HURL ELKHORN 50 RACE REPORT - MONDAY, AUGUST 13, 2007

If you're looking for a race that features many feet of gain and loss (11,000 of each), both rugged footing and easy footing, animals both domestic and wild, forests both young and old, icy cold stream crossings, grassy sunlit meadows, steep and stony slopes, ethereal precipices, views in the twilight and views in the last afternoon light, and plenty of stretches to either put the hammer down or slow to a recovery amble, the HURL Elkhorn 50 Mile (with a 50K option) awaits without fanfare as a unique and rewarding late summer ultra option. Unless you are from right within this area, you will get to experience a flora and fauna quite unlike anything you've seen before - and my comparison was Missoula just over 100 miles away. The organizers, aid station volunteers, medical volunteers, and everyone involved are friendly, salt-of-the-earth folk with a love of running or just a love of being outside and being helpful, and it shows. Directing a race, or adopting one, as Steve Engebrecht has so ably done with the Pomeroys' erstwhile Elkhorn 100K, is first and foremost a labor of love. All satisfaction must be intrinsic - it's not a money-making enterprise ("I want you to know, he made me pay for my race entry!" Steve's wife Tammie told us as she jiggled the prize-drawing hat hoping for her number to bubble up). So I looked at this race as such - a decision by several key people to create an experience in which other runners can appreciate and enjoy the long and lonely loops they have come to love.

I came into this race with over a year of no racing due to shin splints and a stress fracture. This, coupled with a move to Montana and a new job which has taken some getting used to in terms of fitting training in, had me feeling doubtful about my fitness and therefore determined to just try to enjoy the race atmosphere. This one was a great choice because of how laid back, yet well-organized and top-notch the support is. Steve Engebrecht assured us with an email that he had yet to cancel a run because of forest fire smoke, and yes it might be a bit hazy, but it was that way all over Montana, and there were no imminent fires to threaten our safety in terms of actually getting run down by one. The last thing I did when leaving Missoula was toss my big umbrella out of the car... it was a symbolic move but it worked: while easing through downtown Helena I had the first opportunity to use my windshield wipers in about 3 months. It looked foreign: big wet drops of water rolling down the window and darkening the street... how strange! How fantastic! It was only a roving shower, followed by several more during our race briefing which hammered the metal roof of the shelter under which we sat and ate spaghetti, bread, chips, cookies, and more, while hearing details of the race which would soon become part of our pre-race dreams that night.

The pre-race briefing is a super part of the whole proceedings; you get to meet new faces and talk about common races and the weather and all that good stuff. The T-shirt this year was a quality Sporthill technical tee in goldenrod yellow with an Elk themed logo. The giveaway drawing was plentiful and generous: There was The North Face gear including two hydration packs, plus shoes, socks, caps, water bottles and more... it seemed everyone ended up with something. Many of the prizes were donated by a store in Canada whose name I unfortunately forget but they were very generous. I ended up at a table chatting with what would turn out to be the 50 mile men's winner, the 50K men's winner, and the 50K men's winner dad and the 50 mile men's winner's girlfriend. P.F. Potvin from Michigan, currently teaching in Miami but traveling during the summer, would end up winning the men's 50 mile - with plans to run the Bozeman Bridger run the next weekend. Brian Vandenburg, at a young 24 years old, had won the Le Grizz 50 miler last October and thus had garnered the Kiss of Death free entry into the Elkhorn, choosing the 50K option. It was fun to sit back and hear all the stories from all around, go through our goodie bags, eat, and hear the course briefing, complete with humorous asides ("if you're an elk hunter and you're not wearing red ribbon, you're making a big mistake" [as the elk love to eat to eat the course markings]). Steve made sure to give deserved credit to the folks who had spent 100 combined hours clearing the trail of downed trees. He also emphasized that there were sections when there really was no trail, and which landmarks to look for, including hopefully ribbons but if those had been eaten, orange wooden stakes.

Back at Crystal Creek Campground my tent had been joined by many others, and my Subaru by the requisite moral majority of other Subarus. :) I slept quite well, with Crystal Creek gurgling softly not 20 feet away. The 50 mile start was in half darkness, at 5 a.m., with a moon fighting to be seen through the haze. I wore a headlamp for the first 2.5 forest service road miles, then handed it to Steve who waited at the first trail head. I think there were about 17 of us at the start and it was a mellow and gently beautiful beginning to what I knew would be a slow escalation of pain and discomfort. While this sounds kind of horrible, it really isn't. I expect my races to be painful, and it doesn't mean I don't enjoy them.

