You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.
– Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men
View of Rabbit Ears in the distance, mile 24
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If you think running sounds tough, try running a marathon.
If you think running a marathon sounds tough, try running 50 miles.
If you think running 50 miles sounds tough, try running ‘em on technical terrain at high altitude.
And if you think running 50 miles on technical terrain at high altitude sounds tough, try doing it half-blind.
Start to Mt Werner (mile 6.4) — 3,600ft gain
There had to be an easier way to notch state #17.
The thought crossed my mind more than once as Ken and I doggedly hiked our way up the dirt road toward our first major landmark of the day, the Mt. Werner aid station at mile 6.4. With an elevation gain of ~ 3,600 feet, this first 10K would be the toughest start to any of the 85+ races I’d run. This included the 2010 Pikes Peak Ascent, with its starting elevation of 6,300 feet compared to today’s 6,800 feet. And once we reached the aid station at 10,400 feet, we’d have only 44 miles between us and the inflatable red finish arch emblazoned with the Altra logo.
Yeah, there were definitely easier paths to a finish line, even in a state with 53 peaks over 14,000 feet tall. Then again, “easy” hadn’t been my criteria when I’d let Ken — with little persuading — talk me into joining him for his first 50-miler, conveniently held in his hometown of Steamboat Springs. After all, I’d known him and his wife Jenny since our days of living together at Rice University, and we’d run together at two memorable races before this, the 2012 Moab Trail Half and last November’s Golden Gate Half. And as anyone who reads this blog knows, dangle the right challenge in front of me and I’m an easy target for peer pressure.
Even with paid registration in hand, I hadn’t expected to be here after a tough summer, highlighted by an epic 54 miles at the Comrades Marathon in South Africa. That had been followed by two “just barely” sub-4-hour marathons in Victoria Falls (Zimbabwe) and Missoula, Montana. I’d given everything I had in all three races, and by the time I crossed the finish line in Missoula I wanted nothing more than to bury my running shoes and sleep for three months.
But after a week off from running and a gradual return to my normal routine, I realized that hey, my body actually felt pretty good. Not good enough to hop, skip and jump my way though a forested 50 miles at high altitude, but if I were being perfectly honest with myself, my only goal anyway coming from sea level would be to play it safe and reach the finish line before nightfall, roughly 13.5 hours after we’d started in the dark.
That remained my goal now as we switchbacked our way up the mountain in the early morning chill, my nose dripping into my mouth like a nasal faucet. (Note to evolution: nose right above the mouth? Really?) Ken and I were both in good spirits, though I was understandably anxious given my uncertainty as to how my “sea-level sissy” body would handle the high altitude. For Ken this was home, but for me…. In any case this would be an adventure, and isn’t that what Colorado’s all about?
This being Colorado, Mt. Werner is the physical and economic focus of ski season for Steamboat Springs. Hiking purposefully uphill we passed the Thunderhead Lodge and Four Points Lodge as well as several signs pointing us to various ski runs. I was heartened by the relative ease with which we moved uphill, the increasingly thin air having minimal effect on my breathing and heart rate.
Looking out over Steamboat Springs in mile 3
As if the altitude weren’t enough to make my lungs cower in their pleura, in the week leading up to the race unpredictable smoke caused by local wildfires had threatened to sideline those with asthma or other pulmonary conditions, while giving the rest of us yet another reason to question our sanity. Poor air quality — just what I needed at 10,000 feet. This was shaping up to be one of Mother Nature’s more cruel and absurd jokes.
Luckily by race day the smoke had dissipated, causing me to (literally) breath a sigh of relief.
There are two schools of thought on how to tackle a high-altitude race while living at lower elevation, in my case sea level. The first suggests you arrive at least a couple of weeks before the race, to allow your body time to acclimate to the change in altitude. Which is great if you’re a professional runner or independently wealthy, but for the rest of us who can’t afford the luxury of early arrival, there’s the opposite approach — that is, show up immediately before the race, then get in and get out before your body realizes where it is.
Our flight had touched down in Denver on Friday shortly after noon, 18 hours before we found ourselves shivering with just over 100 other 50-mile hopefuls in the predawn cold outside the Steamboat Ski Resort. The national anthem was highlighted by the young singer’s voice cracking badly on “freeeee,” as though puberty had arrived in mid-note. The gathered crowd offered encouragement and cheered him to the end, but the performance certainly didn’t help to relax my already jumpy nerves.
Lights, camera, action!
