Introduction
In September of 2017, a year before the 2018 Bigfoot 200, I was running my second Tahoe 200. I’d trained for Tahoe harder than I’d ever trained before, and, after finishing in fourth place the previous year, I went into the 2017 race with the hope of winning. Viewed from the online race tracker, it might have looked for a while as if I was doing reasonably well. I trailed Jovica Spajic of Serbia in second place for most of the first 120 miles, and a couple times I overtook Jovica to take the lead. By the time I hit the Tunnel Creek aid station at mile 140, the race was a three-way tie for first place between Georg Kunzfeld of Germany, Jovica, and me. We arrived at that aid station together, all moving a bit slowly. But the difference between them and me was that they seemed to be feeling reasonably well, whereas, due to major electrolyte issues, I hadn’t been able to keep any food down except a few grapes for the last forty or fifty miles. Jovica and Georg got back on the trail after a brief stop to refuel. I took my time at the aid station, eventually got moving again, and then dropped out of the race five miles later. I still couldn’t eat anything without vomiting, and, based upon my dark brown urine, my kidneys were in the process of shutting down.
That drop was my biggest disappointment in 28 years of running.
It was hard to get my mind off of what happened at Tahoe until March of 2018, when I began training for Bigfoot. I’d run Bigfoot once before, in 2015. It was a tough race through the Cascade Mountains with a lot of steep ascents. But it was my chance, in my mind at least, to move past what I viewed as a terrible failure.
Start to Blue Lake to Windy Ridge. 30.3 miles. Mile 0 to 30.3
One-hundred fifty runners stood near the starting line on that Friday morning in August of 2018. Some were visibly nervous, shifting around and jokingly questioning aloud what they were doing here. Others appeared at ease with what was coming. All us were waiting for the countdown to begin. There had been enough preparation and training. Now it was time to see if all of our hard work would pay off.
The horn finally blew. As I took my first few steps forward, I reminded myself I was not going to allow myself to be sucked in by the excitement of the moment. I was not going to charge hard out of the gate.
The first section of the trail was a relatively easy climb that most people near the front of the still-dense pack ran, although there was some occasional fast hiking of the steeper portions. It wasn’t long before I was able to look up the slope and count roughly nine runners ahead of me. It was possible a couple more had already slipped out of sight over the next crest, but it didn’t matter. I maintained my pace.
The twisting, winding route got tougher as we moved farther along the course, and the first signs of the pack stretching out became apparent. I could no longer hear anyone behind me, and the people who had been consistently visible ahead of me only appeared in my field of vision intermittently now. At one point during those early miles, I made a wrong turn that took me a short distance up a ridgeline before I realized my mistake. I was back on track within a few minutes, crossed an ash-filled dry wash, and soon caught up to a couple guys who had been ahead of me.
The last 10 miles of the 30-mile route to Windy Ridge aid station is notorious for causing many cases of dehydration each year. This part of the course takes runners through the blast zone of the Mount St. Helens eruption where there is no cover from the sun, and everyone passes through the area during a hot time of day. Not wanting to repeat a 2015 episode when I’d run through this section without enough fluids, I ran the first 40 miles carrying extra bottles that significantly increased my fluid capacity. This ended up serving me well, and I made it to Windy Ridge with no hydration issues.
Windy Ridge to Johnston Ridge. 16.2 miles. Mile 30.3 to 46.5
At the Windy Ridge aid station, the volunteers had been told to reset the GPS devices that were strapped to all runners’ packs. The devices allowed the race officials to track us and allowed our friends to see online how we were progressing. Apparently, a number of the trackers weren’t operating properly. I didn’t know it at the time, but my tracker was actually functioning fine until it was reset at Windy Ridge. After it was reset, it failed to work for the next several hours until they reset it again at a later aid station. This gap caused a bit of consternation for my friends and family watching the live tracker from home, who worried that my non-moving icon meant that something had gone very wrong for me at Windy Ridge.
