Bear 100 Race Report

As I took off with 140 other runners in the pre-dawn darkness on September 25th, I was surprised at how calm I felt. The chatter in my head was focused on the reasons why this might be the case. After all, this was my first 100 mile run and I had no certainty that I could really complete the distance on such steep and often technical terrain. I was sure that I was in for a day of suffering, or a day and a night and probably a good part of the next day to be more exact. Was it Andy Holak’s suggestion before the race that, as this was my first 100 mile run, I simply “enjoy it” that made me calm? Was it because I already knew this first section so well from my preparatory adventures during the previous couple weeks? Was it because I felt I had nothing to prove? Maybe it was because I was still too sleepy for the nerves to affect me. Whatever the reason it was first noticeable when before the race I saw so many faces that looked downright scared of what was to come. By comparison I felt relaxed, and this realization only made me curious and not uncomfortable.

As we ran on the first section of road I tried to place myself where I like to start in races – towards the front of the middle pack. I knew that I should do that at the start because it would be difficult to do so once the surface changed from wide pavement to narrow, rocky single track. Once again I was surprised at how good I felt at the pace we were going – this paved hill that leads to the trail felt difficult in training, but I felt smooth and efficient now by simply taking small, quick steps. I thought of Bill Murray’s character in “What About Bob” who did great things with “baby steps.” The “baby steps” mantra would return at many points along the course.

The first 5 miles of the Bear 100 involve a steep climb, with an average 13% grade. A mile into the run the runners in front of me handled this with a light and quick hiking stride, which I admired and tried to imitate. This worked well, but I intermittently had to jog just to keep pace. Still, I felt pretty good and heard the guys in front of me carry on a conversation, though I soon zoned out to the conversation in my own head.

Which circled around the inevitable “why?” Why did I choose the Bear 100 for my first 100 mile race? As part of the Rocky Mountain Grand Slam series, the course is certainly one of the hardest 100 milers in existence. I only fleetingly passed through the Rockies while traveling years ago on a punk tour, but the mountains left an indelible impression in my mind commensurate with their immensity. And over the years I’ve come to realize that there’s no better way to intimately feel a landscape than to run it. I thought of this as I carefully picked my way around rocks, brushing past foliage that was only beginning to turn brown with the coming of autumn.

Another reason I chose the Bear was because of a quixotic notion that journeys should always be epic. I could have easily chosen a race closer to home with terrain similar to the rolling hills and gentle, pine-needle covered trails of the Northern Forest. But why not try something more immense, that would give me a taste of what conditions the legendary ultrarunners of the West run on?

Another reason was because the race fell on my first full day of being 30, serving as a sort of rite of passage with intense emotional lessons that would hopefully act as a lifelong spiritual guide, a kind of vision quest if you will. In other words, a hell of a way to ring in 30 years of age.

By the time I got to the first aid station, around mile 10, I had already passed at least seven or eight of the people in front of me. I felt so good that I zipped through the aid station in one minute, only stopping to have a volunteer refill my handheld water bottles. This was according to plan, which was based on a vague hope of making good time by minimizing all aid station stops to 1 to 5 minutes. In hindsight this was a noble goal, but one which I eventually had to give up on.

For a good part of those first thirty six miles I ran and chatted some with Jake Renz, from Idaho, who was shooting for 24 hours (Whoa, I thought, I’m going way too fast!). Invariably he would pull ahead and then I’d pass him with a quick exit at the next aid station. Soon after the Cowley AS we ran side by side, and both commented that we could really feel the heat. The heat that day seemed to crawl upon me slowly and gradually, until it soon felt brutal in the noonday sun. We caught up with a runner in front of us, who I thought I recognized. His stride and body posture looked defeated and I asked him his name. Zach. Gingerich? Yeah. I saw you set the course record this summer at Kettle Moraine. Humble, he gave a slightly embarrassed smile. We moved on and I wondered to myself what the hell I was doing passing Zach Gingerich. He said he was dropping out at the next aid station – that this was it. Was it the heat? – I mean it couldn’t be, he’d come in second at Badwater this year. No, I don’t know, I just don’t feel right and honestly I haven’t even run that much since Badwater. We continued on small talking until we nearly missed the turn onto the single track, a shady descent which I was very much looking forward to. I left both him and Jake behind as I opened my stride and let gravity turn my legs over quickly on the way to Right Hand Fork AS.