Then, looking like a swarm of fireflies with our headlamps cutting electric swaths of light though the lingering darkness, we’d taken an immediate uphill trajectory on the gravel path. I’d followed close behind Ken as I focused on my footing under the hypnotic electric glow of the headlamp — it was way too early to take a careless tumble.
A couple of minutes passed before I realized I’d forgotten to start my Garmin. Dammit. On the bright side I’d conserved a bit of battery life, though I’d have to consult Ken’s Garmin data for the complete story.
Gravel had transitioned to the wide dirt fire road on which we now found ourselves making steady progress. As we ascended, Ken explained that the towering aspens all around us were not independent trees; rather, they were members of a clonal colony derived from a single seedling and sharing a common root system. This evolutionary advantage enables colonies of aspens to survive forest fires that might kill other trees. Looking around at the expansive aspen grove, I tried to imagine what must be going on beneath us. Party on top, business down below, I thought wryly.
The saving grace of this climb was its position at the beginning of the race while our legs were still fresh, rather than at the end.
Upward we hiked, the shadows retreating and the day growing brighter with every step. With each turn we gained ever more panoramic views of Steamboat Springs, the town nestled among the evergreens far below us and the air relatively clear despite the recent rash of wildfires.
Ken works his way up the mountain in mile 4
The 100-mile runners, who had started their race the previous morning before we’d even boarded our plane in Los Angeles, passed us coming downhill with increasing frequency as we climbed. Their faces revealed a mix of exhaustion, relief and appreciation at the realization that their long hard journey was coming to an end.
The lead woman (and eventual winner) slowly passed us looking like she’d seen a ghost. It was a frightening sight, her eyes glazed over and face literally expressionless, with a companion seemingly propping her up as she shuffled her way down the mountain. I’d later learn she’d been running virtually blind for several miles due to corneal edema apparently caused by the altitude, which had resulted in her crossing the finish line bruised and bloodied from numerous falls and with a likely concussion. The good news? Her iron-willed perseverance earned her the winner’s purse of $12,500 along with a trip to the hospital.
How is she still going? we wondered, amazed and unnerved by her blank stare. Had I known my own demons awaited me on the mountain, I might have called it a day right then.
After mile 5 we transitioned onto the steeper and rockier Storm Peak Challenge Trail, our pace slowing even more as we negotiated the looser dirt and larger rocks underfoot until finally…
We reached the peak at 10,400 feet, thrilled to see the friendly volunteers of the Mt. Werner aid station. We dropped our headlamps in the box provided, and I forged on while Ken paused for sustenance. I was eager to speed things up, stretch my legs and see how they’d perform on more runnable terrain at high altitude. The name of the race, after all, was Run Rabbit Run — not Trek Tortoise Trek.
The altitude can play tricks on your eyes
Mt. Werner to Long Lake (mile 13.2) — 700ft gain, 1,200ft loss
Tenatively I followed the runnable dirt single-track, my legs adjusting to the undulating terrain. Normally at sea level I’d be able to maintain a pace between 11:00 and 12:00 minutes per mile on similar terrain. Up here, though, I had no such expectations. My goal was to sustain a smart, steady pace while not doing anything stupid. Which seemed reasonable.
It was time to settle in and chew up some miles — I had a long way to go and was in no hurry to get there. And as I had at last year’s Ice Age Trail 50, I broke down the course mentally into five 10-mile segments:
Miles 1–10: Get off to a good start and set a positive tone on the toughest part of the course, with its 3,600ft ascent in the first 6.4 miles
Miles 11–20: Settle in, find my rhythm and enjoy the scenery
Miles 21–30: See Katie and Jenny at the Dumont Lake aid station where they would be volunteering, then visit Rabbit Ears and start counting down the miles to the finish
Miles 31–40: Dig deep, stay focused and keep moving forward as boredom and fatigue rear their heads — these would be the real “grind ‘em out” miles
Miles 41–50: Almost home, so try to enjoy and appreciate what amounts to a victory lap — remember, the last 10K is all downhill to the finish!
I chose my footing carefully, my eyes darting continuously over the shadows created by the dappled sunlight filtering through the tree canopy. After a couple of miles Ken caught up to me as I let faster runners pass me on the downhills. He and I had agreed we’d each run at our own pace, and if that meant running together then all the better. I was hoping my slightly faster finish times would offset his living at high altitude, so that we’d be within spitting distance of each other for much if not all of the race.