The route from Windy Ridge began by backtracking along the dirt road we’d run in on, then descended from the ridge to turn northeast and past Spirit Lake. The only real vertical gain during this section was toward the end as the trail climbed up toward Johnston Observatory. The route before that climb was alternately flat and gently rolling, and included several treks right through the middle of sprawling but well-marked bushes. The only real downside of the bushwhacking was that, because the foliage was so thick, I often couldn’t see what I was about to step on, and I had to slow down to avoid risking a rolled ankle. As I pressed through the bushes, I heard the chatter of a couple runners close behind me. I worried I was about to be passed, but I never actually saw the runners, so I assumed they must have slowed down.
I was most of the way through the climb to Johnston Observatory when I came upon a young woman sitting in the shade of a bush along the trail. She had the appearance of a distressed hiker who had been in the sun too long. She asked me if she could have some water. After taking several long sips from my pack, she seemed a bit more relaxed. I asked if she wanted more, but she said she’d be ok, because a ranger was already on his way to help her. I saw her rescue ranger a few minutes later as I continued my ascent. Not long after that, there was a short, bush-lined path, and then I came to the aid station at the edge of the observatory parking lot.
Johnston Ridge aid station was the first time I had the opportunity to see my crew, Annie and Becka, since the start of the race. I was dating Annie at the time, and both she and her sister Becka had provided me with rock solid support at nearly every one of my 100-mile and 200-mile races. The only races they hadn’t supported were ones that I specifically said I wanted to do solo. At Johnston Ridge they were ready for me with a camping chair already set up, and an array of food options spread out in a cooler. I’d planned only two minutes for this stop, but I knew I was low on calories, so I sat down in the chair and spent an extra four minutes getting the amount of food I felt my body needed. Time well spent. When I departed Johnston Ridge, there were at least a couple runners sitting at the aid station who’d been there when I’d arrived, which gave me a little mental boost even though I knew it was too early in the race to get excited about such things.
The route from Johnston Observatory to Coldwater Lake started with a short run past the observatory, and then consisted mostly of a long descent that was fun and easy. I took this section at a good pace, and was surprised when I popped out of the forested area sooner than expected onto a road that I recognized from the 2015 race as being only a brief jaunt from the Coldwater Lake aid station. Again, Annie and Becka were ready for me when I arrived. They were amazing in this regard throughout the entire race. I have no idea how they were able to find their way through the maze of unending and unmarked forest roads to be awake and alert and ready every time I came into one of the aid stations where crews were allowed.
I checked in with the volunteers, walked over to where my crew had parked our vehicle, and then plopped down into the camping chair. The run from Johnston Ridge to Coldwater Lake was the shortest stretch between aid stations on the entire course. It felt great to see my team so soon, and it felt great to have an excuse to sit down so soon after departing Johnston aid station. I was surprised to learn that I was only the fourth runner to come through the aid station. I’d known I was somewhere in the lead pack, but I hadn’t realized I had moved that far forward within that pack. According to my crew, Andy Pearson had a strong lead on the entire field already, Jordan Chang was in second place, and Ryan Wagner was following in third. I felt I was still doing a good job of managing my pace at a sustainable level, so I couldn’t help but feel good that only these three runners were ahead of me.
Coldwater Lake to Norway Pass to Elk Pass. 29.8 miles. Mile 46.5 to 76.3
The trail from Coldwater Lake followed the northwest shoreline, crossed a short bridge at the tip of the lake, and then began a steady ascent toward Mt. Margaret. The ascent wasn’t as difficult as I remembered it being in 2015, partially because I now knew what to expect and because in the daylight there was less of a sense of being on an endless climb to a distant and unseeable summit. Even more importantly, the amount of vert I trained in 2018 was easily three or four times what I’d done in 2015, and climbing had become a true strength for me.
