Lake Sanoma 100k, 2023
This is a rest report. Somewhere along the way, a coach or training partner told me that the best marathon predictor was cumulative miles run over 18 weeks prior to the race. I don’t know if this is even true, but the sentiment stuck with me. The best race performances come at the end of a long grind of cumulative miles. Whether the real number is more like 16, 14, or even 12 is somewhat irrelevant; 18 casts a long view and serves as a starting point when I begin to assess my fitness going into an event.
I waited to clarify my A goal until the taper period of the training. With the extra time freed up from not running, I was able to develop a clearer strategy and outlook for the race. I took stock of where I had been over the past 18 weeks. I ran over a thousand miles. I had eight days over 12 hours. I accrued new skills in the backcountry, and I felt like, as an adventurer, I had leveled up. But I wasn’t sure how all of this would translate to running 100k. It’s hard to clarify goals, and I tried to approach this with as little ego as possible. I asked myself what I think an A effort would yield in this race. 100k in 10-ish hours is kind of perfect. I’m no numerologist, but 100/10 is just so satisfying. It feels intuitively true. It’s not that I think I am fit enough to run that. I don’t know. As soon as you start asking yourself if you’re fit enough to do something, you invite everyone’s opinion and judgment about it. We know this and tend to hesitate with goals. Rather than thinking if 10hrs in the 100k is in my fitness or not, I prefer to think that IF I could run 100k in 10hrs, it would be an A day. It would be a hell of an A day. I don’t know if I will ever have a day like that, but I think it’s possible. It’s certainly an A goal, and by labeling it as such, I am leaving the door open at my race that if I am having an A day, I know where to go. 100k in 12hr is also a pleasing set of numbers. Kilometers feel more intuitive as a distance. I’m not accustomed to measuring in it, but when I run 1k repeats, I get it. The Kilometer is a natural distance. 12, a factor of 60 and 360, relates to the circle and why clocks and time are 12-hour systems. Covering this distance in 12hrs would also be a great feat and it feels somewhat accomplishable. The effort required here would be honest and hard-earned. Again, it’s not assessing my fitness; rather, judging what times would fit into what tier of effort. 12hr seemed like a solid B goal. A “B” goal is not a “less than” goal, and accomplishing any goal should be celebrated as its own separate feat. Hitting the B goal is not a failure; it is an expression of mastery and control. 14+ hours seemed like a logical C goal. At this place, I would be targeting a finish under the cutoff time to secure my ticket in the Western States lottery. Something would have to be more or less wrong for me to be here. I would be defaulting into my hiking background and just trusting that I can walk out of anything. I’d probably be around more first-time ultra runners, and I would be able to support them through the end of the race. The C goal would not be a failure either; it would be a chance to welcome new runners into our sport. I went into the race with the mindset that it’s an A day until it isn’t. Even though I knew it wouldn’t be, I still went for it, knowing that I could default into the appropriate goal when needed. I was also concealing a new ankle injury that was quietly elephant-in-the-rooming itself into my vibe for the past few weeks.
Reflecting on the past 18 weeks filled me with immense gratitude. I wasn’t just running well; all areas of my life were doing well. Am I #thriving? Yes. The feeling of abundance in my life shifted my perspective with this race. Nothing to prove, not competitive, I was just out for another big day, celebrating the life that I’ve built for myself. The power of external validations has loosened its grip over me as I’ve found new contentment and confidence.
Feeling a strong sense of community has been a major shift, and during my taper, I stepped back to think about each person who has shown up more strongly in my life over these past 18 weeks. I noticed a trend. Several of my training partners are sidelined with injury. One from a severe accident that left him in the hospital, still unable to walk. My running world was also shook when I learned the news that a former training partner lost his struggle with mental health. When I surveyed that landscape of my life, there was a clear message. Chill. It’s time to rest.
The race was fine. I got it done, as I knew I would. Around mile 12 my ankle was in so much pain (I now know that I’m managing some over-use tendonitis) I was moaning with every step and slowly settled into just getting it done. I wasn’t exactly having “fun”. Around Mile 30 things made a change. I’m not sure how or why, but the pain settled, and I could move more freely again. Was the B goal still an option? I was moving well. I was proud of myself that I was able to come through the pain and find a new gear for the back half of the race. I kept thinking to myself, you came into this race with pain. You’ve carried it this far. You’re okay. It’s okay. You can handle this. Thank freaking god that Alex had a pair of headphones with her, and I was able to listen to music for the back half of the race. I rarely race with music in, but today, it was a must.
The day was long. I had gone off course early, and late into the race, I was realizing that my watch was 4–5 miles off. I was running long. I didn’t worry too much. But I also shifted some expectations knowing that the extra distance could be close to an hour for me at this state. I pushed on and came across the line at 13hrs 14min- and just under 65 miles on the watch. Technically not my B goal, but spiritually I felt like I had hit the mark.
I was happy to have completed the race and proud of my effort. I had a great crew out there supporting me. Mitchell, Sydelle, Cristhian, and Alex thank you so much for being there for me, and I am so grateful you gave me so many hours of your life. The race was a success but ultimately not something that will leave a lasting impression on me.
