Highs and Lows: The Western States 100

     

     44 years ago a young man named Gordy Ainsleigh showed up to a horse race without a horse. It wasn’t the sort of horse race you might see on TV, though. It was an endurance ride called the Tevis cup. It spanned 100 miles in distance from the alpine location of Squaw Valley to the small city of Auburn. Gordy wanted to participate, but his horse was lame, and after a few calculations he decided he could do what had never been done before—he ran 100 miles from Squaw Valley to Auburn. 

44 years later, Gordy’s accomplishment has blossomed into a spectacle. Every year, 369 people are granted entry to run the Western States 100, following a similar route to the one Gordy ran back in 1974. Of those 369, a few are given to sponsors of the race, some are given to elite runners who qualify in a more technical manner, some are given to folks with special considerations and one spot is reserved for number 0, Gordy Ainsleigh, who continues to attempt the race even now. Aside from those allotted spots, the remaining 269 spots are given to runners who qualify via the lottery, which requires applicants to run a 100k or 100 mile qualifier prior to entering. To make it fair, every year a runner qualifies, but isn’t selected, his or her number of tickets in the lottery doubles, until he or she is eventually selected (wherein the number of tickets returns to 1). 15 years ago, getting into the Western States 100 was about as hard as calling a coin toss, but the sport’s popularity has skyrocketed so much in recent years that a first time applicant’s odds of being selected are now abysmal—approximately 2%. It’s with those astronomical odds that I found myself lined up at the most prestigious 100 mile race in North America, awaiting the sound of a shotgun firing to send me on my way to Auburn. 

When I was first selected to run the race, I thought maybe 20 hours was possible for me at Western States (good enough for top 30), but then my training began to unravel. An IT band injury kept me from running for weeks, and as soon as that was under control, a chronic Achilles issue started to flare up. 6 Weeks out from my first 100 mile race I was doing most of my training on stationary bikes and elliptical machines—not ideal. I thought about withdrawing, but if I did that, who knew how many years it would be before I was able to return to Western States? And even with the stifled training, I was confident that if I readjusted my goals, I could at least get to the finish line. Thus, my goal at Western States was not to come in the top 30, just to come in. I wanted to finish. 

The first 4 miles of Western States takes runners up a steep dirt road which climbs from the base of the ski resort to emigrant pass, which is at about 8500 feet above sea level. For the majority of the climb, I hiked and chatted with the excited folks around me. The race begins at 5 am, so every now and then I would look behind me and admire the rising sun over Lake Tahoe. At the top, the trail turns into narrow single track that snakes through the backcountry until it arrives at the Lyon’s Ridge aid station which is approximately mile 10. I felt good enough on that section. I got to the aid station, filled my bottles, grabbed some gels, drank some coke, and got moving. 

At around mile 15 I started to notice things becoming a bit more difficult. The heat was picking up and the climbs felt a little more challenging than I thought they should at that point in the race. Thankfully, I received a nice pick-me-up at mile 24.9 when I saw my crew at the Duncan Canyon aid station. They helped me out with a shoe change, tied an icy bandana around my neck, and gave me some potatoes, then I took off toward Robinson flat. 

Heading up to Robinson flat I really started to worry about my condition. I could run downhill well, but on the steep hike up to the aid station I was frequently being passed. When I finally got there and saw my second set of crew members, I was pretty beat up. My legs were alright but I was relatively hot and fatigued. My crew sat me down, sprayed me with some sunscreen, changed my ice-bandana, and then I drenched myself in sponge water and kept moving. After that point, things started to turn around for me. 

Leaving Robinson flat I knew I had almost 13 miles of runnable downhill and flat sections. I started to gain momentum and began re-passing some of the people who had just passed me on the climb. I ran a lot with two women, Kim and Charlotte, as we made our way through the aid stations on our way to the bottom of the canyon. Everything had gone perfectly up until Dusty Corners aid station (mile 38). I was running well, passing people, and feeling decent. On the descent from Dusty Corners to Last Chance, however, I hit my first truly low point of the race. I slowed to a walk, just focused on moving forward, feeling depleted. I started really questioning if I could possibly get to the finish. Fortunately, I received a few important pieces of encouragement. Right before Last Chance, a runner passing me inquired about my condition, and when I told him I wasn’t doing well, he replied, “Keep going man! This race is too damn hard to get into!” Later, as I left last chance, there was a long line of picket signs made for various runners beside the trail. They said things like, “6 Years of applying and you’re finally here! Go Rob!” They reminded me of how fortunate I was to have gotten to run Western States after only one year in the lottery. I couldn’t squander the opportunity. I sucked it up and resumed running.