By the time I was heading up the short out-and-back to the summit of Mt. Margaret, thirteen miles into this section, night had fallen. The light of someone’s headlamp became visible up above me, bobbing and dancing as the wearer ran down the trail after already summiting. Less than a minute later, Ryan Wagner and I passed each other, both of us calling out greetings without slowing our momentum. Seeing him on the out-and-back meant he was only a few tenths of a mile ahead of me. A move up to third place was within reach.
Ryan must have been efficient at the Norway Pass aid station, because, by the time I arrived, he had already departed. My crew kept me to fifteen minutes at this stop, which is exactly what I’d built into my plan. I was not always so disciplined at the aid stations, and, no matter what race I was in, I tended to stay longer than necessary if my crew didn’t keep me in line.
Moving once again, I made the sharp turn out of the aid station, and then I was off to begin the next ascent. It was on the trail to Elk Pass that I caught up to Ryan. Not long after, the light of his headlamp disappeared behind me. This put me in third place behind Andy and Jordan, a circumstance I found hard to believe, particularly this early in the race. Still, I was confident I was running a sustainable pace, so I didn’t slow down.
Elk Pass to Rd 9327. 15 miles. Mile 76.3 to 91.3
“We’re parked next to Jordan’s crew vehicle,” Becka told me as soon as I arrived at the aid station. “Jordan is sleeping in the back of his truck.”
“Let’s be as quiet as possible,” I said, just to confirm that Annie and Becka had drawn the same conclusion. Becka nodded her acknowledgement, and punctuated it with a grin.
Catching sleep at an aid station is tough enough as it is, without your neighbor making unnecessary noise. So, there was certainly an element of courtesy to our whispering and near-silent resupply of my calories and fluids. But, at the same time, the longer Jordan lay comfortably in his makeshift bed, the greater my lead on him would be. I wasn’t planning on sleeping during the race other than a couple ten-minute dirt naps on the side of the trail, so he’d need to work if he wanted to make up the lost time.
I changed shoes, ate some potato soup, and was on my way thirteen minutes later. As far as I could tell, Jordan was still slumbering peacefully. Sleep Jordan, sleep, I thought as I left the aid station. It was 3:20 AM of the first night and I was 76 miles into a 206-mile race. Anything could happen in the next 130 miles. Ten people might pass me. Maybe twenty. There was no way to know. But right then my spirits were in the clouds.
I was several miles into this section when I saw course markers indicating I needed to make a hard, right turn onto another branch of the trail I was on. I made the turn to the right, and then traversed a series of ups and downs as the trail carved its way along a tree-covered, rolling spur. It was twenty minutes after making the turn before it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a course marker in a while. I’d loaded the GPS tracks for the course onto my phone before the race, so I stopped, powered-up my phone, and then checked my position relative to the course.
The GPS showed me off course.
Granted, I’d experienced at least two instances in different races where the GPS tracks were wrong, but it wasn’t likely I was experiencing that here. I was frustrated that I’d run for so long on this side trail, but I knew it could have been worse. The frustration did have the positive effect of fueling my legs with the extra strength to make the return trip more aggressively than I’d been moving before. When I got back to the original turn, I again saw the pair of markers clearly indicating that I was supposed to go down this “wrong” path. Someone—probably an ill-intentioned hiker—had deliberately moved the markings to send runners off course. I did a quick recon along the trail that my GPS indicated I should take, and, sure enough, a short distance past the intersection I found another marker. I ran back to the intersection and moved the sabotaged turn markers to correctly indicate that runners were supposed to go straight. In all, I lost about 40 minutes to the incident.
When I arrived at the next aid station, Road 9327, I told the volunteers about the sabotage, and they said they were going to send someone to re-check the entire section and to re-mark anything that wasn’t clear. My experience with all of the volunteers in this race was uniformly fantastic. They were eager to help, and they went above and beyond what might ordinarily be expected in order to help the runners get safely to the finish.
Road 9327 to Spencer Butte to Lewis River. 20.8 miles. Mile 91.3 to 112.1
Road 9327 to Spencer Butte went quickly for me. The sun had risen, which always renewed my energy. The trail out of Spencer Butte aid station led to a long and steep descent to the Lewis River. A “toe crushing descent” I’d called it during the 2015 race when I was wearing shoes that weren’t quite the perfect fit and my toes kept smashing into the ends of my shoes.
