Celebrating the 'Worst of HURT'

Mike Minch cordially invites you to a join him in a ‘Worst of HURT’ birthday run on the 9th and 10th of November. The celebration will start Friday the 9th just after dark (7:00 PM) and continue on through five plus Pairodice to Jackass repeats (just shy of 60 miles.)Mike will provide refreshments at the typical aid drops, and what ever else can be arranged at the time. For vehicle security reasons the run will start at the upper end of Manoa Road, below Paradise Park.

Mike plans to donate 25 dollars to the Sisters of St. Francis Hospice, Nuuanu in the name of anyone who completes at least one out and back with him (up to $500). Any other donations will be welcomed.

Come on out and join Mike as he celebrates the unwinding of his middle ages. Getting old can be hard to do. Just how so we may learn on the evening of the ninth. So pray for rain, wind and perhaps a little chill in the night air.

If you plan to attend let me know so sufficient supplies can be arranged. Use the prefix mmuench01 and the gmail.com suffix.

Aloha
M. Minch

The Ultimate Cost of Stupidity

--Mike Minch finesses his way out of responsibility for making himself sicker.

One need not suffer immediately for engaging in patiently stupid activity. The leaders of our financial world offer a fine example of how long one can do impossibly ridiculous things and continue to look as if one actually knows what one is doing. Unfortunately time has a way of coming around to properly rewarding the stupid-- or is it the arrogant?-- and sooner or later the folly that they have used as the mortar of their ethereal empires turns to dust; and slowly, shuddering and shaking, these mad realities first shimmer and vibrate, and then, in one cataclysmic fall, come tumbling down. And when the dust and debris settle, and the ruins revealed, all are left to wonder how anything so outlandish could have even been considered, let alone revered…..

Please forgive me for the overly complicated allusion. I was carried away by the reference. More simply stated: the stupid ultimately pay for their stupidity. In my case you can add ‘and me sooner than others’.

I refer to my extended folly of running the Twelve Hour Endurance Run last weekend. If you recall I was sick before the race, and actually sick when I showed up. I was aware that I might be sicker after the race as well, but, as any fool would hope, I believed that I might actually make myself better through exertion far beyond the bounds of normal activity. The term ‘sweat it out’ was often in my thoughts. I would sweat out this bad lung infection by running endlessly through the rain forests of Makiki. It was a thought that was almost as stupid as the one that caused me show up, but I was on a roll, and dumb thoughts and actions were coming to me at a very rapid rate. I gave into the urge to call folly brilliance and initiated a large number of categorically inane plans. One might say that I pulled a Greenspan. I took a lot of pills and caffeine to keep myself going and when I bothered to question myself about the advisability of what I was doing I continued the Greenspan by trying to convince myself that there was no way I could actually know that I was sick or that even if I were actually sick that doing hours of physical exercise would not make me more healthy—this despite the fact that the only way I made it to the race was by drinking a few pots of coffee and downing a couple of cold pills and sucking on cough drops. And, of course, to complete the Greenspan I now sit here writing in my journal that I actually knew all along that I was sick and that running would make me sicker, but I profess to you that I was not in complete control of the situation, it was all too complicated for you to understand, and that it was actually somebody else who got me out of bed and made me gulp the coffee when I should have stayed in bed where I knew I belonged.

It was a great idea if it would have worked. And if it had I would have looked like the infallible Conan. But it didn’t and I have been in bed on and off for days coughing and gagging on thick yellowish phlegm that clogs my sinuses and throat. I am paying a heavy price for pumping myself up and running madly in circles. But like I said, I tried to tell myself it wouldn’t work. And in the end I was right. Actually, I would have been right either way, now that I come to think of it. Thank you Mr. Greenspan.

A Perfect 12 Hours……of Misery

Mike Minch coughs, gags, and stumbles his way through 11 hours of insanity.

