At one point we saw a bull moose across a field. Cool.

Soon we found ourselves at the top of the final descent, a steep-ish 3000 foot drop back down to the land of chairs and finish lines. Once we started jogging down, I identified two problem areas: the bottoms of my feet felt pretty raw, and I suddenly had sharp pain on the outside of my right foot. My wrists had also started swelling over the last few hours due to heavy reliance on my poles, but I certainly needed the poles now more than ever so I ignored the wrists. I quickly became frustrated at my inability to cut down this descent like I wanted to, and wondered if we’d ever finish it. I stopped to pee once we were 2/3 of the way down, and just after that a man passed by us. “Are you the 2^nd place woman?” he asked. When I said yes, his response went something like this, “the 3^rd place woman is just behind you and moving well, so if you want hold onto 2^nd then I would get going.” This is on the list of things that you don’t want to hear when you are in your own little pit of despair. He continued on, I started crying again, and the woman did indeed pass us as we paused in an aid station. She whipped by us, which at the time was devastating to me. In retrospect, I have so much respect for her ability to finish the race strong!

I knew that the final five miles of the race were on a gravel road, and as we went over the undulating singletrack I kept looking for it. Once when we rounded a corner, I saw the road just ahead of us. I announced this to Seth: the gravel road!!! He was silent…a bad sign. Then I realized I had just been looking at the next section of trail. At this point, runners from other race distances were passing us. The woman leading the 30k race stopped briefly as she whizzed by, looked me in the eyes, and said, “you are incredible, you inspire me!” This stopped the tears, and put me back in the right mindset to finish the thang. Running 100 miles is a privilege, and I was about to do it.

Finally, finally, we made it to the last aid station (mile 94.8), and Sara was there waiting for us!! After crewing the whole day before and pacing me 18 miles through the night and early morning, she’d driven my parents back to the starting line, then run 5 miles in the heat of the day to wait for a shell of a Leah to appear at the final aid station. Incredible. The three of us took on the gravel road, and I initially requested to run 4 minutes, walk 1 minute. This was manageable for a while, but then I started falling off of it and just did my best to keep going. I had Seth and Sara watching to see if any other 100 mile females appeared behind me, but I’m not sure that I would have been able to race this last part even if they did.

An eternity later, the final bend in the road appeared, and I ran the last half mile in to Scott Park and the finish line. As I circled the park running on the green grass past cheering spectators, I couldn’t help but crack a big old smile. 28 hours and 43 minutes. I sat down in a wonderful chair by the river, and had to dip in the water so that Seth and Sara could get my muddy shrink-wrapped socks off.

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Bighorn was a once in a lifetime experience. I am so grateful for the support of Sara, Seth, and my parents, as well as my coach David Roche and the race directors and all the volunteers. As I have been reflecting on the race, I keep returning to these questions: what exactly slowed me down at the end? My raw feet hurt, but could I have pushed on past that pain? I was tired, but could I have eaten more frequently and ran more of the last 20 miles? I absolutely loved my first foray into the 100 mile race distance, and I am hoping to be able to attempt another long mountain race next year. But for now, I am enjoying Montana summer!

All official race pics courtesy of Mile 90 Photography, otherwise all the other pictures are from Seth, Sara, and my mom!