Desert R.A.T.S. Trail Running Festival - RACE REPORT

Saturday, April 19, 2008. The Western Slope of Colorado, Mack exit off of I-70. Looks innocent enough, almost uneventful. But one weekend each year, the good folks from Gemini Adventures and a few hundred of their closest friends take over. Silly. Happy. Partially, or perhaps, completely insane folks. Like trail runners. Ya know, those who voluntarily would rather suffer (or freeze) in heat (or snow) than be on their couch watching netflix; those who view mountain ascents as a run in the park only to be slowed by the inevitable force of gravity (no, gravity works better going down dumbass!!!); and if beer could hydrate and sustain a body over a 25-mile, or 50-mile (or more), course...... these races would be sponsored by Left Hand, or Breckenridge, or New Belgium, or Avery, at least in Colorado.

But I digress. When I did this race last year, it was the first of its length that I had ever attempted. And it felt like it. I finished in 4:58:47, 53rd out of 142 starters. Not great, but not too shabby for a first attempt. It hurt. I crashed and almost burned nearly thrice throughout the course. I had nothing left on the final approach to the finish line with some severe calf cramps to boot. Yuk. I'll never do that again, or so I thought. Back for more, in 2008. Training went well, except for the 2 weeks off in January b/c of bronchitis/cough/cold/fever. And the 15 days I spent in Oklahoma for work in late February and early March. Ever try and do hill repeats or rolling fartleks in North-Central Oklahoma??? But one perseveres. Visualization played a larger part this year, along with familiarity with the course. I set my goal at a sub 4:45 before all of the sickness and travel. I thought to amend it at times. Then I lost site of the goal. And re-gained it. And then lost it again.... then regained. So, there I stood at the start line, around 6:25am this past Saturday. No turning back now Dave.



The start conditions were ideal, picture perfect – 40s, clear blue sky with the eastern sky beginning to ditch the oblivion of night. About 200 or so crazies (several of which will probably be the only companionship over the next several hours) start eastbound down a dirt road paralleling the I-70. You’re off, over one of the most beautifully challenging courses and challengingly beautiful race courses one could imagine. The route then turns off the road and starts you going up, and up a little more, then up and down and all around, until you wind into the first aid station at mile 5.9; it’s called Moore Fun. Sick sons of bitches.



And so it goes. The next 3.3 miles to the Pizza Overlook aid station went by quickly and I almost chose to run through the aid station. I still had about a half-bottle of Accelerade-laden water to go and thought...... I can do it, only 3.3 miles or so until the next aid station. But it was getting warmer and logic somehow won out. I quickly stopped with my water bottle top unscrewed ready to top off the hand-held. "Water?" I asked in a hurry. A benign finger pointed to an unmarked orange container - I was in and out in less than 15 seconds. Then about a half mile down the trail, I pulled open the spout and shot some liquid into my semi-parched mouth. UGGGHHH!!!! HammerHeed. No offense guys, this stuff tastes terrible. Ya know when Lucy gets kissed by Snoopy in Peanuts? Yeah, surprise, surprise. I gagged and spit a decent amount of the stuff out on the trail in front of me. Heed germs, get me some hot water and disinfectant. Anyway, I lived through the moment, chuckling about it not 2 minutes later when I slugged my next sip - this time ready for the fun. Not too bad I chuckled. The guy ahead of me probably thought I was already losing it - talking to oneself and laughing out loud less than halfway into a 25-mile trail race.



But I felt good. Really good. And at that point, I started psyching myself up for the approach to, and departure from, the Crossroads Aid Station at my halfway point (Mile 12.5). From last year, I remember a hill heading out of there. A big hill. A hill where last year I was already hurting physically (poor nutrition I determined), and I then let the visual aspect of the climb defeat me mentally. It sucked big time last year. I struggled through each step and then another hill rose beyond that descent. And the you start the up-down-and-all-around pattern again. But this year, I was ready. One simply perseveres, ya know?

I cruised into the aid station having passed about a half-dozen people since the last aid station. Water bottle open, pre-portioned dose of Accelerade in hand, add water, shake and mix. Pop down a couple Hammer Endurolytes - these are good stuff - easy on the stomach, unlike your cousin Heed. Suck down another GU. "Another one" I asked myself? Had I been eating enough? I felt great, but don't remember eating anything except for about 3 or 4 Shot Blocks and some pretzels and chips at the aid stations in the first half of the race. I took a quick inventory of fuel - I had (seemingly) unconciously already downed a whole package of Shot Blocks and a GU in addition to the 3 or 4 plus GUs I remembered. Wow, I may have loaded myself up just right with fuel and food placement in my pockets and handheld pouch. Sweet, right on nutrition schedule. I cruised up that hill, so unlike last year. It was like a different uphill to me (and I am not a very strong uphiller). I was going to do it. I was going to do that sub-4:45 I had imagined.