I hate Paul Hopwood. The guy passed me so many times during Saturday’s Twelve Hour Endurance Run that, given my paranoid nature, I would have sworn he was repeatedly hiding in the bushes until I stumbled by so he could rocket-man by me again and again. I would have responded with brute force but he was so damn fast that I never had time to react. The worst were the few times I was trucking up the Hog Back while feeling pretty good and all of a sudden he shoots on by like I am standing still. David Carlsson wasn’t much better but at least he timed most of his passes when we were going down hill. I have problems with Gordon, Harald and Larry as well, but I’m a bit more used to them running me down. Ed Bugarian was out there and he passed me a few times as well, but Ed is my age and it’s always great to see him tearing up the trail. There were a lot of other guys who lapped me at least once. And Ernest beat Conan. It was quite a blow. My only real excuse, I have a lot of them if you want to email me for the list, was that I was really sick with a chest cold and only showed up because I had laid down the challenge with Earnest and could not bear a no show.

If you didn’t make it out to the Twelve Hour Endurance Run you missed a great event. It was a beautiful day with lots of rain in the morning producing humidity at about 110 percent. Then is got hot and more humid as the sun began to shine into Makiki valley and turn it into a sweltering miasma filled jungle. Center Trail dressed in all her slick sticky glory for the race, with Cross over, down near the bottom of what I call Rooty Run, below the ironwood tree where you can look out toward harbor, managing to produce some great long and mud troughs that were filled with rotten guava and pig dung. It was so thick and deep that there was no way you could make it through without coming out of it looking like you’d rolled in it. And there was that piggy perfume that clung to everyone who made it through. Needless to say it only got worse as we repeated the process in a cycle that, one by one, we would all swear was endless. ---except of course for Harald who seems to thrive on this race and has for the last few years insisted on running until the final minute regardless of the effect on the rankings. Harald’s family showed up and for no reason, other than he looked like a tall grinning swamp creature, his children shied away from him, as if they were wondering what this muddy nasty smelling madman had done with their father.

But the star of the Twelve Hour is the Hog Back. And this year she adorned herself with a great set of muddy bumps up at the top of Too Steeps and more muddy slippery track starting where you pass into The Dark Side and all the way up past Fort Tree that marks the final section to the top. There were times that one had to check the vegetation to determine if all the foot movement was producing any upward motion at all. It was wonderfully frustrating and enough to break the will of all but the most insane runners—and needless to say—we always had a good dozen and a half of those slogging around that demented circle.

But it is not so much the mud of Hog Back that highlights her glory, for that was simply adornment for this particular race. It is her fiery and demanding personality that provokes those special runner’s feelings. You may love to run with her once, or twice, or even three times, but sooner or later, some where in the midst of that orgasmic climb, you will find yourself screaming for mercy, admitting weakness, and feeling limpness all the way down into your quads and gastrocs--and unfortunately you can not just remedy your weakness with her by dropping a few pills for the embarrassing problem of Endurance Dysfunction.

Perhaps it is the reality of failure with the Hog Back, or at least the realization of one’s own fragility when understanding comes that she is bound to demand too much of you, that keeps so many away from the Twelve Hour. With a record number of local entries in this year’s HURT one would have expected the local ultra running talent to turn out in force for this rare opportunity to test themselves against this race Mistress. But then the Twelve Hour commands that one surmount the Hog Back every two miles, where the HURT is so much easier, only providing the paltry heights of Nahuina, Ahuilama, and Nu’uanu every four miles or so. Obviously the HURT will be so much easier given these minor climbs interspersed between actual Hog Back accents. For whatever the reason, a lot of HURT hopefuls chose to pass on this wonderful opportunity to come face to face with the Witch of Makiki.

What anyone who did do the Twelve Hour can tell you is that having gone up the trail a half dozen, a dozen or even a dozen and a half times, it is unlikely they will get lost even doing it dead tired in the rainy darkness of the third or forth laps of the HURT. “Get lost,” you might ask. “How could anyone get lost going up the Hog Back, or down Center Trail for that matter?” As one mainland racer asked me incredulously last year, “Do you actually go the same way every time?”. My answer was “Yes, until I find a better way.” You can go up the hill or do the loop the hard way or you can go up the easier way. But in order to know the easier way you need to be willing to let her cast her spells over you a dozen times or so in process. You also need to be willing to face the toll of being completely overcome by that stark bleak feeling of total despair and physical duress that can descend as you hit Too Steep one too many times. Understanding the price being demanded is essential as you dance for the Mistress—and dance for her you must if you intend to run the HURT. But it’s a long way down the road and not something the really fit need to consider for at least a few months.

