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It was the day before race day, Friday, and Blake and I had just finished the long drive from LA to Phoenix for packet pickup at Chileen’s. Throughout the morning and late afternoon, the anticipation of the 100K was growing steadily. Excitement was in the dry desert air. As we pulled into Chileen’s we were joking about me beating Tara Dower, who had recently set the Appalachian trail speed record, and was also competing tomorrow in the 100K. With my goal time of 9 hours, and considering she had ran it a little under 9 and a half hours the previous year, I thought there might be a chance we’d run together.

As Blake and I walked up to packet pickup, Blake spots Tara out of a group heading to their cars. “Baker that’s her!” He exclaims in a whisper. Blake gets her autograph, and I take a picture of them. Blake’s ecstatic. Tara is one of his girlfriend Emma’s role models, and he was able to get an autograph signed for Emma. The excitement for the race continues to build.

That night we have a pasta dinner. Salad, chicken, broccoli. Plenty of electrolytes. Each of our Salomon vests are prefilled, front bottles and osprey 1.5L bladders filled with lemon-lime nuun. Yum. We do a 20 minute shake out. The legs feel great, and so does the cool desert year. The only hiccup of the evening was that I was missing two pins for my bib. Blake lends me two of his. The alarms are set for 4:30am. All is ready. We sleep.

It’s race day. We quickly get ready, grab our gear, and head to Blake’s car. Black canyon offers a 20 dollars shuttle from a Mall near the finish line to the start, which for wave 1 leaves promptly at 5:30AM for the 1 hour drive to the start line. As I board the shuttle I wave goodbye to Blake, whom I’ll see when the bus brings him for wave 2. Tired but full of anticipatory seratonin, I chat with the competitor whom I randomly plopped down next to in the bus. Nicholas, a father of one and resident of Olympic Valley (where the western states start line is) tells me of how he’s hoping to run around 9:30:00 today, and after 7 years had finally gotten his ticket drawn to run in the western states 100 this coming June. For each race he does, his son gives him two Pokémon cards to carry in his pack, one representing his shoes, and one for the race course (sandslash and cacturne respectively). I wish him well. Looking him up after, seems he had a rough day (still faster than me), coming in at 10:30:00.

As I toe the line at 7AM, I feel relaxed, and ready. I had just taken off my sweats, and placed them in one of the free drop-bags to the finish, provided at the start line. It was chilly, just below 40F to start, and I was outfitted in BOA jorts (matching Blake) and the black, black canyon “free” dry-fit t-shirt. In my vest I had 10 huma gels, 5 caffeinated in the right chest pocket, and 5 regular in the left. In the elastic pocket in the back of my vest I had electrolytes tabs, backup batteries for my headlamp, and ibuprofen. On my head was a thin cap to keep warm, and running gloves on my hands. The sun was just beginning to rise. It is glorious. The gun goes off, we run. We race starts with a lap around a high school track, before exiting through a neighborhood and on to the trail. I clock around an 8 min first mile. There’s a lot of people with wave 1. The previous year results had 705 finishers, and this year there were 778 finishers, which included many high profile ultra runners competing for a golden ticket- a guaranteed race entry into western states 100- a prize which only goes to the top 3 men, and top 3 women (I say finishers, as there are over 100 DNFs). That is to say, wave 1 is stacked. The front pack quickly breaks off, running in the mid-6’s to start. There are talks of the course record being broken again this year. I settle into a group going around 7:30 pace. It’s already too hot for the winter cap and gloves, so I pack them away in my front vest pocket, along with my hand warmer. The trail is all single track, and rocky. We fly around corners and up and down and over the small rolling hills. We quickly wind our way through the desert. The beginning is like a trance, cool air, the only thing in mind is to not trip, and stay a few feet back from the runner in front of you. We blow past cactus and bramble after bramble, with the occasional overreaching bramble dragging its pointy fingers along my thigh. I wonder how many have been scratched by the same. In what feels like 10 minutes we traverse 7 miles. I have to remind myself to fuel. To not fuel is dangerous is the long term, yet it is also dangerous to fuel. Spending too much focus on getting gels out of pockets or drinking can lead to a fall, and a fall leads to either cactus puncture wounds or cuts from rocks. Either way, there will be blood. I take my first fall rounding a corner while trying to sip some water from my osprey bladder. My knee hits rock, and is bloodied. I get up immediately and push onward. “Not too bad, no injury.” I think to myself. This reminds me to remain vigilant. I continue to zoom onward with the same group through the first aid station, 7.7 miles, and we continue in our time dilated state through the following aid station, hidden treasure, at mile 12.9. We are greeted by smiling volunteers dressed as pirates, and sea shanties. At this point my water bladder has been drained to the point where my human bladder is full, and I quickly stop to pee in a porta-potty. They have several at each aid station. 20 seconds, then back on the course. I fall into line with a new group, and we continue to cruise. The pace feels slightly slower than I would like, but there’s no easy way to get around without risk of tripping. I settle in. I’m feeling good. Eventually, a blonde lady with a floppy hat begins pulling away from the group. We will call her “floppy hat”. I go with her. We roll through the desert. The pace is good. I feel free.