I’m more of an ocean than a mountains guy, but any breath left over at two miles high was taken away by the pristine alpine scenery. This was Colorado at its finest and the reason we were here: lush forested landscapes bursting with aspen groves, willows and evergreens. Fir, pine and spruce trees watched over us as we moved along the trail, our eyes and ears peeled for animal life. The last thing we wanted was to surprise an elk, moose or bear out foraging for food. If that happened, the thin air would be the least of our worries.
For the most part, the trails at Run Rabbit Run are dusty single-track strewn with prominent rocks and roots. In this way they resemble the less forgiving, technically challenging trails in California more than the softer, pine needle-carpeted tracks in Wisconsin on which I’d run my first 50-miler. At times, flanked by either packed dirt walls or high grasses, the trail narrowed for short stretches so that it was only wide enough to accommodate one foot at a time. Add to that the shadows dancing underfoot, and it’s easy to understand why someone might occasionally misstep and find themselves on the ground (That’s called “foreshadowing”).
Though I knew this second segment of the course to be a net downhill of nearly 600 feet, the key word here is “net” since there was plenty of uphill to work the legs. Rolling hills would be a recurring motif throughout the day — as with most trail races, the shortest distance between two points would never be a straight line.
A hungry neighbor grazes outside Ken and Jenny’s window
Long Lake to Base Camp (mile 18.4) — 550ft gain, 450ft loss
Long Lake would be the first body of water we’d encounter on our journey. Here the aid station was stocked with the usual assortment of sweet & salty goodies, including favorite options such as peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, banana bites, oranges and watermelon. Liquid options included Coke, ginger ale and water along with overdiluted Tailwind. I carried my own Tailwind in my hydration pack along with several baby food pouches, my usual go-to ultramarathon nutrition.
After about three minutes spent refueling, Ken and I headed out on our way to Base Camp. We chatted where the single-track allowed, pausing at Long Lake for a quick selfie. Along the way we encountered several shallow stream crossings that were easily negotiated by hopping from rock to rock, without the need to get our feet wet.
Thumbs up for Long Lake, mile 14
Breathing in the crisp alpine air, it was tough to believe that air quality warnings and health advisories had been the order of the day here just 48 hours earlier. And we couldn’t have asked for more ideal weather, with moderate temperatures and partly cloudly skies that prevented the sun from ever gaining a serious foothold.
We were surrounded on all sides by the great outdoors, and I tried to balance the need to make steady progress with my desire to look up and admire the scenery — not easy to do when you’re running on narrow, technical trails. Finally, though, I was starting to feel comfortable, like I was settling in.
The feeling was short-lived. Ken had put about 40 yards between us, and as I glanced up to see him disappear around the next turn, I slammed my left foot into a partially buried rock and pitched forward onto the grassy trail. Fortunately, no blood no foul and no one else had been around to witness my dance moves, so my ego sustained only minimal injury. I hopped up, dusted myself off and continued on my way, my bloodstream now coursing with newly released adrenaline.
Lake Elmo, mile 16
Base Camp to Dumont Lake (mile 22.3) — 100ft gain, 550ft loss
Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice…
My first real indication that the altitude was taking its toll arrived in mile 22. With Ken following close behind I again stubbed my left foot hard and tumbled forward. Instinctively I threw out my left arm to catch myself, the sudden motion sending a bolt of pain shooting through the arm as I landed jarringly on my right side.
Well now, that was embarrassing. The landing on packed dirt was rougher than the grass had been, and gingerly I pulled myself to my feet, cursing under my breath. I assured Ken I was fine and we continued on, my head pounding and my body tired of wasting adrenaline reserves. Though as I’d later discover, that adrenaline was likely the reason I didn’t realize at the time the extent of the damage to my right side. With help from Dr. Google the next day I’d self-diagnose bruised ribs, and for the next week any sudden movement involving my right abdomen would be a painful impossibility. Luckily breathing wouldn’t be a problem, but lying down and sitting up in bed suddenly became a 12-step program.
Back on the trail, I hoped the pain in my arm would subside soon and that the limb would be none the worse for wear — though I hated to think what might happen if I fell again. Fortunately I’d somehow manage to stay upright for the next 28 miles, a minor miracle given what else awaited me.
With ears a-flutter, Jenny greets Ken at the Dumont Lake aid station
Finally we reached the Dumont Lake aid station where Katie, Jenny and Mandy — our new bad-ass ultrarunner friend who’d graciously hosted us all for an amazing pre-race dinner — greeted us. This would be the largest aid station of the day, and several groups of spectators sat in lawn chairs cheering on runners leaving for and returning from Rabbit Ears. Young kids played in the dirt at their parents’ feet. The scene felt like a company picnic.