The descent occasionally relented with a not-as-steep section, or with a lateral shift around the mountainside rather than down it. By the time the trail finally leveled out and turned east to parallel the Lewis River, I was ready for something other than down. For the next few miles to the aid station, the trail wound through a sometimes rolling and sometimes flat area which was very runnable. I tried to take advantage of the terrain, running steadily aside from a few brief steep sections. The waterfalls on the river were gorgeous, and I mentally added the Lewis River to my list of places I’d like to explore at a time when I wasn’t in the middle of a 206-mile race.
When I finally made the turn off the main trail to begin the short out-and-back to the Lewis River aid station, a pair of runners was coming down the trail toward me. After a moment of disbelief, I realized it was Andy and his pacer. 112 miles into the race and the first-place runner was barely a tenth of a mile ahead of me!
Annie and Becka weren’t waiting at the aid station like they usually were. Apparently, an aid station volunteer had told them the next runner was 2 ½ hours behind Andy. That might have been true ten hours earlier or whenever the volunteer got his information, but it wasn’t true any longer. My crew was certain I wasn’t that far behind Andy, but they had no idea I was only a few minutes away. By the time I arrived, they’d already walked back to the lot where their vehicle was parked. Clearly surprised by my arrival, the volunteers sprang into action, whipping up a burger and sending someone to get my crew.
Lewis River to Council Bluff to Chain of Lakes. 28.7 miles. Mile 112.1 to 140.8
My primary strengths as a result of my training in 2018 were the ability to sustain an aerobic level of effort for a long period of time, and the ability to move aggressively uphill regardless of whether I was running or hiking. A byproduct of these strengths was that I usually felt fresh even after a long or steep ascent, and, therefore, I was able to run the downs reasonably well. The area where I’d focused the least amount of training was flat terrain.
Whenever I’d done flat runs in training, they’d always been done in the form of a recovery run the day after a hard run or after several days of consecutive hard runs. For the entire six-month training season, I’d only done a handful of flat runs at anything other than a leisurely pace. So, lined up against my competitors in a race on flat ground, I assumed many of them would be able to beat me. As I headed down the short trail from the aid station to the main Lewis River trail, I couldn’t help but think about the relatively flat terrain which had preceded the aid station. And that thought planted the seed of worry that someone—or several people—might be close on my heels.
My confidence increased as I worked my way along the main trail and started hitting some reasonably steep rollers, knowing there was a big ascent coming soon. I was banking on the climb affording me an opportunity to put some distance between myself and whoever might be behind me, and, possibly, to gain some ground on Andy.
Then, just three miles along the route, I saw Andy and his pacer hiking slowly downhill just ahead of me. Anytime an otherwise strong runner was walking a non-technical trail descent, it was a clear sign that the runner was having problems. Andy wasn’t moving like he was injured, so either he was paying the price for going out of the gate so fast, or he was having nutrition issues. Either way, I was going to seize the moment.
I was moving quickly at that point, and kept up the pace as I ran down the sharply curving trail past Andy. Less than a minute later I crossed over a fold in the terrain, and I knew I’d vanished from Andy’s sight. But the race was far from over. I’d passed Andy at mile 115, so there were still 91 miles between me and the finish. For the rest of the section, I powered through the long series of ascents strong and steady. I didn’t know it at the time, but Ryan Wagner was going strong too. He’d passed Andy and was, in fact, only twenty minutes behind me.
I blasted through Council Bluff aid station faster than I’d planned. I felt good about it at the time, but getting a few more calories might have helped me stave off the sleepiness that started hitting me soon after I departed. My energy waned and my running slowed. Toward the end of the route to Chain of Lakes, the course descended slightly on a circuitous path and then ascended again as it drew closer the lakes. It was probably indicative of how the sleep deprivation was impacting me when, despite my love of ascents, I actually became irritated that I had to go slightly uphill to the lakes so soon after descending past them. Fortunately, I was at least alert enough to recognize my irrational negativity and to acknowledge that I was just redirecting my impatience regarding not already being at the aid station where I could sit for a few minutes and maybe even close my eyes.
