The Cuyamaca 100k: To win the lottery, you have to have a ticket.
Sitting on an airplane bound for Phoenix with a final stop in San Diego, I was scared. I don’t normally feel this way before races, but perhaps having done a 100k just a few months earlier, the amount of pain that was coming was at the front of my mind. Additionally, the logistics of the weekend had me wondering if I was going to be in the right state of mind for 62 miles and 8800 feet of climbing in the high desert. Would I be able to keep putting one foot in front of the other once the sun had risen and fallen? I also worried about other challenges; Could I safely drive back to my Airbnb after the race or will I have to wait in my car for hours fearing the dangers of driving through intense pain and fatigue.
It had also been a difficult week and semester in general. I spent the summer chasing around flash floods, collecting data with colleagues who happen to be my friends, and spending free time running around in the great New Mexican outdoors. Now I was busy keeping up with coursework, attempting to manage a mountain of new data and handling some personal challenges. When I clocked out of my self-imposed work day that afternoon I promised myself that I would leave the stresses of grad school behind for the weekend. Running 100 kilometers and up demands respect—it had to be the only thing on my mind for a few days. I’d handle my school-related responsibilities when I got home. For the next 60 hours I had a job to do. Get myself to Cuyamaca state park in Southern California, run 100 kilometers in no slower than 17 hours, and get myself safely back to New Mexico to start the next week.
I didn’t have to run this race, but around 6 weeks ago I was starting to comprehend the realization that for the first time in 5 years, I wouldn’t be in the Western States 100 lottery. I don’t have much to complain about—in 2018 I lucked out and gained entry into the race with just one ticket, amounting to about a 2% probability of being drawn. I ran the race that year, but my obsession with it will probably never wane for as long as I’m able to run ultramarathons. When the lotteries roll around every year, I want there to at least be a chance. With this in mind, I threw my name on the waitlist for the Cuyamaca 100k, a Western States qualifier. Sitting at 90th with around 200 in the race, I fully did not expect to gain entry, but as the weeks went by, I watched that number drop like a rock until I had to click the “accept entry” button on ultrasignup.com. I was going to take a crack at it.
I made it to San Diego with only a minor hitch. After my first successful connection in Phoenix, I failed to get on my final flight to San Diego. I was flying stand-by courtesy of my dad’s history in the airline industry, and while the significantly reduced cost of flying is usually well worth it, on this particular flight my luck ran out. Fortunately, the next flight to San Diego, leaving three hours later, was wide open, and I made it to my destination only a few hours later than ideal. After checking into my Airbnb, chatting with my friendly host, and seeking out some dinner in town, I settled in for an early wakeup.
On race morning, I woke up at 4:30, ate my overnight oats, and made my way to camp Cuyamaca. I found my crew at the start line just after 6 and handed over a bag of goodies—socks, extra shoes, gels, squirrel’s nut butter (an anti-chafing paste with an amazing name) and various other small items.
My crew consisted of my good friends Nina, Malire, and Ani. I’ve shared many miles with Nina and Malire, or at least many hours of running club functions courtesy of four years at UC Santa Barbara. Additionally, in 2018, Nina and another friend from UCSB drove more than 8 hours from southern California to come see me at Western States, so she understood the excitement as well as inevitable challenges that come with crewing an ultra. Traveling solo to any race can feel a bit solitary, so it was a real joy to have them out there.
At 6:30 AM we were sent out to begin our 62 mile day. After around 100 meters, the trail bottlenecked. I found myself in a train of people that, to me, felt way too slow. I wanted to push ahead and put myself in a good position. I reminded myself, however, that some 9-10 minute miles right now were not going to break my race. In fact, if I was running 9-10 minute miles at the end of the race, I would be beyond stoked. I stayed patient, chatted with some folks, and plodded forward. The first 8 mile stretch of the race was gentle and rolling slightly, but mostly downhill. The mile just before the aid station and the mile after is the same but in opposite directions. I made a point of cheering at about everybody I passed heading the other way.