Katie checked up on me as I grabbed a bite of peanut butter and jelly, nibbled on a banana and drank some water. Then I slowly removed my pack (superfluous weight) and grabbed a bottle of water in preparation for the hike up to Rabbit Ears and back.
I noticed a pile of playing cards sitting on Katie’s chair and asked about them. “You have to pick up a card from the top of Rabbit Ears and bring it back, as proof you reached the top,” she told me. I was lucky I’d asked this off-the-cuff question; otherwise I’d have had no idea of the rule. And the idea of a second round trip to Rabbit Ears was grossly unappealing.
I wondered how everyone else would know to collect a card — maybe this had been mentioned at the “mandatory” pre-race briefing we’d arrived at late and left early the evening before. In any case it should have been made clear on race day with signage at the Dumont Lake aid station, or at the very least up on Rabbit Ears.
Note to race directors: never assume a runner’s brain or memory will function properly at mile 25, especially at 10,000 feet in the air.
All smiles before the trek up to Rabbit Ears
Dumont Lake to Rabbit Ears and back again (mile 27.7) — 1,000ft gain, 1,000ft loss
Water bottles in hand, Ken and I ascended toward Rabbit Ears 1,000 feet above us and 2.5 miles away. Here the dirt trail was wide and inviting, and we power-hiked for the most part while briefly running some of the flatter stretches. In the distance we could see the familiar outline of Rabbit Ears rising prominently on a background of crisp blue sky. This would be the only section of the course that lacked shade, though luckily the benevolent sun offered comforting warmth with intermittent cloud cover.
Up we climbed, the trail getting progressively steeper before culminating in the steepest section of the course, the final ¼ mile to the top. This I’d been expecting from the course elevation profile and from 2016 finisher WonderJess’s own race report. The soft sand in places made steady progress difficult, and with each step forward I’d slide half a step back. It certainly didn’t help my balance that I was carrying my bottle in one hand and my camera in the other, leaving myself no free hand with which to stabilize myself. Thankfully this would be a short-lived challenge, and my quads were up to the task.
Almost… to the… top… (mile 25)
Reaching the summit and the high point of the course at 10,566 feet, we looked around to see the turnaround point — wait, where was the turnaround point? There were no signs, no indicators, no instructions on where to collect the all-important playing card we’d need to prove our worth upon our return to the Dumont Lake aid station. I glanced around, seeing a group of runners to one side gazing out over the valley far below.
I was about to ask them for guidance when I saw her — a volunteer sporting bunny ears and seated several yards above us on Rabbit Ears. Really? Reluctantly we scrambled upwards in the soft sand to where she sat, perched precariously. There we collected our cards and posed for a quick picture, taking care not to fall back down the slope we’d just climbed. The hopeful voice of a fellow runner yelled up at us from below: “Could you just throw me down a card?” He seemed to be only partially joking.
I slid back down and lingered for a couple more minutes to appreciate the view from the top of the world — after all the work we’d done to get here, damn right I was going to bask in the moment. Then we headed back down the way we’d come, that first ¼ mile of steep downhill being the most precarious of the day. As I sidled down the trail sideways to check my momentum, it reminded me of the almost identical footing we’d encountered at last year’s aptly named Toughest 10K in the USA.
I glanced down at my Garmin as we reached the 26.2-mile mark — 6:43:37, my slowest marathon ever by a long shot.
Atop the Rabbit Ears turnaround, the highest point on the course (10,654 ft)
We were making reasonable progress on the way back to Dumont Lake, when about a mile or so from the aid station I suddenly realized my left eye was fogging over. I blinked a few times to try to clear it. No change. I rubbed it gently and blinked again. Nope. I opened my eyes as widely as I could and rolled them in all directions, trying to clear my vision. Nada. I even smacked the back of my head as if to literally knock some sense into myself. Nothing helped. Luckily the trail here was wide and smooth, and I felt confident the veil would lift momentarily.
When we arrived back at the Dumont Lake aid station, however, my eye still hadn’t cleared. Many of the spectators were gone, as were most of the runners. We relinquished our cards, collected our packs, quickly snacked and re-hydrated (sip of Coke, sip of ginger ale, sip of water) and thanked our fluffy-tailed spouses. I told Katie I’d see her at the finish — Jenny, on the other hand, I’d see sooner as she’d agreed to shepherd us the last four miles down the mountain.