It took a few seconds for things to register when I saw the large wooden sign with my name on it. “Go Evan From WI, Good Job!” I then remembered the warning Wade had given me before the race. I’d met Wade a week and a half before on the trails while training on the first climb. Then, at the pre-race meeting, he was kind enough to arrange a ride to the start for me. His wife was managing the RH Fork AS and made a sign in honor of me. But, such a big sign? And how would they know I was doing a good job? Anyway, I let the sign motivate me and I made a rush to the AS even though the trail was no longer shady and the heat was starting to have a real impact.

I sat down in a folding chair as a young girl searched for my drop bag. Other volunteers asked what I wanted, offering a litany of treats from cold soda to ice and soup. I felt confused and then cursed myself for not planning out exactly what I needed here. I drank something cold, changed my shoes and socks and started to strap the iPod onto my arm until I suddenly changed my mind. I was so confused and anxious about moving on, that I simply dropped the iPod on the ground and started to make my way out, completely forgetting to return it to my bag. Someone informed me that it was already 84 degrees and was supposed to go up to 88. A man with a gray mustache approached me, told me what the next section was like, and that I would come to a creek where I could cool off. I was grateful for the spontaneous coaching and gave a weak “thank you.” After spending a long 8 minutes at the station I slowly jogged out and a couple women shouted “great job” when I heard an involuntary whimper come from my throat. I gave my head a quick shake and did my best to resume composure.

It didn’t take long for the heat to eat me up though. Most of this was exposed, rocky trail and it was now around 2:00pm. My stride turned into a walk and two runners had little trouble passing me. I expected more, but they never came. I started to cramp, everywhere – my left hamstring, my right quad, my back, my feet, my toes! Places where I never had cramps before felt twisted into tightening knots of sheer pain. About halfway through the section, the trail became a downhill dirt road and I could barely maintain a jog even though I knew that at a minimum I had to run all the downhills. Eric Taft caught up with me, said he felt like hell too. At least I’m not alone in my misery, I thought. It’s gotta pass soon, I told him. For sure, always does he said with genuine optimism in his voice. I did my best to trail him and his optimism, to let it carry me to the next AS, which seemed to never come. When finally it did, I stood with my hands on my knees, afraid to sit, wondering if this was going to be it for me.

Wait a second, that’s Karl Meltzer running this AS, refilling my bottles. And he’s telling me he thought I looked strong coming in, which caused me to give a chuckle under my breath. A merciful woman, perhaps an angel, took the bandana from my neck and filled it with ice. Karl asked how I was and I told him about the cramping. Soup. You need electrolytes, he told me confidently. I gulped down at least three cups. Take some salt capsules. Can’t refuse when standing in front of one of the greatest 100 mile racers of all time. He assured me that all I had to do to feel better was continue on, that the next section had lots more shade and that the sun would be going down soon. A fit-looking woman told me I should take in even more water. I told myself that I had to trust them, what other choice did I have, and had to do it now before my mind started to get the best of me. That AS took me seven minutes.