I reached the aid station and saw my crew, but wasn’t ready for any major refreshments, so I dropped off some gel wrappers, grabbed a few more, and headed back out on the course. The next stretch was primarily uphill and served as the precursor to the hardest section of the course. After this stretch, we’d be going up Cuyamaca peak. Cuyamaca peak is the highest point in San Diego county at around 6500 feet. From the previous aid station to the aid station at the top of the peak, one would have to travel approximately 9 miles and climb 2500 vertical feet. Getting to the top of the peak feeling good was absolutely critical.
With this on my mind, I rolled into the green valley aid station at mile 14 and met my crew. I, and many others, took an extra couple of minutes here to ensure that we were prepared for at least two hours on our own. I had previously promised Nina that I’d wear sunscreen for at least parts of this race, which for me is a pretty rare thing, so I put some on before taking off. I also broke into another secret weapon of this race. Before the race, I asked my crew members to pick up one thing for me—lemonade. I don’t know why, but I’d been absolutely pounding lemonade after training runs lately, so I figured it made sense to drink it during the race. My crew thought it was bizarre that I requested at least a gallon of lemonade for the race, but heck, that’s ultrarunning. Once I was satisfied with my sunscreen application and lemonade consumption, I took off toward the peak.
I ran this race back in 2017, and I vividly remember feeling pretty rough going up Cuyamaca peak. Considering it’s only 23 miles into the race, this is a bit too early to start feeling unwell. This time, however, I settled into quite a rhythm. When it was steep, I hiked. When it wasn’t, I ran. This strategy, and my mantra of, “smooth is fast.” led me to pass quite a few people. As I was approaching one guy prior to making the pass, I suddenly realized that his gait and overall appearance was a bit familiar. He turned out to be my friend Eric, who I’d raced with multiple times during my time in California. One of those times, we finished a 50k in San Luis Obisbo where, by the end of the race, smoke from the Thomas Fire in Santa Barbara had undoubtedly made the conditions a bit sketchy. We chatted about California as we plugged our way up the climb for a while, but eventually, I found myself alone in a tunnel of trees. At mile 20, I felt way better than I did my previous race here, and that made me feel good. After about 2 hours since green valley, I made it to the top of the mountain.
At the aid station, I decided to switch from water to tailwind. I was feeling slightly nauseous on the way up, and I thought some electrolytes might do me a favor. It worked like a charm. It made me think of my last 100k, where despite my protests, my mom had insisted that I wasn’t getting enough electrolytes. Maybe she was right.
I expected the descent off of Cuyamaca peak to be smooth, fast, and efficient, but I’d forgotten how treacherous and boulder-strewn some sections were. In an effort to avoid faceplanting and to keep my ever-sketchy Achilles tendon from extending in any strange directions, I kept things reserved during those stretches. When the rocks subsided, however, I starting rolling along.
I made it to the mile 28 aid station feeling tired, but no more than anticipated. The critical gradient at which I broke into a power-hike was now decreasing, but I didn’t expect anything to the contrary. As long as I could continue to run the flats, downhills, and gentle uphills, I was content. There was a three mile stretch of downhill back to the start/finish area and I was able to make up ground on the field. I arrived at mile 31 in 6 hours and 25 minutes. This was only 5 minutes quicker than my last time at this race. During the last one, however, I vividly remember starting to feel like a dumpster fire at this point. I was determined for this not to be the case this time.
I made my way up to this giant grassy mesa that I remembered vividly from the last race. It was hot and shadeless—if you weren’t feeling good at this point, you weren’t likely to rebound here. Additionally, this section included a fairly steep climb and descent, and was 8 miles from the next aid station. The last time I reached this point I was completely broken. I walked long sections of this, including downhills, thinking recovery from this state was impossible. I remember reaching the mile 40 aid station, which was full of cheering and smiling, and not feeling a hint of joy. Instead, I’m pretty sure I sat there staring into space and eating pringles. This year was different. I was determined to stay in a positive headspace. If you smile at aid station volunteers, they’ll smile back, and that makes everyone feel good. I reached the mile 40 aid station still running flats and downhills, smiled at the volunteers, ate some chips and moved on.