Then we headed back toward Base Camp, leaving Rabbit Ears and the toughest climbs of the day in our rearview mirror. Less than 23 miles to go. As we exited the aid station, a young girl cheered us on waving her pompoms. Or maybe the altitude was getting to me…
Dumont Lake to Base Camp (mile 31.6) — 550ft gain, 100ft loss
I moved more slowly on our return trip to Base Camp, my injured arm loosening but my left eye still fogged over. I felt as though I were seeing the world through frosted glass.
Luckily the next two miles covered relatively level ground, but as my eye remained cloudy I started to consider worst-case scenarios. Had the trauma of my two falls, and especially the second with its whiplash-like landing, detached my retina? I recalled the horror of friends who’d had to undergo retinal reattachment surgery, and how it had essentially put their lives on hold for several months. I cringed at the thought, and a sudden wave of appreciation washed over me. Don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone, I thought. Luckily I’d yet to see any floaters or sudden flashes of light, so my retina seemed intact. But at this point I couldn’t be sure.
In the meantime, I did what I could to keep Ken within view of my one good eye, and tried to appreciate the sweeping beauty around me — easier said than done, as I was understandably a bit distracted.
With relief we turned onto the wider, more runnable Base Camp Road and, half a mile later, I pulled into the Base Camp aid station just behind Ken and a woman from Boulder with whom he’d been chatting. Suddenly her phone rang — and as any focused runner would do in the middle of a 50-mile trail race at high altitude, she answered it. Apparently she was a property manager renting out a property in the Caribbean, and the renter had refused to leave with Hurricane Irma bearing down on the island. As the renter hunkered down inside the property the wind had blown the roof off, while the fridge door had likewise been blown off its hinges and out the door.
And that, kids, is why you don’t answer your phone during a race.
Cooling down at the Base Camp aid station
At Base Camp I quickly removed, rinsed and reinserted my contact lens to see if that would defog my vision. No such luck, so apparently it wasn’t a contact issue. A friendly volunteer handed me a large damp towel which I draped over my head appreciatively, the chill reviving my frazzled and weary nerves. Maybe lowering my body temperature would help my vision.
I felt my body cooling as I nibbled on a banana. Ken texted Jenny to arrange our meeting at the 46-mile mark, the point at which non-runners were allowed (per race regulations) to meet their rabbits or tortoises and run with them the rest of the way down the mountain.
“Longview” by Green Day was playing on the sound system behind the aid tables and I sang along, amused by the timely lyrics: I got no motivation, where is my motivation…. One of the volunteers laughed. “Probably not the best song to be playing right now,” she acknowledged and changed it.
Whether the chilled towel or rather Billie Joe and the boys were to thank, my eye finally defogged enough to be useful again. And so with ~80% use of my left eye we continued on our journey toward Long Lake, a newfound spring in my step. Hopefully the clouds had finally lifted on my vision.
As Ernest Hemingway wrote in The Sun Also Rises, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
The Rabbit Ears Motel, a Steamboat Springs landmark (photo credit)
Base Camp to Long Lake (mile 36.8) — 450ft gain, 550ft loss
Shortly after leaving Base Camp my Garmin beeped to signal 32 miles down, and I yelled to Ken just ahead of me, congratulating him on the farthest distance he’d ever run (eclipsing the 50K he’d run just two weeks earlier). We exchanged high-fives and he shot ahead, quickly putting 20 yards between us. As I turned to follow him I realized my right eye was now badly fogged over. Are you f@*#ing kidding me?
This truly sucked. With my lack of depth perception I couldn’t run fast at all, much less catch up to Ken who was quickly escaping my view ahead. I was reduced to painstakingly picking my way along the rocky and rooty trail, and whenever I lost patience and tried to speed up I’d inevitably slam my toe into another of nature’s speed bumps and lose my balance, each time managing to catch myself before I fell. With my arm still giving me the cold shoulder, the last thing I wanted was to hit the ground again.
This was an eerie and frustrating feeling, this lack of depth perception. And suddenly I was reminded of how much I take my eyesight for granted. At stream crossings I found myself stopping in my tracks to gauge the position of each stepping stone, before cautiously moving forward. Shadows created by the dappled sun didn’t help my cause as I struggled for equilibrium.