From my perspective I can only say that I have met demons on that hill. I have been bewitched and bewildered. I never knew what a worthless piece of running trash I was until She helped me realize it, and I found myself whimpering about ‘Just wanting to go home, take a hot shower and talk to my mommy’. The really frightening aspect of this is that no matter how many times you consummate the climb, no matter how well you keep count of the repetitions or clock times, or how strong you think you are, the next attempt may leave you limp and babbling incoherently along Roots and Rocks as you stare up Too Steep or into the Dark Side wondering how you will stop the pain and cast off the Witch’s spell and actually climb on. Above all the Hog Back demands one’s respect; and this past week end was a perfect opportunity to pay your dues.

My race started slowly as I was wondering if my lungs would allow me to move at any kind of pace, and my legs were still a bit stiff from the week’s inactivity. Don and I did a loop together, we ran a bit with Elia and Bozo but were pretty much bringing up the rear, and talking about our experiences over the last six weeks. It was nice to be back on old familiar trails with good friends.

I was feeling pretty good on the second lap and decided to test my hill climbing skills on the Hog Back. I made it up in what is a PR for me of just about 15 minutes. But my tendons were still a bit sticky and I had to walk the downs. Don caught up and we were talking again by the time we reached center trail. We started being passed by the leaders as we reached Bamboo’s, and that rocky track I call Samoan Road. Ed Bugarian’s passage provoked us into a bit of a jog along the Yellow Brick Road and by the time we reached the bottom of Water Pipes Ernest went shooting by. Needless to say Conan awoke and ranted to me about staying in the game.

On the next loop we were joined by Bob McAlester who had his two young dogs along. We all managed a reasonable climb up the Hog Back and took our time along the cross over. Again it was great to talk with friends and enjoy the incredible beauty of Makiki valley. Somewhere along the Center Trail I had to leave Don and Bob and attempt a reasonable run, if not for any other reason than Conan was rapping on the inside of my skull and impatient to ‘stay in the game’.

I finished the third lap in under 50 minutes and went on to due the forth thru eighth in close to negative splits as I edged down toward 45 minutes totals. But on the eighth I rushed a bit at the turn around and forgot to fill my camel. I went dry on my way up the Hog Back and was running under a caution flag. But I saw Kat up ahead of me on Center Trail and pushed to keep up with her as she floated down the trail. It was another good Lap. I was seeing 15 laps out there and hoping to stay together. On the ninth I watered well and headed out. But the hydration shortfall from the previous lap hit me hard half way up Hog Back. My feet became heavy and my thoughts slowed and Hopwood went striding by me at a frustratingly rapid pace. I reached down to find the extra reserve that I have been fortunate enough to possess in the past weeks but it was not there. I looked up the trail, and the rocks of Too Steeps seemed to rise like a vertical wall in front of me. I put aside any hope of maintaining my sub 20 minute Hog Backs and just made a deal with myself that I would try to keep moving. I made twenty yards, bent over and breathed hard. I did another twenty and started coughing and gagging. I took a great swig of goo and another of water. I did another twenty and had to stop again because I couldn’t seem to see straight. I knew what was happening, but that didn’t change the fact that it was happening. It was just that all the tricks and wiggles I have learned came to nothing. I pushed on hoping to gather some strength, but there was no doubt about it, I was bewitched and being punished for my overconfidence on the earlier loops. I stumbled up the trail, making the bench in about 25 minutes. I sat down sucked a great slug of water, took another electrolyte, and ate an energy bar.