At mile 46 I began the most challenging section of the course, the Devil’s Thumb Climb. 1.8 miles and 1800 feet of elevation gain—yikes. Before beginning the climb, I heeded some advice I was given and took a small detour down to the river, got in, and lay there for a few seconds. Drenched, I started hiking out of the canyon. I didn’t feel particularly fresh going up Devil’s thumb, but for whatever reason I passed a bunch of people. At the top, I stopped a minute to replenish, and then started trotting painfully down to El Dorado creek aid station. With about 1 mile to go I felt spent. My legs were trashed and it was hot. I walked the remaining mile to the aid station. When I got there, I sat in a chair and started eating.

This was a pivotal point in my race. It was here that I decided I couldn’t continue. My legs simply had nothing left. I decided I would hike slowly up to Michigan Bluff (Mile 55) and drop out. Sitting in the chair next to me at El Dorado was a man with a similarly depressed look on his face. He asked how I was doing, I told him I would have to drop out. I asked him, he said the same. I finally began hiking slowly out of El Dorado canyon in despair. There was no way I could continue, let alone another 45 miles, I thought. Still, I started to consider what I would have to do when I dropped out. First I thought of my mom and friends who would be waiting for me at the following aid station, mile 62. I would have to call them and tell them that this big thing that we’ve been planning for months just wasn’t going to work out—that it was all for nothing. That broke my heart. I then thought about the folks who had followed me online, and been so supportive. I knew I would have to make an announcement talking about my failure. I know I should be racing for myself, and not others, but more than anything I didn’t want to let all of those people down. And with these thoughts, I started to walk a little faster. I thought I had taken my last running steps, but I thought maybe if I walked just a little bit faster I could beat the cutoffs and get to the finish line. Worth a shot. After all, I had told my crew beforehand that I was going to go until I was pulled off the course. My mind had been changed. I walked into Michigan Bluff ready to keep going. 

After getting some food and a quick massage at Michigan Bluff I powered through to Foresthill (Mile 62). Somehow I found a bit of a shuffle in my legs—I was running now. At Foresthill I was fortunate enough to see my crew in it’s entirety. Apparently I was ahead of schedule, so when I arrived I shined my headlamp at my mom, who was sitting in a chair. “Nice Job,” she said generically. I asked her where she and the rest of the crew were set up, and it was apparently at that moment that she realized it was me who was running by. She sprung up alarmed and started running with me to our location. I changed shoes, picked up my first pacer, and continued shuffling forward to the infamous “Cal Streets,” 16 miles of rolling trail that takes you down to the American River.

The Cal Streets section blends together a bit. I recall running the first part fantastically, walking almost none of that section. Then I started having to do a bit of both for the middle and final sections. I was toast—my legs were in agony—but I kept moving. I believed that if I got to the American River crossing at mile 78, I could get to the finish. When I got to the river, I changed pacers, did the various aid station things (shoes, food, etc), and then hobbled down to the river and crossed via rope with my pacer. I was in the final stretch now.

In the final 20 miles I started dealing with a number of foot-related issues. There was a tendon on the top of my left foot that was killing me, and the arch of my right foot felt like it was collapsing. It was in so much pain that I stopped a couple of times to dig into it with my thumb, hoping a quick massage would ease the discomfort. I wasn’t too close to cutoffs, but I definitely didn’t have an enormous amount of time to spare—I had to keep running from time to time.