Downhills were particularly tricky with 80% vision in one eye and significantly less in the other. And in some places where the trail narrowed, I even had trouble running a straight line without stepping off the trail. One wrong step and my day could end quickly and painfully, 33 miles farther and 3,000 feet higher than it had begun.
I was running alone, running through a fog and really not even running anymore. And like the scientist I am, I reached a conclusion based on all the facts available to me: this wasn’t fun at all.
Doubt briefly crossed my mind — could I make it another 17 miles with one “good” eye? And could I even count on that one eye, which had already failed me once? What if both eyes fogged over at the same time, here between aid stations? On the bright side, the fact that my eyes had taken turns clouding over meant the odds of having detached one or both retinas were very low. So that cheered me up a bit.
Sadly, the Rocky Mountain scenery was now lost on me. A black bear dressed as Ronald McDonald could have been juggling 3 moose off to one side and I likely wouldn’t have noticed. And looking back at my splits, it’s unclear how I maintained what amounted to a very reasonable pace under the circumstances.
As much as my situation sucked, though, this wasn’t Mars and I wasn’t Mark Watney, and eventually we reached the Long Lake aid station where I exhaled deeply and reminded myself that only a half marathon’s distance remained between us and the finish. The next 13 miles may be slower than I wanted, but assuming both eyes didn’t fog up simultaneously, I could do this. And hadn’t reaching the finish line always been my “A” goal anyway?
Mandy livin’ the high life as a Dumont Lake volunteer – thanks for being your awesome self, Mandy!
Long Lake to Mt Werner (mile 43.6) — 1,200ft gain, 700ft loss
At Long Lake I caught up to Ken and took my time refueling while he texted with Jenny, the two of them working out the logistics of meeting at mile 46 on our way down the mountain. I put a Frito in my mouth and immediately spit it out. Even on the warmest days, and this certainly wasn’t one of them, my body rarely if ever craves salt during a race.
Luckily my right eye seemed to be clearing a bit, enough to regain some semblance of depth perception. This took the edge off, and with eyesight that was decidely below average but above expectations, Ken and I made good progress on our way to the final aid station stop at Mt Werner.
Even with my vision cooperating, this final section atop the mountain truly sucked as the climbing felt nonstop. I sure didn’t remember this much downhill on the way out. Up and up and up we seemed to climb through the forest, only to level out or descend briefly and then climb again. At this point in the race, these slow climbs were more psychologically exhausting than the first six uphill miles had been.
“Oh look, another uphill,” I found myself muttering sarcastically. I was good and ready to reach Werner, and I kept assuring myself we couldn’t possibly climb much higher. The good news was that both eyes were now operating at > 80% clarity, while the soreness in my arm offered a constant reminder to stay focused on my footing, especially on the downs.
Where is that damn aid station? Did they move it? I kept asking myself, craning my neck to look ahead. I felt so sure we should have reached it by now… then again I’d blown by it so fast the first time, maybe it had all been an altitude-induced mirage?
Finally it came into view, like the wise old hermit perched high atop the mountain. I collapsed in a chair with a pouch of barely palatable baby food while an attentive volunteer brought me ginger ale. Meanwhile, Ken texted Jenny to let her know we’d reached Werner and to ensure she’d be waiting for us at at Rainbow Saddle, just below Thunderhead Lodge. Just over six miles to go, omg omg omg…
The finish area awaits
Mt Werner to finish — 3,600ft loss
After taking nearly six minutes to fully appreciate this last aid station of the day (did I mention we were in no hurry?), we headed back down the mountain to reclaim that initial 3,600 feet of ascent. After all, we’d earned it.
As we started down, I noticed — YEP, the left eye was again fogged over. Luckily we still had plenty of sunlight, and the road home was wide and runnable. So after carefully navigating the Storm Peak Challenge Trail over loose rocks and gravel (and reminding myself to do nothing stupid), I no longer needed the benefit of depth perception. From here on, I could stampede down the mountain like a bull in a china shop.
Storm Peak Challenge Trail
We passed Thunderhead Lodge where a wedding reception was in full swing. And per our strategery, there was Jenny waiting for us at Rainbow Saddle. Seeing her was a nice psychological boost and she led us down the mountain at a pace that felt right on the cusp of do-able, if not comfortable.
As we descended we continued to pick up speed, the all-consuming urge to get this over with — the race and this blog post — taking control. We were like iron filings being pulled downhill by an increasingly powerful magnet. There would be minimal nature-gazing on the way down — I’d seen all the aspen groves and evergreens I needed to see for one day. The finish line was calling.