I had a mere 4.5 miles to reach the next aid station at mile 45. In my head, this was going to be a relatively flat and rolling 4.5 miles. Instead, there was a fairly significant climb and descent in the middle of this section that had completely escaped my memory of the last race. Everybody was hurting at this point, but I found that if I could hike uphill, run the flats, and run the downhills I’d make up positions in the field. Finally, after around 11 hours, I reached my crew at mile 45, drank copious amounts of lemonade, threw a headlamp in my pack, and readied myself for the final 17 miles of the course.
Pacers are allowed in the last 17 miles of this race, and I was pretty stoked that Malire had decided to join me. I had planned on only having a pacer for the last 10 or possibly 6 miles thinking that Malire or Nina wouldn’t be willing to do 17 miles today (Ani was unfortunately nursing an injury), but they’d decided that Malire would pace me for the next 11 miles and Nina would pace me the last 6. I took off with Malire as we began the climb to the ironically named “sunrise” aid station as the sun started to descend on the horizon. We talked about everything ranging from personal gossip to the criminal justice system as we marched along uphill. Pacers aren’t really necessary for the sake of any actual “pacing,” but it sure is nice to have company after a while.
When we reached the mile 51 aid station, we were surprised to see that the rest of the crew was not there. It wasn’t hugely disheartening; I always make a point of being mostly self sufficient in ultras so as not to put the crew under any unnecessarily intense pressure, but we were a bit worried about the temperature. The high desert at night can be a cold place, and we were hoping to throw on an extra layer. Fortunately, just as the aid station volunteers were starting to playfully shoo me out of the aid station, Nina and Ani pulled up having initially gone to the wrong aid station which was just down the road. We layered up and headed on.
At this point there was no question that everything hurt. Still, I felt very well within my abilities. There was no part of my brain that was secretly begging to drop out at the next aid station. I wish I could say that I began hunting down other runners in this stretch, and in the future I hope to be able to tap into that competitiveness, but my mind was somewhere else. I’d had two years to get my western states qualifier for the next lottery, and up until this point I hadn’t been able to do so. Now, I was less than 10 miles of relentless forward progress from getting it done. My Achilles was not happy with me and I was focused on keeping it happy enough to press on. Barring injury, I was going to finish, so my mindset became, “don’t hurt yourself. Just get to the finish.”
Malire and I pressed on in the darkness on our way into the miles 56 aid station. At one point, this older gentleman passed us and said, “Is this a first date?” which gave us a good laugh. I told Malire, if a girl ever asks me to pace her at an ultra as a first date, I’m proposing on the spot.
With that brief moment of comic relief we made it into the aid station at around mile 55.4. There were 6.6 miles separating me from the finish now. For the first time in several aid stations, I didn’t sit down. Ani poured me a few cups of lemonade, I pounded them, and then Nina and I left the aid station for the final 6.6 miles. An aid station volunteer had told me that there would be a big downhill on a dirt road coming. I was looking forward to this. I felt like I had the energy to keep running uphill (albeit, at a very slow shuffle), but a few times I had tried this in the previous few miles I’d gotten a very concerning and sharp pain in my Achilles. Additionally, when the downhills were rocky and technical enough, I couldn’t move well either. Downhill dirt road sounded ideal.
Unfortunately, my wishful prediction of bombing down the dirt road to the finish was far from accurate. In typical ultra fashion, I walked and shuffled my way toward the finish. I gave up several positions in the final miles but it didn’t bother me a whole lot. I wanted a finish, and I was going to get one. Finally, after 61.5 miles, the lights of camp Cuyamaca came into view. I ran to the best of my ability in the final few minutes and crossed the finish line in 14:46 at a position of 60th out of 159 finishers and 231 starters.
These moments are always a little bit emotional. It had been an incredibly hard day and the mind immediately goes to all friends and family who are supportive of this ridiculous hobby. I gave each of my crew members a hug and made sure they knew how appreciative I was for their help. I sat down, pounded some more lemonade, and went for a burrito. Starting to shiver a bit, I said a final goodbye to my crew members and hobbled back to my rental car and then successfully drove myself back to the Airbnb. The next day, I woke up at 6, went to the airport, and got myself back home to New Mexico.