The Hill had punished me badly and I knew I would not recover enough to continue at the pace I had been maintaining. 15 was gone, and 14 was becoming remote. I jogged down Staircases feeling a lethargy that hadn’t been in my legs before I’d started up the Hog Back. Quite frankly the chest cold had caught up with me and I knew I was going to be paying a heavy toll for the folly of showing up and running. I made it through the loop and collapsed on the ice chest under the tarp . I sat there zonked, occasionally talking with John and PJ for about twenty minutes before I mustered the strength and will to go on.

It was all very very dumb of course. But the Twelve Hour is an exercise in complete insanity and I was just overcome by the feeling. I downed a second Red Bull and decided to do another lap and see what I could do and make some decision later. On my way up the Hog Back I realized I could keep a constant pace but could not push. I settled for that. I jogged the downs and paced the ups and finished in just under 60. I figured I could do three that way and chose to continue on with the hope of completing 13. Eleven went OK, but once into twelve, when I was half way up the Lady, I went limp. I had no reserves, and given my illness could count on nothing flowing into the tank. I was caught in one of those terrible whirlpools of downward expectation and ability and knew I was finished when I got to the bottom.

I fought off a few people on the way down Center Trail—I was tired of being lapped—and raced Harald the last hundred yards to the bridge, and I was done at 12. Thirty miles in 11 hours. 480 race miles in 44 days, which was a bit beyond my original 444 in 44. I didn’t stick around long, went home, took a hot shower and went to bed. I am still paying the price for my folly and have miserable cough to prove my stupidity. But it was the final run in my schedule--- I just could not let it pass without a solid try.

I want to thank everyone for their kind words on Saturday. It is great to be back and it was wonderful to run with friends again. Your support during my mainland running journey was greatly appreciated. I was proud to take the HURT shirt to new venues and to represent Hawaii. Everywhere I went I met kind and thoughtful people who helped me along my way. But there is only one Hawaii and one Aloha.

100 Days to 100 Miles

Posted to HURT blog on October 11, 2007

We have reached a significant mile post for all who intend to run the HURT 100. 100 possible training days remain. If your schedule has not allowed you time to do significant distance and rigor training then it is high time to make the commitment to the distance. If you have run the 100 miler before you know what you face and how you will train. If you have only run the 100K then you need to start asking yourself what it was that has defeated you in the past and to devise a plan to deal with this in the coming race. Then you need to commit to the hardship of the training and begin to suffer through the routines that will make you successful this year. Finally, if you have never run or completed the 100K you must begin to run the course under all kinds of conditions and to begin to understand what it is that you have gotten yourself into. For the new participant it is a major point of verifying real commitment to the demands of race preparation.

As of tomorrow the race is no longer some distance possibility. The race is very very close. The Holidays witll eat up time, the bad weather of the season will eat up training days, the need to work, and the inevitable cold or flu will also push into your schedule. With all this in the future we probably don't have much more than 10 good weeks of practice ahead of us, and, at best, most of us will only be looking at 5 to 7 long runs before the start.

This year is different. There are a lot of people wanting to run the race who are on the wait list. All accepted runners need to examine their plans to run the race, to judge their honest commitment, and, if it becomes evident that you can not meet the necessary training demands, to withdraw so that others can make a real attempt in your place.

This weeks 12 hour is a great opportunity to test your stamina and willingness to get dirty and slimy. It is going to be a hard nasty final few hours and a great time to understand gear and mental problems that come when you have gone some distance and are under stress. Newer runners should not miss this opportunity to suffer.

In the coming weeks we will be doing those endless Paradise-Nuuanu repeats. Going all day though the endless reps of these nasty hills is perfect for training and understanding. Even better try doing these ditties late at night when the siftings and the scurryings can set one on edge.

Good luck to everyone and train hard. Mike Muench

Man vs. Horse: Yippie Yiohh Kaiyeeh...Its Done!!

Posted to HURTblog on October 06, 2007 at 08:05 PM

(The last mainland race report post by Mike Minch for a long time)

The Man vs. Horse run was held outside of Prescott AZ, in the Mingus Mountain Reserve that divides the Prescott valley from the Sedona. The views are spectacular and the terrain is very challenging. It is primarily an Equestrian Event and the runners are there to give the riders something else to think about, though the prizes are nice and this is run in a way that helps all participants, horse and human alike.