Karl turned out to be right, of course. The shade provided by the Aspen forest along the next section more than made up for the fact that it was a long, steady climb. I was running alone, had left Eric behind at the AS, but the cramping had stopped and I started to feel okay again. I was still sure someone would pass me, but it didn’t happen. I kind of zoned out on how nice these forested areas of the mountains seemed – how out East I might take it for granted, but since they’re so small and spread out in these mountains, I could appreciate them more – each a little oasis. I got a little lost off trail for a few minutes on this section, and judging by the footprints, I wasn’t the only one. I kept thinking that the AS was the next campfire ahead, but kept getting disappointed, learning I needed to go a bit farther. When I finally got to the AS at the Tony Grove Campground I felt emotionally tired, worn out. When I told one woman there how my mind went back and forth on quitting she became charged, even somewhat angry with me. Oh no, you can’t quit now. No way! You’re doing too good. You could walk the rest of the way and still finish! She had a point. After all, I’d only been running for just over 11 hours and I was already half-way there. I could take up to 36 and still be counted. I began to do math in my exhausted head and then quickly gave it up. Running at this point on would have to involve a concerted effort to stay in the moment. After a soda to help my stomach, I got up out of the folding chair and continued on with a fast walk which slowly morphed into a steady “baby steps” jog.

The further I went along this section the better I felt. The words and spirit of the woman at the last AS affected me more than I realized. Hell, who cares if the rest of the field passes me as I crawl the rest of the way, I’m going to finish this damn thing. I knew I’d most certainly go through more rough patches, but all I had to do was hold on and ride them out like a cowboy in a rodeo, until I felt good again. This knowledge felt like a certainty and I felt something resembling joy start to rise up in me. My step now had a definitive bounce and there were plenty of runnable sections among the fields of sage grass. I was surprised to pass Andy Holak on this section, who said he was having serious stomach issues. I was so optimistic at this point that I wanted to encourage him to go on anyway, but figured it wasn’t my place to tell a professional runner like Andy what to do. It turned out that a friend served that purpose for him at the next AS anyway.

When I got to the next AS, Franklin, I was treated like a king. I’m unsure whether or not I was actually smiling, but the endorphins were certainly buzzing. I recognized multiple-time Rocky Mountain Grand Slam finisher Cory Johnson as the guy refilling my water bottles, and marveled at how cool it was that in this sport you’re often served by other accomplished athletes. What other amateur sport is like that? I mean even in road marathoning, I might line up in a race within sight of Ryan Hall, but I’d be downright shocked if he ever handed me a cup of Gatorade. I enjoyed the campfire and camaraderie of this AS so much that I was reluctant to leave. When I finally did I had someone walking with me out of the AS holding my bottles and speaking encouraging words as I finished eating the banana I was forcing down.

The sky was now dark and I plodded along alone. I didn’t mind being alone, but knew I had to be very careful to follow the course markers, orange ribbons that I could hardly see in the dark but also bright white markers high up on the trees, new this year, and which were very noticeable but much less frequent. A few times I thought I must have gone off on a side trail, but inevitably I’d push ahead and see another white reflector in the distance. I quickly found the downhills at night to be excruciating. I repeatedly smashed my big toe against invisible rocks on the trail, letting out a shout of pain upon each impact. My big toenails would not survive. My Montrail Mountain Masochist trail shoes felt great, but they were not made for this – this was masochism way beyond their intended masochistic use. At least they offered slightly more protection than the New Balance 790s that I started the race with, but steel toed Doc Martens might have been more appropriate.

The night started to get cold. I put on a long-sleeved shirt I had stashed in my drop bag at the Logan AS, but the warmth it offered was minimal. I told myself that to warm up I just needed to move faster, but some of the uphill climbs were so tiring and my stomach felt so sick of taking in gels, which I needed to have any energy in the first place. I thought I’d puke, consoled myself that maybe it would make me feel better, but never did. I let myself rest on a log or large rock on some of the climbs, but almost as soon as I sat down I’d feel a fear in my belly that sitting too long would make things even harder. None of these breaks exceeded 20-30 seconds, but they offered promises that were much easier to comprehend than the 100 mile finish line, still hours and hours away under the best of scenarios.