The Cuyamaca 100k is undoubtedly one of my favorite ultramarathons to date. I love the course, the scenery is excellent, and the volunteers are amazing. This race will be on my radar for the rest of my ultrarunning days I presume. And most importantly, it’s given me glimmer of hope that come December, my name might be amongst the 269 pulled in Auburn California. The ultrarunning community is awesome, and I’m looking forward to the next big challenge.
It had also been a difficult week and semester in general. I spent the summer chasing around flash floods, collecting data with colleagues who happen to be my friends, and spending free time running around in the great New Mexican outdoors. Now I was busy keeping up with coursework, attempting to manage a mountain of new data and handling some personal challenges. When I clocked out of my self-imposed work day that afternoon I promised myself that I would leave the stresses of grad school behind for the weekend. Running 100 kilometers and up demands respect—it had to be the only thing on my mind for a few days. I’d handle my school-related responsibilities when I got home. For the next 60 hours I had a job to do. Get myself to Cuyamaca state park in Southern California, run 100 kilometers in no slower than 17 hours, and get myself safely back to New Mexico to start the next week.
I didn’t have to run this race, but around 6 weeks ago I was starting to comprehend the realization that for the first time in 5 years, I wouldn’t be in the Western States 100 lottery. I don’t have much to complain about—in 2018 I lucked out and gained entry into the race with just one ticket, amounting to about a 2% probability of being drawn. I ran the race that year, but my obsession with it will probably never wane for as long as I’m able to run ultramarathons. When the lotteries roll around every year, I want there to at least be a chance. With this in mind, I threw my name on the waitlist for the Cuyamaca 100k, a Western States qualifier. Sitting at 90th with around 200 in the race, I fully did not expect to gain entry, but as the weeks went by, I watched that number drop like a rock until I had to click the “accept entry” button on ultrasignup.com. I was going to take a crack at it.
I made it to San Diego with only a minor hitch. After my first successful connection in Phoenix, I failed to get on my final flight to San Diego. I was flying stand-by courtesy of my dad’s history in the airline industry, and while the significantly reduced cost of flying is usually well worth it, on this particular flight my luck ran out. Fortunately, the next flight to San Diego, leaving three hours later, was wide open, and I made it to my destination only a few hours later than ideal. After checking into my Airbnb, chatting with my friendly host, and seeking out some dinner in town, I settled in for an early wakeup.
On race morning, I woke up at 4:30, ate my overnight oats, and made my way to camp Cuyamaca. I found my crew at the start line just after 6 and handed over a bag of goodies—socks, extra shoes, gels, squirrel’s nut butter (an anti-chafing paste with an amazing name) and various other small items.
My crew consisted of my good friends Nina, Malire, and Ani. I’ve shared many miles with Nina and Malire, or at least many hours of running club functions courtesy of four years at UC Santa Barbara. Additionally, in 2018, Nina and another friend from UCSB drove more than 8 hours from southern California to come see me at Western States, so she understood the excitement as well as inevitable challenges that come with crewing an ultra. Traveling solo to any race can feel a bit solitary, so it was a real joy to have them out there.
At 6:30 AM we were sent out to begin our 62 mile day. After around 100 meters, the trail bottlenecked. I found myself in a train of people that, to me, felt way too slow. I wanted to push ahead and put myself in a good position. I reminded myself, however, that some 9-10 minute miles right now were not going to break my race. In fact, if I was running 9-10 minute miles at the end of the race, I would be beyond stoked. I stayed patient, chatted with some folks, and plodded forward. The first 8 mile stretch of the race was gentle and rolling slightly, but mostly downhill. The mile just before the aid station and the mile after is the same but in opposite directions. I made a point of cheering at about everybody I passed heading the other way.
I reached the aid station and saw my crew, but wasn’t ready for any major refreshments, so I dropped off some gel wrappers, grabbed a few more, and headed back out on the course. The next stretch was primarily uphill and served as the precursor to the hardest section of the course. After this stretch, we’d be going up Cuyamaca peak. Cuyamaca peak is the highest point in San Diego county at around 6500 feet. From the previous aid station to the aid station at the top of the peak, one would have to travel approximately 9 miles and climb 2500 vertical feet. Getting to the top of the peak feeling good was absolutely critical.