Between mile 85 and 91 my pacer and I resorted to a different tactic to keep ourselves moving quickly. My foot was in agony, but I had to keep running if I could. On top of that, the 5.5 mile section between a specific pair of aid stations seemed like an eternity. We decided to essentially do mile repeats—yes, you heard that right. One mile of running followed by a quarter mile of walking, repeated four times. It sounds ridiculous, but it kind of worked. We passed a bunch of people using this strategy. My foot felt like death the entire time, but I was able to do it, and it made the run to mile 91 seem more manageable. 

Between mile 91 and 95, I could smell the finish line, but the tendon on top of my left foot had become badly swollen. It looked as if I had suffered an intense ankle sprain. I could no longer run this section. I limped forward, eventually seeing my mom and a friendly aid station crowd at mile 95. While I was there, somebody brought me a medic to take a look at my ankle. I would never have thought to do this, but he wrapped it up, and gave me two Advil and two Tylenol. “two for the pain and two for the swelling,” he said. Even though I wasn’t moving well and undoubtedly looked terrible, I knew now that I had time to get to the finish line in under the cutoff. And with the aid of the tape and pills, I was able to jog a little bit to No-Hands bridge, which is one of the most iconic and beautiful places on the course. When we got to no-hands bridge, I knew I would finish. My pacer and I walked briskly, seeing this as somewhat of a victory lap. We chatted with the runners around us, and everybody had a glow of elation on their faces. It had been a long, hard day, but we were going to finish the Western States 100. After one last steep climb up to Robie Point we arrived with 1 mile to go in the city of Auburn, where my entire crew and family was waiting for me to walk/run me in. 

Going through Auburn on Western States day is the most amazing experience. If you want to have your faith in humanity restored, go to Auburn on Western States day. That town absolutely adores Western States. Everybody is on their lawns and driveways cheering on the folks who have suffered gloriously for the last day, befriending strangers who are crewing for their family members, and in some cases, inviting them into their homes. It’s a spectacle, and that 1 mile walk through town with my friends and family was one of the happiest moments of my life. When we neared the Placer High School track (where the finish line is), my crew and I all broke into a run. Entering the track, I heard the legendary voice of John Medinger calling out my name and describing my occupation (perhaps not as interesting as some of the other runners). Crossing the finish line, I couldn’t believe I had done it. 

Post-Race Acknowledgements

Western States had been a roller-coaster of emotions unlike anything else I have experienced. I can’t believe I was able to turn things around after feeling like I had nothing left at just after the half way point. If you bonk in a 50k, you might have 10 more miles to suffer through, but at Western States, I had 45. I can say with 100 percent certainty that I would not have made it to the finish line without all of the people supporting me. That sounds like a terribly cheesy thing to say, but it’s the truth. Had I been alone, I would’ve had no reason not to drop out at Michigan Bluff. I would’ve said, “Well, at least I tried,” and pulled the plug. It was you guys who kept me going. Specifically I have to thank my two pacers, Austin and August, for putting up with my whining. My Mom, her boyfriend Dennis, and my Dad, for losing just as much sleep as I had and pulling off a logistical ultramarathon. My sister, for suffering through the night as well, and flying all the way from Seattle to support me. And finally my friends Nina, Andie, and Nicole, who drove a ridiculous distance just to see me a few times. You guys made this thing happen. 

With the race over and a buckle on my dresser, I will release the (not-well-kept) secret that I was hugely unprepared for Western States. Due to a series of injuries in the months prior, my training had been extremely limited, and I relied on bike rides and elliptical sessions to prepare myself. My longest run in the training block was just 20 miles. Had it been any race other than Western States I would not have started, but I believed that even with my inadequate fitness I would be able to at-least finish the Western States 100. It was a gamble, but it turned out to be true, and I’m glad I took the risk. 

After the race, I was exhausted from two days of very little sleep. I probably didn’t eat enough either, because when I got home I collapsed and briefly fainted on my floor. That was a first! Today, my legs are finally starting to come around. Very likely, I have a metatarsal stress fracture in my right foot (which will heal quickly), but as far as injuries go, I’m a lot better-off than I was expecting to be after the race. Now it’s just time to relax, drink some beer, eat enormous amounts of food, and enjoy a few weeks of recovery before planning my next crazy adventure.

Cheers!

Mitchell McLaughlin