The next 4-5 miles or so was a blur of beauty, of easy breathing, of challenges unsurpassed, and of comfortable pace. I was passing people and getting passed by noone. What the hell? Stop the self-induced hinderance I thought. Just go with it. And I did. Until about mile 17 or so - part of the Troy Built Loop. That's when, in a 5-minute span, my stomach (GI cramps), back (lower lumbar PAIN), and hamstrings (guitar-string tight), all decided to show up and have a crash-Dave's-race suaree. The trail then turned northerly, then easterly, right into a warmer sun than I could ever had realized AND that warm wind they were talking about. Not a cool river breeze, but a warm nasty wind. My mind joined the squalid suaree. And so it went, a battle of wits and rancorous spirit that threatened to derail my day. If I let it. I was doing my best to fight it, but I was letting it win. I talked out loud. I exchanged shallow WHY ME glances with the hallowed flows of the Mighty Colorado as the main channel disappeared from view hoping the view of nature would remind me of my good fortune just to be out here. Or maybe wishing I was on a lazy raft ride with a cooler of beer and some good company. It worked, cause then it happened - I saw the interstate and knew how much closer I was to the final full aid station at the base of Mack Ridge. I cruised the last half-mile or so into the aid station. As long as walking wobbly and running haggard was a cruise. At this point it was, compared to the inevitable ascent up Mack Ridge.

Mack Ridge. A huge hill by sea level standards. An anthill compared to true mountain running. But a hill nonetheless. I started my own pharmaceutical distribution center at this aid stop, at the base of Mack Ridge. 3 Advil, 3 Endurolytes, a borrowed salt tablet, cola, and a banana. If that ain't the breakfast of champions. If my stomach and body couldn't handle that cocktail, I was done. But really, I felt as if I was done if I didn't try this. I don't know what possesses one to attempt a race that has this type of hill at Mile 19, but you realize it is truly a matter of perspective. A very painful perspective. But telling and truthful. Whoever drove the dozer/road-flatter-outer on this stretch needs to be fired. Or sober next time they drive this stretch of "road?" Holy crap, what were they thinking?!? But you persevere, still.

I ascended, surely. Continuously. Don't stop dude. I hit the couple flats along the way. Brief reprieve. Very brief. By mile 22 or so, I felt good. Really good. I picked it up. I started running again. I pegged the guy in the yellow shirt (my guess is either Joel Arellano or Mark Christopherson) as my first target to pass. We hit the rolling top of Mack Ridge en-route to the descent to the final stretch home. I tailed him through and unto the descent. We passed our first 50-miler (Allen Belshaw) around Mile 22-23 or so (very rough estimate). Ryan Burch soon followed. Freakin' studs these guys are. As we started our descent, I thought of passing him now. I restrained myself. Just as we were about to hit the last turn onto the road, a couple wonderful ladies sat on a rock cheering us on - "Let's go yellow." - "Come on Fast Forward Sports" - a fellow Boulderite training person. "You're almost done - you're a mile to done!!!" Nice, enthusiasm. I waved. The stud in front of me said, "or a mile to the halfway point." Huh?!? I'd been pushing to keep up with a 50-miler?!? Crap I tell ya. Colorado breeds freaks - and I mean that in the best way possible. We exchanged pleasantries. I looked over my shoulder once, twice, thrice. He asked what was up (or back). I told him that last year (2007), at this point, my studette friend Michelle, who I had been leading for over 24 miles of the course, promptly, efficiently, and effortlessly, "chicked" me. She finished 0:37 in front of me. With that ghostful vision, I wished him luck and took off.

I hit the road and promptly picked off 2 more people (at this point, I didn't care if they were 25- or 50-milers). Here came the first 50-mile female (Helen Cospolich) and then my buddy Kirk (heading out for his first 50-mile attempt ever). We exchanged high fives. I accelerated and thought to myself, kick it in like you're being followed by a person possessed...... it worked. There were the tents of the finish line. Wait, did the digital timer read 4:58:xx??? WTF??? I was already behind last year?!? Crap. I still didn't let up, it couldn't be right. About 20 yards further, I focused again. I saw the timer flip from 4:38:59 to 4:39:00. WOW!!! I could come in under 4:40, not just 4:45. I picked it up. I crossed the finish line at 4:39:59 - almost 19 minutes faster than last year. Wow. Sweet. I felt freakin' awesome. I did it. As Lyle Lovett has said, "I love everyone."

Until next year. When I try the 50-mile version of this. Any takers?