The idea of a race report is losing some elements for me; the tradition of delineating my year with races, the constant ebb and flow, isn’t resonating in the same way. I still plan to run and train; I just don’t see myself peaking for any serious race (the exception being Western States). Recently, my most significant running experiences occurred during my training cycle and I would be remiss if I did not share them here.
Desolation 7 Summits
This was a big day, +16 hours. A friend injured himself on the route last year, and he had assembled somewhat of a super-group to support him on his quest for redemption. I felt lucky to be included. But with little scrambling experience and a fear tolerance clouded by anxiety and too many concussions, I was prepared to be the weakest on the team. My job would be vibe-related. I was ready with some of my better long-form stories, and I was fresh off an epic day with Sydelle where I imagined a new screenplay called “Children of the Pine,” so I was ready.
The day went well. The group moved cautiously and consistently. I was surprised that I felt very comfortable the whole day. My time with Lars in the backcountry earlier in the season had prepared me for the quest. Tahoe and the Sierra are different situations. The long day wore into the evening, and we entered my favorite time to be on the trail. DUSK. This is when the day hikers are safely back at their cars, and the long shadows bleed out over the landscape slowly succumbing to darkness. It’s a fleeting time of rapid light change and when you are only on the trail for the day, you miss it.
We were pushing to the final summit, Tallac during this time. A thunderstorm was expressing itself in the distance, and it was hard to discern what was dark from the storm and what was dark from chasing the day. Perceptions are heightened in this time, specifically our perceptions of light. When you’re running through a landscape all day, you learn its subtleties, how each part of the landscape looks from every angle, how it interacts with its environment, what it feels like. As the Sun pulls back, there’s a moment of time where the contraction of your pupil syncs with the declination of the sun. You don’t need a headlamp yet. After a day outside, when the light changes you can see the trail long after the light goes down. It’s part magic but it works. I ran down from Tallac, in the full darkness with no headlamp. This was probably the most sustained and technical run in the dark that I’ve done. The connection I felt with the land was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Without the distraction of sight, I could feel when the grass moved past my shins; this told me I was getting to the edge of the trail and I could center myself as needed. The grass was wet. It was early July; we had been running all day. I don’t think I talked at all on that descent. Too busy communicating with the mountain.
High Sierra Trail (Yo-Yo)
There is too much to tell about this 125-mile self-supported fastpack that includes Mt. Whitney in the middle. All told it was two attempts, totally 7 days and roughly 200 miles to get it done. To date, I suppose this is my biggest undertaking and probably most in line with the type of adventures I want to have. There are many pages to write about this experience. However, what happened to me on the last day will stick with me forever.
In true procrastinating style, I had encouraged us to save the most miles for the last day, 38. Lars and I stopped a little early the night before so that we could camp at the Kern River hot springs (life-changing). The next morning Lars got up and I slept in (per usual). This time he took a head start and had about 30 min on me. I hit the trail at 6:30 am with a steady determination to catch him quickly. I didn’t. Lars hiked over a million feet of vert and 5k miles last year. The guy moves across the trail like a happy demon. At about 8 am I noticed that I was looking at the trail from an odd angle, as if I was looking at it sideways. My head was straight down the trail, but my perception was that I was looking at the side of the trail, as if I was to the right of myself looking left. I was alone and over 25 miles from the car. I thought I was about to blackout. I told myself not to, that I was too far away for that. Then I realized it. I was aware of what was happening. When I told myself not to black out, I took a few strong strides and accepted that maybe this is just how the trail looks now, I’m okay, this is okay. I kept going. I remembered the movie Waking Life, almost a documentary on lucid dreaming. I remembered the fascination I had with the topic 20 years ago, and some of the techniques came back to me. The first step was to recognize that you were in a dream state- I did that when I realized my vision was distorted. Once you’re conscious of your unconscious state, you can start to shift things, create things. I decided to go with it. But I was worried. I was still far from home, and there was too much that could go wrong if I fully indulged the hallucinations. For the next 8 hours, I ran through the woods only stopping once to paw out a small hole to poop into. I spent the time confirming the state I was in. Things were making sense on a spiritual level, and I knew I was tapped into something. I gazed at the mountains ahead of me (actually to my left, but the new perspective changed that) almost with an instant, as my recognition of the mountain range solidified, I was transported there. I was above it, looking down, scanning each aspect and then returning to my own space. Coming and going, in and out, moving omnidirectional from my physical space. Is this astral projection? I wasn’t asking myself questions any longer. This new perception would be a sail to carry me where I needed to go. My awareness came in and out, and eventually, my physical body arrived at a soft spongy curve in the trail. There, under a redwood in the denser forest of lower elevations, I found Lars sitting in the lotus position next to a crusty old hippy with a frame pack. I sat with them, my first rest in 9 hours, everything settled, and I returned to myself. It felt like I pressed = on the calculator of my life. Seeing the product left me with a contentment of knowing that it all equals something. A tremendous sense of comfort and peace landed on me that day under the redwood with Lars and that old hippie. We still had 13 miles to go.
Western States might be the last special race on my bucket list, maybe Comrades. But I know that my heart is in the multi-day adventures. Lake Sanoma 100k did teach me a lot, specifically around goal setting. Determining A, B, and C goals relative to a given race is one thing. What if you expanded the course to include…the world? What does an A effort look like when the “racecourse” is anywhere? I’m dreaming big and putting together some ideas.