With this on my mind, I rolled into the green valley aid station at mile 14 and met my crew. I, and many others, took an extra couple of minutes here to ensure that we were prepared for at least two hours on our own. I had previously promised Nina that I’d wear sunscreen for at least parts of this race, which for me is a pretty rare thing, so I put some on before taking off. I also broke into another secret weapon of this race. Before the race, I asked my crew members to pick up one thing for me—lemonade. I don’t know why, but I’d been absolutely pounding lemonade after training runs lately, so I figured it made sense to drink it during the race. My crew thought it was bizarre that I requested at least a gallon of lemonade for the race, but heck, that’s ultrarunning. Once I was satisfied with my sunscreen application and lemonade consumption, I took off toward the peak.
I ran this race back in 2017, and I vividly remember feeling pretty rough going up Cuyamaca peak. Considering it’s only 23 miles into the race, this is a bit too early to start feeling unwell. This time, however, I settled into quite a rhythm. When it was steep, I hiked. When it wasn’t, I ran. This strategy, and my mantra of, “smooth is fast.” led me to pass quite a few people. As I was approaching one guy prior to making the pass, I suddenly realized that his gait and overall appearance was a bit familiar. He turned out to be my friend Eric, who I’d raced with multiple times during my time in California. One of those times, we finished a 50k in San Luis Obisbo where, by the end of the race, smoke from the Thomas Fire in Santa Barbara had undoubtedly made the conditions a bit sketchy. We chatted about California as we plugged our way up the climb for a while, but eventually, I found myself alone in a tunnel of trees. At mile 20, I felt way better than I did my previous race here, and that made me feel good. After about 2 hours since green valley, I made it to the top of the mountain.
At the aid station, I decided to switch from water to tailwind. I was feeling slightly nauseous on the way up, and I thought some electrolytes might do me a favor. It worked like a charm. It made me think of my last 100k, where despite my protests, my mom had insisted that I wasn’t getting enough electrolytes. Maybe she was right.
I expected the descent off of Cuyamaca peak to be smooth, fast, and efficient, but I’d forgotten how treacherous and boulder-strewn some sections were. In an effort to avoid faceplanting and to keep my ever-sketchy Achilles tendon from extending in any strange directions, I kept things reserved during those stretches. When the rocks subsided, however, I starting rolling along.
I made it to the mile 28 aid station feeling tired, but no more than anticipated. The critical gradient at which I broke into a power-hike was now decreasing, but I didn’t expect anything to the contrary. As long as I could continue to run the flats, downhills, and gentle uphills, I was content. There was a three mile stretch of downhill back to the start/finish area and I was able to make up ground on the field. I arrived at mile 31 in 6 hours and 25 minutes. This was only 5 minutes quicker than my last time at this race. During the last one, however, I vividly remember starting to feel like a dumpster fire at this point. I was determined for this not to be the case this time.
I made my way up to this giant grassy mesa that I remembered vividly from the last race. It was hot and shadeless—if you weren’t feeling good at this point, you weren’t likely to rebound here. Additionally, this section included a fairly steep climb and descent, and was 8 miles from the next aid station. The last time I reached this point I was completely broken. I walked long sections of this, including downhills, thinking recovery from this state was impossible. I remember reaching the mile 40 aid station, which was full of cheering and smiling, and not feeling a hint of joy. Instead, I’m pretty sure I sat there staring into space and eating pringles. This year was different. I was determined to stay in a positive headspace. If you smile at aid station volunteers, they’ll smile back, and that makes everyone feel good. I reached the mile 40 aid station still running flats and downhills, smiled at the volunteers, ate some chips and moved on.
I had a mere 4.5 miles to reach the next aid station at mile 45. In my head, this was going to be a relatively flat and rolling 4.5 miles. Instead, there was a fairly significant climb and descent in the middle of this section that had completely escaped my memory of the last race. Everybody was hurting at this point, but I found that if I could hike uphill, run the flats, and run the downhills I’d make up positions in the field. Finally, after around 11 hours, I reached my crew at mile 45, drank copious amounts of lemonade, threw a headlamp in my pack, and readied myself for the final 17 miles of the course.