🎵 She’ll be comin’ down the mountain when she comes… 🎶 (mile 46)
Plus, the vegetarian in me really wanted to beat the lady in the “Team Beef” tanktop who we’d passed on our way down. Don’t judge…
Miles 48 and 49 were our fastest (and only sub-10) miles of the day as we pounded downhill on what was left of our legs. We then slowed as the course transitioned back to the narrow gravel path — after treading so carefully for the past six hours, I wasn’t about to trip and fall on my face less than a mile from the finish.
As my Garmin’s mile indicator beeped for the 50th time with the finish line nowhere in sight, I glanced down to see that we’d just passed hour 13. Which sounded like a very lucky number to me.
Jenny peeled off to let Ken and me finish the last half mile by ourselves. Five minutes later, as the sun approached the horizon, the two of us passed under the familiar red inflatable arch in a respectable time of 13:07:35. With that Ken was a proud 50-miler finisher, and I immediately embraced him in a congratulatory hug — after all, he’d made it look easy. Then I turned my attention (and affections) to Katie, who had stories of her own to tell from her day spent volunteering at Dumont Lake.
After 50 miles, a photo(genic) finish
For my part, I’d completed the most challenging race of my life and colored in Colorado on my 50 States Map. And most importantly my eyes, which like the evening sky remained partially cloudy at the finish, would clear for good soon after the race. Admittedly I haven’t done much research to figure out what happened up there on the mountain, but presumably I experienced a lesser case of the altitude–induced corneal edema that afflicted the women’s winner. And if that’s the case I consider myself lucky, because it could have been much worse.
Vision aside, I wouldn’t escape my Rocky Mountain run unscathed. My injured arm would remain out of sorts for several days, while my painfully bruised ribs would be the real villains, sidelining me from running for the next two weeks — an almost unheard-of sabbatical from the sport. And as I would discover later that night when the fever kicked in, my immune system had been beaten down pretty thoroughly as well. Once I stopped moving and allowed my body to relax, the floodgates of fatigue opened and the effort of the day coupled with the altitude finally took their toll.
🎵 Reunited, and it feels so good… 🎶
Admittedly, a 50-miler at high altitude hadn’t been the easiest way to notch state #17. But at the same time if I’d wanted “easy” I would’ve chosen to spend my Saturday gardening or collecting stamps. No, this was a medal well earned…
Speaking of which — after sharing hugs all around (including one with the bunny-eared race director), I grabbed a chocolate milk and looked for the volunteer(s) handing out finisher medals or belt buckles. It was then my euphoria yielded to dismay, as instead of shiny artistic race bling we were each handed a Run Rabbit Run… beer mug. A nice ceramic beer mug to be sure, but a beer mug nevertheless.
With post-race endorphins coursing through my system I couldn’t be bitter, but I was definitely disappointed. What American adult needs a beer mug? I rarely drink beer, and even then we have too many mugs at home. So now I have as a memento of state #17 an oversized mug that takes up too much of my already limited desk space. I realize the stereotypical trail runner is supposed to embrace the glory of nature and shun medals and trophies of any kind, but then why a mug? It was a puzzling and disappointing reward for 13 hours on the mountain, and especially for a race that boasts “the highest purse of any trail ultra marathon in the world.”
But to turn lemons into lemonade, I now have a reason to return to Colorado to run the Leadville Trail Marathon, a race I’ve been eyeing since 2012 when injury made it the first — and so far only — DNS (Did Not Start) on my running résumé.
As darkness fell like a curtain across the staging area and the last of the 50- and 100-mile finishers trickled in, we said our goodbyes to the Steamboat Ski Resort and took our leave. Pizza awaited, though I wasn’t sure how much I’d be able to stomach. Besides, the promise of a hot shower was all the motivation I needed at the moment. And unlike my new mug, the shower wouldn’t disappoint as Ken and Jenny’s hot water heater proved up to the challenge, even if I did move like a robot in need of WD-40.
Then, with great difficulty thanks to my aching arm and bruised ribs, I settled into bed for a long and restless night of feverish wishes and sea-level dreams.
Man, the lengths I’ll go to for that elusive runner’s high.
BOTTOM LINE: Looking for an epic adventure in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, one that’s (literally) above and beyond the usual ultramarathon? You’ve found it in Run Rabbit Run. Steamboat Springs is a charming, low-key destination town and especially in early September, which is the calm before the storm of ski season. Case in point the weather, which was perfect on race day and which made our 13 hours of essentially fast hiking (with a 15-hour time limit) a lot more pleasant than it otherwise might have been.