Chain of Lakes to Klickitat. 17.3 miles. Mile 140.8 to 158.1
I arrived at Chain of lakes aid station at 11 PM on the second night, 38 hours into the race. It ended up being my longest aid station stop of the race. I spent the first several minutes in a camping chair at the edge of the aid station working on getting some food down. It was normal for my legs to shiver anytime I stopped moving on a cold night this late in a race. But, when the shivering in my legs started getting worse than it normally did, Becka convinced me to go inside the warming tent.
Ryan arrived at the aid station about 30 minutes after me, and took one of the empty chairs inside the tent. We chatted briefly, but it was apparent neither of us was feeling particularly awake or talkative. I put on dry clothes even though I’d quickly be getting wet again as soon as I brushed against the rain-soaked bushes lining the trail. It was an entirely futile gesture, but, for just a few minutes, being both warm and dry felt absolutely amazing.
When I left the warming tent, I told Annie and Becka that I needed to close my eyes for five minutes. We walked back to where they’d set up our crew station, and I sat down inside the cab of our truck and closed my eyes. Three minutes into it, I knew I was not going to fall asleep, and I knew I was just wasting time. So, I got up, put on my hydration pack, and hit the trail. This was the first of the three short naps I would take during the race.
I moved at a reasonable pace through the first part of this section. But, not long after the second river crossing, when the shock of the cold water had worn off, I slowed down as sleepiness started to overcome me. Soon, I was moving in a state of mind similar to sleepwalking. Part of me had a vague awareness that I was shuffling along at a pace that was much slower than I was capable of, but I was unable to wake myself from this state or alter my speed.
At one point, I realized it was a minor miracle that I was still finding course markers along the path, because it seemed as if, in my present condition, there was a high probability I could just wander off the course without ever realizing it. In several places the trail was overgrown with bushes, making it even harder to follow. And every bush I touched added water to my already soaked legs and shorts. I was wearing my waterproof jacket, but I wasn’t carrying anything waterproof for my legs and I wouldn’t have worn waterproof pants even if I’d had them. My body overheats very easily, and if my core is warm, my legs are warm. After all, they’re the ones doing all the work.
At some point, I decided I needed to close my eyes again just to clear my head. I couldn’t continue sleepwalking through this endless night. Eventually, I came upon a small spot on the trail that had been shielded from the rainfall by overhead branches, leaving a small patch of dirt that was almost dry. I curled up on this dry patch, tucking my knees up to my chest for the warmth I’d need when I was no longer moving. I didn’t sleep, but it felt magnificent to just lie there and rest. No more than five minutes later, I stood up, put my gear on, and began running. Unfortunately, the effect of my rest was short-lived, and soon I was sleepwalking along the trail again.
During the descent to the road crossing that marks the beginning of the final short, flat section of trail before the long ascent to Elk Peak, the piercing shriek of a nearby mountain lion cut the chilly mountain air and snapped every bit of grogginess from me as if I’d just had three hours of sleep. It’s not as if I suddenly started running with vigor, but I began moving faster than I had been, and, perhaps more importantly, I felt awake and alert. Granted, my forward progress for the next mile was slowed by intermittent glances over my shoulder to verify that the angry mountain lion wasn’t about to jump on my back, but it felt good to be doing something other than shuffling sleepily along.
The sun came up somewhere during the climb to Elk Peak, giving me a fresh sense of energy. And when the summit was finally beneath my feet, I felt relief. All that lay between me and the Klickitat aid station was a series of steep, downhill switchbacks. Beyond Klickitat would be many hours of glorious daylight to continue my push forward.