We eventually come upon the next aid station, the first big one. Bumble bee ranch, mile 19.4. I still have plenty of fuel, and no plan of stopping. Floppy hat stops to get supplies from her drop bag. I keep going. Then, out of my peripheral I catch sight of a sign- with my name on it?! My mother-in-law is there, cheering me on. What a pleasant surprise, I think to myself, and roll through the aid station.

Race morning preparations The mid-race doldrums

I’m encouraged, and feel strong. But I know this is where the race gets tough. We had just finished the rolling, net downhill, and we’re coming to the part of the course with the climbs. I brace myself. I am alone. I go whatever pace feels right, and jog over the hills. “Nice job on these hills!” A camera-man exclaims. I can tell my legs are starting to feel some fatigue, but nothing really hurts. There are beautiful scenic vistas here. I soak in the views. I pass several people who have had to stop to walk, or have fallen and are resting. I ask each if they need anything, but the answer is always no. I suppose everyone has their own race to run.

When I arrive at the next aid station at mile 24, I can tell it’s starting to heat up outside, and that the temperature would continue to rise. I take precautions. I stop at the aid station, eat some oranges, refill my front vest bottles. I figure I won’t need the water bladder refilled unless I have a long ways between aid stations. Before heading out they offer to pour ice water on me, but only if I shout when they do it. Of course I oblige. “He shouted better than them girls!” The volunteer exclaims. Floppy hat passes me again while I’m there. Apparently I was the first runner to stop for food at the aid station, everyone else had continued through. I wonder if that means I’m on pace to finish with the elites. I push onward. It’s 7.9 miles to the next aid station, Deep canyon ranch. It’s a major one. It keeps getting hotter.