At each station I’d ask for the mileage to the next AS. Seven point three, eight point whatever miles. The distance sounded easy to my ears, in training a seven or eight mile run is something I can practically do in my sleep. But it never felt that easy – I wondered if I entered a Twilight Zone where the definition of seven miles changed to fourteen miles. Maybe it was because the people at the AS were lying to me to try to trick me to go on, ignorant bastards. Maybe I was off trail – no, nope that’s another marker ahead. I’d experienced this kind of mental torment in races before, but never to this extent, never for this long.

The Beaver Lodge AS was indoors. It was warm and very comfortable. I recognized a woman there as the one featured in the Dancing the Bear documentary. I recalled the look of struggle on her face late in the documentary – her distant, glossy eyes that seemed to be looking at something only she could see. The ghost of the power of will. I felt my eyes go to the same place as I sat down and vacantly heard a volunteer tell me about his memories of Wisconsin twenty years ago. I must have responded in grunts if at all as I stared at the floor, unable to tell him that I’m a New Jersey native. If I was going to continue on I had to really, really want it. I’d have to dig deep and decide on an existential sort of level. I came to consciousness as someone with a clipboard told me that I’d cross into Idaho on the next section. Sounds intriguing, really. After a long bathroom break I found a tiny spark that I needed to get going again, who knows where it came from, but I knew in the back of my mind that if I didn’t catch that spark I’d end up sitting for a very, very long time.

I was moving slow, the baby steps now more at the toddler level. I was cold, alternately cranky and dazzled by the stars above, with meteors bigger than any I’d ever seen before. I counted my breaths as I ran. I wondered when someone would finally catch up with me. I stopped for a few seconds and stared at the sign indicating I was now in Idaho. I noted the humorous absurdity of the arbitrary lines of maps, but still had the ironic urge to take a picture. I laughed out loud and was slightly startled at my hearing my own voice in the cold, starry mountain air.

There was a large campfire at the Gibson Basin AS. Volunteers put warm blankets around me, asked what I needed. Got any coffee?, I asked tentatively, doubtful because I’d heard that there wouldn’t be any, as the many Mormon volunteers don’t drink it. Sure do, said the woman as she poured me a warm cup straight from the thermos. I gazed into the campfire for awhile with those distant eyes, told them I just needed to sit for a bit and figure things out in my mind. As if I had to answer to them. Of course! Take your time. You’re amazing, what you’ve done is simply amazing. I thought about Mike Farris, who I’d met the day before the race. He told me how he had dropped out at mile eighty-something in his two previous 100 mile attempts. At the time that seemed insane to me, but now it seemed perfectly reasonable. The idea of twenty miles to go felt like 40, 50, 60. Maybe it was the caffeine that did it, but I suddenly made a move to take the blankets off and almost immediately began to shiver. I decided to take a shot in the dark and ask if anyone had an extra shirt, or jacket. A large middle aged guy, the radio operator, said hold on, and handed me a flannel shirt that was much too big for me, but was warm anyway. He told me I could return it at the end of the race, which to me may as well have been the planet Mars, or to a radio operator at one of the next aid stations. I looked upon it as a sort of sign that I had too much support to quit now and thanked him and began the next leg.

I started again with a walk and it progressed to a sort of stride that looked like running, but was certainly still walking. I laughed at myself because my stride reminded me of old women trying to lose weight by power-walking. I was secretly glad there was no one there to see me. The stride, however, eventually turned into a full run again and I felt pretty good coming into the Beaver Creek AS where there was a creek crossing that I was too tired to maneuver by rock hopping and so just went full in up past my knees. My shoes were soaked and heavy, but I could give a damn. I sat by the fire until Eric Taft and his pacer came in and I figured it was high time to get out of there.

Next it was mostly uphill. That’s about all I can recall about it. On many parts of the run I believe my mind just simply switched off, blacked out, because there was so much physical stress. I wish I could describe more of these sections but I simply don’t remember much. I remember most of the aid stations well because there were people to talk to, to bring me out of my trance. And so I remember coming into Ranger AS, the last one, and talking with a guy there and telling him that the uphills were killing me but that I much preferred the downhills. He promised me that the next section had a steep uphill, but that it was short and that I could cruise downhill the rest of the way. His words brought hope to my soul and so I felt enthusiastic as I took off from the AS at 6:00am – a full 24 hours after I started the race.