Klickitat to Twin Sisters. 19.4 miles. Mile 158.1 to 177.5
The Klickitat aid station was positioned at the side of a dirt road. Upon arrival, I sank into a soft camping chair and requested an egg sandwich from the volunteers. Crews weren’t allowed at Klickitat, so it was just me and the volunteers. A couple minutes later, I had my pancake and egg sandwich in hand. I took one or two bites, and then promptly threw up. Apparently, the very distinctive flavor of the cooking spray they were using didn’t agree with my increasingly delicate stomach.
The volunteers offered to make me something cooked in oil instead of the cooking spray, so I waited a few more minutes while they prepared a couple pan-toasted English muffins and a cheese quesadilla. I ate a quarter of the quesadilla, and, though I could still taste some of the cooking spray that was probably residue from the pan, I decided it was mild enough that it wouldn’t cause my stomach further problems. In the interest of getting back on the trail quickly, I put the English muffins and the remaining three-quarters of the quesadilla in my pack to consume on the run, and I headed back into the forest.
A mile or two along the trail, I decided I needed to start working on getting more calories into my body, so I pulled out half of an English muffin. It was about this same time I noticed that my head was feeling very foggy. Not sleepy-foggy; somehow different, as if I was having some kind of allergic reaction to the chemicals in the cooking spray. I took a bite of the English muffin and then immediately spit it out. Even the residue was too much.
I ran for another five or ten minutes, concerned about what I was going to do for calories for this 19-mile section. Knowing that the aid station food was my only significant source of energy, I had to make another attempt at eating it. I pulled out the plastic bag and tried a small bite of the quesadilla and then a mouse-bite of the muffin. I didn’t even need to swallow either of them to know I’d just throw up again. I spat each of them into the woods.
Because I’d vomited everything in my stomach at the aid station, I was starting from a calorie reserve near zero. The only consumable calories I was carrying were a single squeeze pack of yogurt with somewhere between 70 and 90 calories, and a 16-ounce bottle of grape juice that had about 300 calories. Knowing how tough this section was, and understanding my present state, I knew this section could take me six hours. I agonized regarding whether I should turn around and go back to the aid station to get food that hadn’t been prepared in the pans, or whether I should keep moving forward. Out of a desire to avoid running unnecessary miles back to Klickitat, I convinced myself the grape juice and yogurt would be enough to get me to Twin Sisters aid station. I pushed onward.
It was 8 AM, and I’d now gone two full nights without sleep. Sleep deprivation often breeds indecision and lack of mental clarity, and this day was no exception. I stopped a few more times over the course of the next couple miles, each time a part of me concerned that continuing to move forward through the heat of the day was a poor decision that would only result in a bad outcome. If I didn’t turn back, the calorie deficiency would bring exhaustion and weakness that would slow me to a crawl, or the strange, seemingly allergic reaction to the cooking spray would eventually make me sick. Balancing this indecision was the fact that each time I stopped to reconsider what I should do, I was even farther from the Klickitat aid station, making the price for turning back even steeper.
During one of those stops, I dug through my pack just to make sure there weren’t any other calories I’d forgotten about. And, sure enough, there was a tiny plastic bag with about 18 almonds. My crew had tucked one of those little bags into my pack at almost every aid station, but I’d never actually eaten any of the almonds. They had never sounded appealing. Now, with nothing else to eat, they seemed like a holiday feast. I knew immediately that I would ration them throughout the remainder of the section. The psychological benefit of having something to eat throughout the entire route outweighed the short duration shot of calories I’d get from eating them all at once.
My final bout of indecision regarding whether to turn back to Klickitat or to push forward to Twin Sisters occurred about four or five miles into the section, when I actually went so far as to turn around and begin ascending a steep switchback I’d just started to descend. I have to go back, I told myself as I began the trek back to Klickitat. My body needs calories to burn. What if this brain fog is something serious? Nothing good will come from trying to press forward another fourteen miles through the heat of the day. Moving farther from my closest source of food and assistance makes no sense.