P.F., Brad Lamson, and John Hallsten (I think) were way ahead of me by the time we crested a ridge and ran along its broad back with the distant bugling of elk, as promised, floating over to us (Bill Johnston was just behind me) through the cool pre-dawn air. Everything was very dry, very Montana golden dry, and I felt right at home as I realized this was in fact my first Montana ultra. Following some zigs and zags and a small stand of trees, I saw P.F. and Brad heading back toward me. One of them asked me if I had seen John Hallsten? I said "No". "You haven't seen John Hallsten??? With glasses?" I thought this was funny. Ohhh, with GLASSES. well why didn't you say so before? I repeated, we didn't see anybody.

The four of us roamed around a little, lost, and then I got out my map and Steve's detailed directions from my Nathan Intensity race vest, which I had worn expressly so I could carry the map. The directions had just looked too detailed, too meticulous, to leave behind. It was worth it to me to carry such a light pack for that purpose (I was using two Nathan handheld bottles for my water - when I don't have a bladder in the vest I hardly know it's there.) After deciding what we'd go back and look for, I put the backpack back on with one of the shoulder straps twisted, and I ran 45 miles that way without noticing or realizing it until I saw a photo of myself that my mom took at the finish line and after we examined them closely realized that by god, one of my straps was twisted completely around so the little pocket on it was still facing out. Ladies and gentleman, if that's not a ringing endorsement for a backpack what is? Not one chafing spot the entire run. Of course, I trained a lot with it, too, and that's key, but still. (Also, for the record: I did not get one blister or hot spot in my Montrail Continental Divides - and again, they're what I train in exclusively.)

So after we looked at my map, Brad teased Bill, who had run the course last year, for letting us go off course, and we soon found our way down the correct slope, straight into the sleepy, slightly perplexed gaze of a herd of cows, and eventually down to the Jackson Creek aid station: 10 miles, about 2 hours. A little daunting, but just what this course is: it sneaks its elevation gain up on you. You're never really on a hugely towering peak, but along the way, you garner 11,0000 feet of gain, and it doesn't happen all when you're fresh. By this time Brad and P.F. were again well out of sight.

Out of the aid station there is another climb, after which you are running your footsteps backwards toward the start. I like seeing things from the opposite angle. The sun was just starting to crest some of the ridges and I could tell it was not going to be a 100+ degree day, thank goodness. I could also tell the smoke was not nearly as bad as it could have been. Two things to be really grateful for. When we crossed and re-crossed Jackson Creek, I couldn't believe how cold and delicious the water already felt on my legs. I also slogged through one really muddy cow-hoof pocked section and got mud all over my legs, which looked dubious, but I left it, and hoped people in the really dry areas of the course would realize it was Just Mud! I say this become some guy on the Ultra listserv said he saw a woman who had "obviously just had a pit stop" blah blah blah. I wondered how he could be so presumptuous when there are things like mud and chocolate gu's to consider.

As we descended the same forest service road back to the start/finish area, sewing up a 20 mile mile pre-50K loop, my quads were already talking to me. I told them to hang in there, that I knew we weren't in the best of shape but that there was a whole lot of fun still ahead and so just sit back and relax and get ready for it. I actually reined it in a little on the downhill road because I knew I was working with an undertrained body. Nikki Kimball says "running the best one can, given the fitness she has at the starting line of any race, is the best anyone can hope for" and that has always been true for me. I take what I have and stretch it to the max, even when it doesn't feel like it at the moment: the aftermath doesn't lie.

I could see that my heart rate was just stubbornly remaining lower than it had been for races, say, two years ago. I finally realized I had to accept that and I readjusted what I would make my lowest boundary. I think it was 153. When I got below that, I geared it up. This to me was kinder, gentler governance and had the strange effect of making me feel that I was somehow not trying that hard. But boy, was I. As evidenced by my post race condition...