The constant slipping and kicking of rocks is getting to my feet, I can feel blisters forming on the outside of my big toes. The sun beats down on me as I wind my way through the mountains, climbing and descending. Over dry creeks and river beds, and lots and lots of cutbacks. So many cutbacks. A few miles in I catch up to floppy hat. We run together a few miles, and get into a rhythm again. I take a bad fall, this time removing a circular patch of skin from my left hand. I get up and push on. A mile or so later floppy starts to slow. She stops on the trail to vomit. I push onward. I pass a good number of people walking the uphills. Around mile 30 I finally join them. I let my momentum carry me up the hills as far as I can go, then walk the rest. I try to minimize the walking. At this point in the race it isn’t my legs that are the limiting factor, but overall core temperature. If I exert myself too much, I would start to feel myself tend toward nausea. It was almost as if I could feel the fine line of how much I could push it before I’d begin overheating. I listened to my body, and ran as much as I could. I come into deep canyon ranch aid station (mile 31.9) ready for a break. The heat was getting to me. I eat some trail mix, oranges, and have a cup of coke, and the volunteers help me refill my drained bottles, one with Gatorade, one with water. Both Joel and Elizabeth are there to greet me, we chat briefly. I’m thankful to have such supportive in-laws. As I prepare to embark from the aid-station, I anoint myself again with ice water, and begin the 5.3 miles to the next aid stop at black canyon city trailhead. The mood of the race has begun its shift from competition, to completion. The desire to keep moving forward. The noon sun beats down. Not a cloud in the sky. It has been over 5 hours of running. I listen to my first song, “Aurorian dance” by Nujabes. I meant to play “living on a prayer” at the halfway point, but didn’t have the energy. It helps me relax. I continue moving through the desert. I ponder at how the cacti have gotten so big, with trunks wider than palms. Some over 20 feet tall. I pass some groups, then they pass me. Occasionally a lone runner would jog past. The pace was slowing. 8 minute miles turned to 9s, and 9s begat 10s and 11s as the run-walk was introduced for the climbs. I finally cruise into the aid station. Nobody wants to get up and leave, and everyone wants to sit. We drench ourselves in ice water, and even fill our water bladders with ice, just to stay cool for a bit longer. The orange slices again bring solace. Encouragement is shared, and a group of us prepare to leave around the same time. This is where I met the Baja blasters, never got their names. Two locals guys who from this point on I’d spend about 15 miles with, off and on. We know this next leg will be the toughest. 9 miles in peak heat to the next aid station at cottonwood gulch, mile 46.4. Not to mention a big climb. We run on. I’ve begun to lean more on the electrolyte tablets than my gels. I can’t stand the sugar taste of the gels. I’d try to have one or the other every 25 minutes or so. In the first half of the race it had been every 3-4 miles. I can’t rely on distance anymore as a metric. The time per mile is beginning to vary drastically. If it is downhill, we run. We hurt, but we run. It’s all you can do. And you do what you can do. It feels like the time dilation from the beginning of the race has been inverted- what feels like an hour is only 10 minutes. I had lost floppy hat, and again join her briefly, before she slowly pulls ahead. I never see her again. It’s a difficult 9 miles. Perhaps the hardest of the race. Everyone encourages each other as one passes another. There are many passings, some passing us, and others we pass. I just hope to not pass out. I encounter another man with Jorts, we run for a time, before he too pulls ahead. The mantra “jorts stick together” was not enough to stay with him. I wonder at how Blake is doing.

We stumble into the next aid station, Cottonwood gulch, mile 46.4. Same routine as the last. Oranges, Gatorade, water, and ice. Anoint with ice water, then onward. I spend about 5 minutes at the station, and find I need to catch back up to my group. I slowly do catch up over the course of the next 4.7 miles to the table mesa aid station. The most important question at each aid station has become “how far to the next one?”. The race has become a game of survival. “I just need to make it to the next aid station” I tell myself. That is my focus and my goal. I catch up to the Baja boys about 2 miles in. We talk of cold drinks and icees. They declare there will be Baja blasts for all when we finish. It’s a hard 4.7 to the next aid at table mesa, but I manage. Running when I can, walking when I have to. For a time I leave behind the Baja boys as I approach the aid station. We pass several groups and lone runners along the way.

At table mesa I am again greeted by Katy’s parent’s encouragement, and I follow the same routine of refueling. At this point I just want to finish. My feet ache and each step hurts, no matter running or walking. My legs are beyond sore. Finishing in under 10 hours has become out of reach, and I wonder if I can even finish in 11. Besides that, can I finish before dark? The sun will set around 6PM. Yet, I am comforted by the fact that the setting of the sun is bringing cooler temperatures. This will be the last ice I need in the water bladder. I head out from the aid station, alone. It’s another long stretch. 7.6 miles to Doe Spring, the final aid station before the home stretch. There is one climb, but the trail in this part is a little more flat and more meandering. There are still plenty of rocky sections, but distributed throughout are dirt paths, which are a blessing to the feet. I pass several pairs of runners. Nearly everyone at this point is in a pair, or solo. Most are in pairs, encouraging one another on. I’m still trying to compete. I continue to work to pass them. Pair after pair, I leave them behind me when they walk the uphills, and I jog past, slowly but surely. As I press on, I throw in strides when the path is mostly dirt to loosen the legs. Towards the end of this section, some of the pairs I passed in the first few miles passed me again, and a few runners came out of nowhere from behind, rapidly making their way down the trail.