As a runner you think about the horses first and foremost whenever they are around. I generally had no problems with the animals and got out of the way whenever it was possible. But there were the occasions where I followed a group of riders for a few miles. It was kind of like being a brave as the chiefs led the war party. I'd chug along at a jog, catching the horses at the hard points and then fall back whenever there was some open ground for them to move. It was interesting. Here is a tip however. When ever a horse stops on the trail it is not to let you pass. Oh, there is going to be some passing, but if you are smart it won't have anything to do with you. Horses don't care who is behind them unless they are too close. When they stop it is with the intention of creating a lake or new source of biological energy. I was lucky enough to have a 'Nova' view of one of these events, and even more lucky to be a bit far back. All in all, there were some very beautiful horses out there and quite a few nice looking riders as well.

This was a 50 mile event for me. There is also a 25 and a 10, but again that is more to meet the needs of some of the riders I believe. Though this year there was a very large turnout of runners, for the 25 and 50.The thing that makes the run interesting is that there is a 12 hour time limit; and the way the cuts came into play meant a number of people were dnf'd while still on the trail.

I am not a fast runner. My hundreds have been done with 16 to 18 minute average mile time frames about them. Giving the 100 anywhere between 28+ and 33+ hours. So when it came to cramming 50 into 12 hours I was concerned. In addition it has only been a week since the Bear and I'm still hurting from recurrent aggravations. My feet were crying at the start and so were my hips and lungs. I just did a race walk at the start and watched the crowd disappear. By the first five mile aid station I realized I was managing a 15 minute pace. I decided that that would due for the first 20 or so miles and just tried to hold onto that through the ups and downs. But fifteen minute miles, a four mile per hour pace, is only 48 miles in 12 hours. I finally caught onto that and realized I would have to do something to get those two miles out of the fabric.

Early we worked our way over some rolling brown grass pasture land dotted with cows, dear and coyotes. Then we finally turned up a canyon and began to climb the mountains to the east that lay north south in orientation. I started being passed by riders who evidently had staggered starts, and then a few of the 25 milers. I pushed up through the scrub of the canyon still hanging onto my 15's, and maybe clipping a few minutes off of any group of miles. The canyon quickly became wooded with pines, juniper, pin oak, and some stuff that looked like poison ivy but was likely an oak.

Down near the dry steam I passed a Juniper that had to be the oldest one I have ever seen. It was certainly the ancient of the valley. It was one of those old ladies that has as much dead wood as live, and a trunk that had to be 8 foot in diameter. I had to stop and say hello. I figure that tree has been there since before the Spanish came into those valleys, and perhaps before the native Americans. I stood there as long as I could and then bid the matron adieu and moved on.

The march up the mountain side steepened, the vegetation changed, first to a lot of Manzanita that red barked high bush that likes the west coast hills so much. And then the pines and juniper took over again and the high ridges were filled with a beautiful forest.
Four hours in and I had just left the sixteen mile aid station. Five hours and I was looking out at the eastern valley from the high ridges of the 6800 foot peaks on the eastern side with just over twenty under my belt. It was frustrating as my standard formula was fine for a 100, but not for 12 hours. I vowed to charge the ups and run the downs. It was the only way I could see to move the balance of distance vs time into my favor.

We hit a long haul up a four wheeler road and I punched it. I maintained. The next section was a six mile down the same nasty road. I gained a mile vs my time. But the next section was a 3.5 mile up, the steepest of the race, going from 5500 up to about 8000. It could not be impossible because it had to be traversed by horses. I'd been trailing a few guys and had closed the distance on the down. It was nasty with my knees going weak, and the balls of my feet screaming as each hard rock nailed the shoe sole. But at the beginning of the super up they were a minute off. They were trying to stay ahead of me, but I'm better now at ups than i have ever been. Those boys didn't know what hit 'em, and I think they took a chunk out of their stamina trying to keep me in sight. They ended up getting confused at the top and wandering off the trail. I made it to the top having lost only half a mile against my time.