I recognized the feeling on that last section as the feeling not dissimilar in other, shorter races. It’s the feeling of doing your best to stay composed, to not blow up, to keep it together and hold on. The uphill here was extremely steep, perhaps the steepest of the whole course and reaching the highest elevation. It was also much longer than what I was told, or at least it seemed that way. I hardly cared when Jonathan Wheelwright passed me on this uphill, with his powerful, quick hiking stride. I told myself I could make up time once I finally hit that long, glorious downhill.

I should be careful what I wish for. The last downhill was quick, very steep, and ruthless, requiring a lot of muscle stability at a time of pure exhaustion like none I’d ever experienced before. Things were slightly better when the sun started to rise and I caught a magnificent view of the sun rising over Bear Lake with clouds reflected in the water in a spirally hurricane pattern. The view confused me for a few seconds and I thought I might be hallucinating. With the sun up I could finally see the rocks on the trail and maneuver my throbbing feet around them instead of smashing them repeatedly. And the rising sun somehow gave a rise to my spirits – there was now no doubt that I was so close and I had the distinct notion that all the pain in the world could not stop me now. But just as I was warned the day before the race by one of the race directors, Bear Lake looked to be so close but was taking forever to get to. I thought I’d pass or at least see Jonathan Wheelwright here, but he was nowhere to be found. The trees here had much more color than the ones in Idaho and they were brilliant in the morning sun. I focused on their magnificence to keep from thinking about how close-yet-far I was. I crossed another stream, again going straight through up to my knees because I didn’t have an ounce of agility left in my bones. The last mile or two were on pavement and I picked up the pace, determined to finish knowing that I gave everything I could. It felt strange to be in a neighborhood after spending 99 miles in the wilderness. I imagined people eating breakfast and looking out their kitchen windows thinking I was a casual jogger – with no clue of what I’d just been through. I followed the orange flags waving in the breeze across a main road and felt a wave of relief when I saw the finish sign and a handful of people sitting, lazily standing and sleeping on the grass. I gave a full sprint across the field to the end, surprised at how fast my body was able to move at this point. The time-keepers counted me in and I collapsed to the ground one foot past the finish sign – a point where I’d remain for the next hour. Leland Barker, the race director, still inside his sleeping bag, pushed himself up, gave me a congratulations, and slipped back into his bag. I truly do love the uneventful climaxes of ultramarathons. I didn’t want to move other than to take off my shoes. I had no idea what my overall place was – just that I finished in 25 hours and 40 minutes. I had no inclination to even ask, I was simply in a state of dog-tired bliss and intended to stay that way. It wasn’t until hours later when someone nearby was passing around a clipboard, that I noticed I finished 10th overall. Not bad, I guess.

I wished that I had dropped a bag for the finish as I had a long wait until the awards ceremony at 6pm. I spent the next 8 hours napping, cheering in the finishers and chatting with all sorts of folks. I was encouraged by comments that I received more than once that I had “a bright ultrarunning career” ahead of me. I marveled at Geoff Roes who won the race, breaking the course record, stupendously finishing nearly seven hours ahead of me. I was glad to see Mike Farris come in, who didn’t drop at mile 80 this time. I caught up again with Andy Holak, whose stomach finally forced him to drop, but who had me intrigued about the upcoming race he was directing in Duluth. Countless other good folks and barbequed salmon from Leland’s trout farm made the long wait bearable.

There are so many people to thank, who were just as much a part of this race as myself. If you’re reading this, chances are you may be one of them. There are so many reasons to hope, to believe that I can do this distance again and with an even better performance. And there’s so much to learn, lessons I will discover over the course of thousands of miles of trails all over Turtle Island and beyond. May I be open to all of them.