The desert sunset during the final miles

I roll into the final aid station, and plop down in a chair, exhausted. Even with just 3.7 to go, it feels like an eternity. I refuel, except this time do not refill the water bladder. I press on. I want to run the whole distance in, but can’t. There are still too many climbs. After a man passes me I pause briefly to empty my water bladder. What water (once ice) that I had not finished from the refill back at table mesa was now hot liquid against my back, and unnecessary weight. I have my bottles. That is enough. 3 miles to go. I struggle onward. Several pairs I had passed over 7 miles ago catch up and overtake me. I can’t stay with them. I struggle onward. The sun is beginning to set. I wonder if I’ll make it in time. I find a small reservoir of strength, and run the majority of the next few miles, offering words of encouragement as I pass or am passed. My mind has one word, one cry, one anthem: finish. A quarter mile from the finish a man starts picking up the pace. Helplessly, I try to keep up. I don’t want to get out-kicked at the very end. I struggle to keep up, but he has pulled ahead. We come into the final rocky climb to the finish shoot. He trips, and falls upon the rocks. I gain ground. We are neck and neck in the finish shoot. With a loud cry of pain I sprint head through the finish. The 99th runner. I crash into the wall at the back of the finish shoot, and am handed my medallion and finishers belt buckle. It is over. 11:05:00. I see the sunset, and take a seat. I am spent completely. The Baja boys, who finished about 20 minutes earlier, hand me a Baja blast. The thought of sugar sickness me, but I accept it graciously.

Exhausted but triumphant at the finish The finish line - exhausted but accomplished

Katy’s parents are there for pictures and congratulations. I am humbled. This was a real ultra. A challenge and testament to the human will, where the body is urged past the breaking point, and yet called onward. I have a newfound respect and admiration of ultra runners like Tara Dower, who finished with a time of 8:25:00 (a time which would have been the women’s course record had she not been beat by a runner who ran 8:17:00) coming in second for women and securing a golden ticket to western states. The men’s record was broken 4 times. I too, felt broken. This race topped every other hard thing I have ever done. The only thing that comes close was nearly dying in the Grand Canyon. Toenails purple, and toes covered in blisters, muscle fatigue all over. I get onto the shuttle back into town with Katy’s parents, and begin to vomit. One, two, three times. The same repeated in their car, and with finality another set of 3 after my shower. I have no desire to eat or drink. I just want to lay, and be at peace. It will not be until after midnight that we will need to return to pick up Blake when he too reaches the finish line.

This race has taught me to not take an ultra lightly. I knew 100K is no joke, but having experienced a 50 mile race I didn’t think it would be significantly more difficult. That could not further from the truth. The terrain matters. The weather conditions matter. Single track matters. That extra 12 miles? Huge difference. In hindsight, I was not prepared to aim for the time I wanted. Perhaps I should have aimed towards completion from the beginning, and focused intently of preserving the legs with each step. I kind of winged my training. If I wanted to race- to really race and compete for the time I wanted here, my training would have needed to be on the next level. I should have trained with my gear. Knowing your gear well is crucial. I should have done some longer runs, 50K, in training. I feel experiences like this but show you your limits, and remind you of what you are capable of. It was a slap in the face and a call to go back to basics. Train for the shorter ultra distances. Make sure I am equipped for a real trail race 50K, in challenging conditions, before trying to compete in a 100K. There are many more factors than just running fast for a long time. Running on technical trails makes a significant difference, and should really be accounted for. I might even want some trail specific shoes rather than my Hoka Mach 5’s.

Coming into the race, I was pondering if I would want to do western states 100 one day. I now know I am not prepared. I need more ultras under my belt before I am ready. Yet, I’m still curious about these 100 milers. But I need to take it one step at a time. Maybe one day, I’ll be ready. Next up is the Catalina 50 mile next January.

Thanks for reading!