But it was still the same story-- 15 minute miles were my average. At eight hours I was a half mile past the 32 mile station. It was a steep decent to the next aid station and I just pulled the stops and pushed myself into doing things I would not normally do. I had no choice. I began to whine about it to myself and slow because me knees were not in good shape. Suddenly, a voice from the back of my brain blurted out an expletive. 'Mike if you let me do this I will get you there. You have the body to do this but not the mind. I'll handle it and you won't get hurt.' With some reluctance I turned over control to my guide and began to move down the trails at a faster pace. I did things I would not normally do, and used a few techniques that I am not particularly familiar with. But it got me down the hill fast. When I hit the next aid station I asked the distance and the time keeper said 38 miles. I looked at my watch and it was exactly 9 hours into the race. I'd picked up that elusive 2 miles. I did an up to 40 and was still looking at two and half ours on the board. I could to 15 minute miles and get in the door just in time.

It was mostly down hill after 40. I did a hard three that gave me another mile credit Seven miles to go and I had two hours to do it in. The next five were down along the canyon and was a lot like coming down lower Kuliouou. I punched it, my driver taking chances I am not used to. With the exception of some morons down in the valley who were plinking with high powered rifles, the shells ricocheting above me through the trees, it was a solid run to station, one hour and over five miles covered. And there I stood with one final hour to do about a mile and a half. I crossed the line at 11:19.


It was an amazing result from my perspective. My guide, has been with me since the Lost Soul. I've listened to him, but never let myself be carried away by the effort he demands. This time I had no choice. The rules were simple. Total effort, total concentration, no movies in my mind, and no conversations with myself. And, of course, run harder than I thought possible over such a distance. For all my fears about my knees and back they seem in fairly good shape this evening. But then.........it was only a fifty.

If you are in the Phoenix area this time of year this is a good race to train on for other venues. The trails are difficult and technical. The weather was cold at times. There are some good up and plenty of hard downs. The aid stations were stocked with munchies, fruit, and energy/breakfast bars. Again its a fifty so don't expect real food out there. The people were very nice and helpful. The buckle for the 50 is very nice artwork. I got a hat and shirt too, not to mention a nice BBQ plate for after the race.

Oh....I finished last man at 11:18. I was very happy for the finish, amazed actually considering the hardships I struggled with up through 32 miles.

This is the last of my mainland runs. Hopefully my knees, feet, lungs, and blisters will all be better by next Saturday. If not, well, I'm kind of used to the routine. The Twelve Hour will just have to get done regardless.

Much aloha, Mike Muench
October 06, 2007 at 08:05 PM

Man bitten by Bear Barely Survives to Tell Story

The last animal 100 in Mike Minch's immediate future........

I was feeling pretty confident as I headed out of the aid station and could see a 32 hour finish up ahead somewhere beyond the darkness of the night and some nightmarish group of jagged teeth perched at the gaping end of the altitude profile. But I had legs and had managed to battle back from an almost four hour DFL position. Anyway things were so spread out that time was the only competitor, the few other racers I met either laying in chairs in the aid station or stumbling along the trial. I was moving well as the fast starters sacrificed a portion of their pack to the gods of over-exuberance. Twenty hours of waiting and now the tree of patience, which I had tended for so long, was beginning to bear its fruit. I had concern for other's issues, asked if they needed help, but also felt that grim satisfaction a survivor feels as he leaves others to fend off the demons of despair.

It started to rain, and I put on a cheap poncho. It got cold and the wind blew. Then these gigantic snow flakes began to filter through the trees as I marched along an ugly section of trails called the Roller Coaster. Up and down and repeat it over and over. Nothing hard but always unpleasant. I felt it was the ugliest section of the course, even in the dark. I didn't need to see it to feel its course character. All the time it edged colder, the rain falling heavier. I didn't let myself dwell on the cold and just kept moving through the darkness.