Then clarity hit me a hundred meters back up the slope. Maybe I’d finally snapped out of indecisiveness born of too little sleep. Maybe the cooking-spray fogginess had faded. Either way, I knew I had to keep going forward. My goal was ahead of me, not behind. And, if I was going to go forward, I needed to take an approach that negated the possibility of what I feared most: stumbling eternally along in an exhausted state like I’d done on the way to Klickitat.
I attempted the opposite of stumbling along. I took off like a bat out of hell, deciding I was going to fool my body for as long as possible into believing it actually had energy to burn. Now, taking off like a bat out of hell at mile 165 of a mountainous race looks very different than what you might see when a sprinting champion takes off like a bat out of hell from the starting blocks of a 100-meter dash. But it felt great nonetheless because it was such a positive action, because it was a refusal to accept the circumstances in which I found myself, and because I was pushing myself absolutely as I hard as I could.
I put my earbuds in, cranked up the music, and I ran. I drove myself forward as fast as I could, no longer worrying about whether I should turn back.
My most vivid image of the entire race is from the period after I made that decision. I am sprinting along a leftward-curving, gently-descending trail. The ground before me is lush and green with grass and other foliage. There is a thick canopy of branches above me, keeping the air cool and shading me from the bright sunlight. I climb over a narrow log, and over another, and then I am off and sprinting again, running toward the slanted horizon of the mountain’s next bend.
I didn’t know what was beyond that next bend then, and I don’t remember what was beyond it now. But, when I look back at the race and point to a moment when I was living my dream of pushing harder than I’d ever imagined I could, retreat impossible, bridges burning behind me, and nowhere to go but forward in the attack, this is the moment I now see. Such feelings of pure joy and determination are hard to come by in daily life, and they are a big part of why I love running races like this one.
Eventually, I hit the base of the ascent that would lead to the Twin Sisters aid station. I’d saved my last few ounces of grape juice for this climb. It was all I had left. I took out my bottle, drank the remaining, warm juice, and started ascending the mountain. The first part of the trail was hot and exposed, and it wore on me. When I came across a small pond, I took the long-sleeved shirt that was wrapped around my waist, submerged it in the water, and then slung it over my head and tied the sleeves under my chin as if it were a bonnet. I’m sure I looked a little absurd, but it cooled me down, and that’s all that mattered. It worked so well, in fact, that shortly after the trail started winding through a more densely canopied section of the forest, I had to wrap the shirt around my waist again because I was starting to get cold.
I alternated between walking and running through the rest of the rolling ascent to the aid station. When I finally saw Annie and an aid station volunteer standing beside the trail ahead, I knew I had made it. I was seriously depleted of calories, and I was moving slower than I wanted to be moving. But I was elated because I’d made it, and I was elated because I hadn’t taken the easy option of turning back to Klickitat.
After the race, when I was looking at my actual performance in each section of the race as compared to my planned times for those sections, incredibly, the section from Klickitat to Twin Sisters was by far my best. I completed this section an hour faster than I’d planned. In what could have been my worst moment, I’d found my biggest triumph.
Twin Sisters to Owens Creek. 16 miles. Mile 177.5 to 193.5
When I departed Twin Sisters, I knew it was 2.7 miles to the turnoff toward Owens Creek. That 2.7 miles was shared by the runners leaving Twin Sisters and by those runners just coming in. I’d been told at the aid station that Ryan was still behind me, but I’d gained some distance on him. If I could make it to the turnoff before he hit that portion of the trail, I might gain just a little psychological advantage. At the aid station he’d be able to find out what time I’d departed, but without having seen me on the out-and-back he wouldn’t have any idea if I was slogging painfully along or flying fast on light feet. I moved as quickly as I could to the turnoff, and when I made the turn without encountering Ryan or any other runner, I knew I had a very real chance of winning.