Trying to get up and down the mountain before my body wised up to the altitude, I flew into Colorado and arrived in Steamboat Springs the day before the race. Surprisingly I had no difficulty with my breathing at any point during the race — not even on the initial 3,600 foot climb to the summit of Mount Werner. No, the real manifestation of the high altitude was that I moved at a much slower clip than I do at sea level, even taking into account the steady diet of rocks and roots. And having my eyes take turns fogging over certainly didn’t help my progress.
(On that note, a word of warning if you’re considering this race: beware the unlikely possibility of altitude-induced vision problems such as corneal edema, which nearly blinded the eventual winner of the women’s 100-mile race).
Run Rabbit Run is a challenging course, yes. And at times I became frustrated with the seemingly endless climbing and my glacial rate of progress. But Mother Nature offers her rabbits plenty of rewards for all their hard work — this may well be the most picturesque course you’ll ever run. And if a sea-level sissy like me can get ‘er done, so can you.
PRODUCTION: Well done, for the most part. Packet pickup doubled as a pre-race pep talk and an opportunity for the race director to share guidelines, warnings and cautionary tales for race day. We arrived late as he was relating a joke about runners wearing bear bells on the course, the punchline being that bear scat can be distinguished from other animal scat by the fact it has bear bells in it. Comedic interludes aside, the RD also raffled off a bunch of sponsor swag to hold the audience’s interest, which was cool — and my friend Ken and I each scored a lightweight Ultimate Direction running vest, a nice take-home prize.
Race day logistics were smooth overall with a couple of annoying hitches. This year, apparently for the first time, the organizers decided to make runners retrieve a playing card from a volunteer stationed at the top of Rabbit Ears, to confirm they’d made it all the way to the top (mile 25). I wouldn’t have realized this, though, if I hadn’t happened to notice the playing cards sitting on a chair at the Dumont Lake aid station and asked Katie. Nor were there any signs or indicators up on Rabbit Ears as to where the turnaround point was, much less a warning about the cards. So I’m not sure how everyone else learned of the cards, and I wonder if anyone failed to retrieve one. Maybe I missed those instructions at the pre-race meeting, but on race day they should be clearly communicated to any exhausted runner who may be 10,000+ feet above his comfort zone and not thinking straight. And it was oddly unnecessary, at the top of Rabbit Ears, to make each runner scamper up the last 20 feet of loose dirt to where the volunteer sat precariously handing out cards — she could just as easily have waited below to enable a more agile turnaround.
A huge shout-out to the amazing volunteers who all day long were friendly, attentive and competent. And rumor has it there was a nice post-race spread; unfortunately the sun was setting and a chill was descending by the time we finished, so we were eager to get back to our friends’ place, get cleaned up and grab dinner.
A toast to Rabbit Ears, visible in the distance
SWAG: Aside from my vision failing me at times, the swag was my only real disappointment of the day. Yes, I understand this is a trail race and trail runners are supposed to eschew medals and material possessions. But for a race of this length and difficulty — and one that boasts the “highest purse of any trail ultra marathon in the world” — I’d expect a finisher’s buckle (apparently the 100-milers received one) or at least a medal, something I can proudly display on my wall alongside my other blingy shiny souvenirs. Instead, our reward for 13+ hours of running, hiking and stumbling was a ceramic beer mug to accompany the short-sleeve cotton race tee we’d received at registration (no more shirts, please…). What non-college-age adult needs another f#*@ing mug? I felt like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” sitting in his bathroom frantically decoding with his Little Orphan Annie secret decoder pin, only to discover he’s been duped by corporate America. “A crummy commercial? Son of a bitch!”
Many thanks to Jess T. for her awesome pre-race advice and excellent blog post that I’d recommend to anyone thinking of tackling Run Rabbit Run!
Updated 50 States Map:
RaceRaves rating:
FINAL STATS:
Sept 9, 2017 (start time 6:00am)
50.63 miles in Routt National Forest in Steamboat Springs, CO (state 17 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 13:07:35 (first time running the Run Rabbit Run 50 Miler), 15:33 min/mile
Finish place: 96 overall, 25/30 in M40–49
Number of finishers: 117 (78 men, 39 women)
Race weather: cool & cloudy at the start (temp 46°F), warm and cloudy at the finish (70°F), partly sunny throughout
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 7,963 ft ascent, 7,966 ft descent