The rain became snow again, this time little hard balls of flakes---the kind that like to fall forever. It got colder. I was cold but every hill, every climb brought me into a sweat. I could have run bare chest and would have been sweating on the ups. Then the down brought a chill. My chest began to wheeze, and I heard a constant chorus of voices off in the distance--screams, laughs, howls. I put most of off to my singing lungs and pushed on.

Then disaster hit. My breath left me and I doubled over. I wheezed and breathed and it returned and I pushed on forcing the cold air through my nose, trying to heat it a bit. I managed forty yards of up, was forced over, and pushed on. I repeated the process endlessly, losing precious time as each bout of gasping bent me over and demanded its payment in the commodity I found most precious. Time that I had collected like a bee seeking honey at endless small flowers, that I had gathered in relentless steps up innumerable steeps, that I had managed to find in too fast steps down long downs---was now being taken from me by a body that could not give me what I demanded of it. I coughed and gagged, I pushed on forcing the cold air into my lungs, intent on ignoring the problem. Twenty yards, forty yards, the ups were becoming endless, and then suddenly I was bent over again gagging and coughing and breathing hard trying to find something in my lungs to quench the yearning pain deep inside my chest.

It began to lighten, the snow was collecting on the ground, the muddy slopes demanded more careful attention, and the air chilled even more as I gained altitude. I was forced over, gasping and wheezing again and again. Finally a voice chuckled, "Best back off FOOL! You are so far out in the middle of no where that even if they knew you were here they wouldn't know what to do. Your chest shuts down and that's all she wrote." I listened, knowing the truth, but attempting to negotiate the limits I had to adjust to.

"Right now I figure you will be fortunate to just get your worthless ass out of this situation. Trying to do any better would be a gross over estimation of your actual potential. But go ahead. If you get yourself any closer to the line you could die out here and that would at least be more interesting to watch that your constant trudging up and down these hills," came the reply.

I cursed, gagged, coughed up stuff, swore, gagged, coughed and spit. I swore again, straightened up, forced air into my nose, and pushed on up the hill. "Yeah, if I keel over at least I won't have to deal with these damn steeps anymore!" I agreed, as I charged up the next section trying to last until I hit the turn in the trail. I made it, went through the gasping routine, and swore knowing I had to cut back just to keep breathing. A crew of complainers rose in the back of my mind as the weakness caused by my lack of breath grew more pronounced. I elbowed them back into the closet, locked the door. "Shut up," I said, "I don't have time for petty fears and complaints." I pushed on as best I could because there was nothing else to do and nowhere to go but on.

I finished in 33:27, about an hour later than I had hoped, but it was a fight getting down off the top with my lungs out of sorts with me. Days later they are still all Huhu with me.
It was a breathtaking experience. Literally and figuratively. Bear country was just beautiful. Stunning! Maples and Oaks, and elders had gone all shades of orange, yellow, and red. Aspen in their screaming yellow garments or hanging back in pale greens to grab a few more days of sun. The snow draped over the leafy colors, producing bleeding pastels, and collages of colors that just can not be found on a pallet. The vista's of the high mountains and far ridges stretching endlessly over the horizon constantly stopping me in my steps. The dry late summer grasses of the high meadows and alpine marshes--yellow and brown. The slopes of pines, green black and against the pastel blues of the high mountain sky.

There were very good people at the aid stations who were very caring and encouraging. It helped a lot.

I ran into some friends from the Teton Run. I also had the pleasure of spending a few minutes with some Ultra-running Nurses from Salt Lake. My almost total inability to remember names makes it impossible for me to mention these lovely women more specifically..but… Ultra-running nurses….the best of both worlds.

This was the last race in the Rocky Mountain Slam, and there were perhaps a dozen people who completed that lofty achievement four of (Hardrock, Leadville, Big Horn, Wasatch, and Bear). There were a lot of very good runners, and all with a lot of experience. I ran into only one person who was doing a first Hundred--and he was out in the first 10 hours. This is not a loop course but a long constant run. There are many places far off in the endless terrain where it is just you and nature. …..I've seen enough stunning Rocky Mountain vistas for a while, I can tell you that.
Much aloha, Mike Muench.
October 02, 2007 at 09:47 AM