Pacers are allowed in the last 17 miles of this race, and I was pretty stoked that Malire had decided to join me. I had planned on only having a pacer for the last 10 or possibly 6 miles thinking that Malire or Nina wouldn’t be willing to do 17 miles today (Ani was unfortunately nursing an injury), but they’d decided that Malire would pace me for the next 11 miles and Nina would pace me the last 6. I took off with Malire as we began the climb to the ironically named “sunrise” aid station as the sun started to descend on the horizon. We talked about everything ranging from personal gossip to the criminal justice system as we marched along uphill. Pacers aren’t really necessary for the sake of any actual “pacing,” but it sure is nice to have company after a while.
When we reached the mile 51 aid station, we were surprised to see that the rest of the crew was not there. It wasn’t hugely disheartening; I always make a point of being mostly self sufficient in ultras so as not to put the crew under any unnecessarily intense pressure, but we were a bit worried about the temperature. The high desert at night can be a cold place, and we were hoping to throw on an extra layer. Fortunately, just as the aid station volunteers were starting to playfully shoo me out of the aid station, Nina and Ani pulled up having initially gone to the wrong aid station which was just down the road. We layered up and headed on.
At this point there was no question that everything hurt. Still, I felt very well within my abilities. There was no part of my brain that was secretly begging to drop out at the next aid station. I wish I could say that I began hunting down other runners in this stretch, and in the future I hope to be able to tap into that competitiveness, but my mind was somewhere else. I’d had two years to get my western states qualifier for the next lottery, and up until this point I hadn’t been able to do so. Now, I was less than 10 miles of relentless forward progress from getting it done. My Achilles was not happy with me and I was focused on keeping it happy enough to press on. Barring injury, I was going to finish, so my mindset became, “don’t hurt yourself. Just get to the finish.”
Malire and I pressed on in the darkness on our way into the miles 56 aid station. At one point, this older gentleman passed us and said, “Is this a first date?” which gave us a good laugh. I told Malire, if a girl ever asks me to pace her at an ultra as a first date, I’m proposing on the spot.
With that brief moment of comic relief we made it into the aid station at around mile 55.4. There were 6.6 miles separating me from the finish now. For the first time in several aid stations, I didn’t sit down. Ani poured me a few cups of lemonade, I pounded them, and then Nina and I left the aid station for the final 6.6 miles. An aid station volunteer had told me that there would be a big downhill on a dirt road coming. I was looking forward to this. I felt like I had the energy to keep running uphill (albeit, at a very slow shuffle), but a few times I had tried this in the previous few miles I’d gotten a very concerning and sharp pain in my Achilles. Additionally, when the downhills were rocky and technical enough, I couldn’t move well either. Downhill dirt road sounded ideal.
Unfortunately, my wishful prediction of bombing down the dirt road to the finish was far from accurate. In typical ultra fashion, I walked and shuffled my way toward the finish. I gave up several positions in the final miles but it didn’t bother me a whole lot. I wanted a finish, and I was going to get one. Finally, after 61.5 miles, the lights of camp Cuyamaca came into view. I ran to the best of my ability in the final few minutes and crossed the finish line in 14:46 at a position of 60th out of 159 finishers and 231 starters.
These moments are always a little bit emotional. It had been an incredibly hard day and the mind immediately goes to all friends and family who are supportive of this ridiculous hobby. I gave each of my crew members a hug and made sure they knew how appreciative I was for their help. I sat down, pounded some more lemonade, and went for a burrito. Starting to shiver a bit, I said a final goodbye to my crew members and hobbled back to my rental car and then successfully drove myself back to the Airbnb. The next day, I woke up at 6, went to the airport, and got myself back home to New Mexico.
The Cuyamaca 100k is undoubtedly one of my favorite ultramarathons to date. I love the course, the scenery is excellent, and the volunteers are amazing. This race will be on my radar for the rest of my ultrarunning days I presume. And most importantly, it’s given me glimmer of hope that come December, my name might be amongst the 269 pulled in Auburn California. The ultrarunning community is awesome, and I’m looking forward to the next big challenge.
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