There was one last out-and-back on the course: Pompeii Peak at mile 180. By the time I was ascending Pompeii, the sleepiness from the previous night had crept up on me again. This portion of the trail passed close to multiple drop-offs and cliff faces, so I couldn’t afford a sleepy misstep. Something needed to change. I realized the smart thing to do might be to take another 5-minute dirt nap even though I was within striking distance of the finish, so I started looking for a good resting spot.
After summiting Pompeii, I descended a short distance to a flat rock atop the high cliffs overlooking the valley. With a quick glance over the edge, I figured the odds were miniscule that I’d accidently stumble off the cliff when I got back up, so I laid down on the rocks with my hydration pack as a pillow. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep, but I just wanted to close my eyes again.
It was pure bliss.
When I got up five minutes later, I was mildly refreshed. I shrugged my pack onto my shoulders. There was another steep descent, then I was running along a foliage-covered ledge hoping I was awake enough to not slip. Maybe it was the excitement of knowing I was getting close to the end of the race, but the more I ran, the more awake I became, until even the thought of tiredness slipped from my mind altogether.
There were two distinct sections in the final miles before Owens Creek, neither of which was I a fan of. The first was a trail that seemed to have countless unnecessary twists and turns, and involved climbing over innumerable logs that blocked the path. The second section was a long, gently descending route that had likely been a logging road or fire road at some time in the distant past, but now looked like a never-ending, narrow, grassy meadow with tree limbs sometimes forming a canopy above the trail. It was known among Bigfoot 200 runners as the Green Tunnel. I could make out the signs of a trail through this road-meadow, but it went on far longer than I wanted it to, particularly since I was looking forward to arriving at the final aid station. It was in the Green Tunnel that a bout of nausea hit me. It stuck with me for a while before temporarily resolving itself with a brief episode of vomiting. A little water to rinse out my mouth, and I was on my way again. Unfortunately, from that time until the end of the race, I never completely shook the feeling of mild nausea.
Owens Creek to the Finish. 13 miles. Mile 193.5 to 206.5
When I arrived at Owens Creek, I learned that Ryan had gone off course somewhere on the route from Klickitat to Twin Sisters. I didn’t know if he’d been sleepwalking like I’d been doing earlier in the race, or if he’d just gotten turned around, but he ended up being lost for several hours before a team arrived to get him back to race headquarters.
The section from Owens Creek to the finish was the only portion of the race that I had a pacer. Annie paced me, and, before the start of the race, I’d specifically asked her to not let me take it easy during this section. I knew that my mind and body would want to slow down. “Whatever pace I want to run,” I’d said, “make me run faster. I’m going to want to be lazy. Push me.” And she did.
Then we hit the paved road. The rest of the course was essentially flat. There were a number of gently rising hills, but they were so small and so short, that, after everything I’d been through on the Bigfoot course, I was almost embarrassed to call them hills. But, after 196 miles, my willpower wanted to take a little break. As a result, I started walking every uphill and running the flats and downs.
Annie put up with my walking, but every time I started to jog the subsequent descent or flat section, she sped up just a little, forcing me to speed up to keep pace with her. I was really starting to wish that, 200 miles ago, when I’d said I wanted her to push me hard for the last thirteen miles, I’d instead said, “Can you coddle me and comfort me and let me be a slacker for the last 13 miles?”
Eventually, I decided walking up these micro-hills was ridiculous, and we started running without taking the unnecessary walk breaks. It felt great to cross the bridge into Randle, and even better to turn onto the last 2-mile stretch of road that leads to the finish at the high school. Shortly after I made that turn, I glanced at my watch and realized I could come in under 60 hours if I hurried. The adrenaline kicked in, and it was as if I was sprinting on fresh legs as I ran down that road. Then around the track and across the finish line 59 hours, 54 minutes and 1 second after starting.
I sat on a camping chair at the finish line for a little while, drinking water and chatting with the people near me. Eventually, Annie and Becka helped me to the nearby sleeping tent where I crawled onto a cot and someone put a blanket over me.
I had won the Bigfoot 200. It was time to sleep.
See you on the trails!
Wes Ritner