Rather than map out the rest of the course mile by mile, I'll describe two aid stations in particular:

The Cowboy aid station (real name: Elk Park aid station, Miles 27 & 35): The stuff I needed was lying on a tarp. On the ground. That would be the Hammer gels. Not a problem normally, only my bending over ability was disappearing like a galloping mare. Items the cowboys must have met with more approval, real food, stuff you can chew, was up on a table - trailmix, salmon, gummi worms. And the water was hanging from a tree in giant containers which took two people: one to hold the bottle, one to grasp the giant thing with both arms and tip. A second hole might have helped. Since one cowboy was in assist mode, this is where I came up on Brad, waiting patiently with bottle in hand while the cowboy on his feet tipped the giant water container hanging from the tree. I had the sense that Brad had been standing there for many minutes. Years even. I also had a sense that the bottle of whiskey might have flowed faster. I figured I'd take advantage of this situation and I got the cowboy to fill my bottle with straight whiskey. Kidding! I filled it (with water) just enough to last me till the next aid station. This was a strictly screw-your-own-cap-back-on station as well, which I did as I ambled out of there, with a very friendly "don't worry, this is just an easy little loop, you'll be back in no time" yelled out helpfully, if a little misleadingly (at least in my condition), as a horse whinnied plaintively from its piney tether. Despite its lack of conventional aid, this was my most memorable aid station TO DATE. Ah lahked it! Not enough to linger the second time through though. In fact, to skip ahead a moment, as I came back in after the "nice easy loop" I heard a seated cowboy say "number 16?" a little blearily and I said "no, 10" and then I granted myself flyby approval and I heard them yell "what, you don't want to spend time with us good lookin' guys?" and I yelled real loudly and gaily "Yeah, you're good lookin'!" and that made them laugh so I felt okay because I didn't want to hurt their feelings. It was like bypassing someone's science fair project or not being enthusiastic about their trick or treat. But luckily, I don't think they cared one bit. Steve says it best in his aid station section: "Please keep in mind that our ability to put on this event depends on our ability to convince people that spending a weekend waiting on ultra runners during Montana's short summer will be a rewarding experience." What I liked most about the "Cowboy aid station" was that it seemed they had managed to not only serve our needs as runners but were doing it in a way didn't mean utter self-sacrifice for them.

The ATV aid station (real name: Wilson Creek aid station, Mile 32): The aid station in between the doubled cowboy stop was a one man affair. That is, one man actually dispensing aid, and several search and rescuers standing by. This was an ATV accessed aid station and the table was small but absolute perfection - a little work of art. This gentleman had everything laid out so that you felt like if you requested a miniature elephant carved out of seasoned salt, he'd be able to reach over and produce it for you. He grabbed both my bottles, unscrewed the lids, filled them to order, screwed lids back on, AND told me I was 16 minutes behind the leader, P.F., all within a minute at most. He was awesome. He ran the 50k last year he said and said this day's weather was quite pleasant in comparison and to expect some nice breezes in the woods next. Just as I was leaving, Brad was coming in, apparently having dealt with the burps/indigestion he'd been fighting going out of the cowboy station when I went by him, passing him as quickly as I could because just hearing him begin to possibly hurl was making me realize I was getting to that same point. He told me later that upon exiting Organized Man's Aid Station Supreme, he had in fact hurled with feeling.

The Moose Creek loop was the most appealing part of the race for me, due not only to its breezes, its old growth shade combined with grassy meadows, and its break from major elevation changes, but to the fact that Steve had said it was his favorite part of the course at the briefing and so I was aware of that going through. The forest had escaped fires for long enough to be towering and shady, and of course there were the pines that make me love Montana so much, and then an uphill through the meadow of Elk Park, which gave me brief feelings of being in Germany. At this point, one realizes that the rest of the course will be about 80 percent recognizable from reverse travels in previous parts of the race. It was gratifying to go down what I had come up, although the ever accumulating damage to my quads as I let go of the brakes in an effort to minimize that damage was Running past the cowboys, and then back down to Teepee Creek, the increasing pain in my quads threatened like a growing thunderstorm in my head, always at the edges of my mind: you're going to pay for this.

The Teepee Creek volunteers were numerous, enthusiastic, and helpful. "You're at mile 39." That sounded so deceivingly close. My stomach apparently thought so too, and decided that this was as a good a time as any to play Unhappy Camper. This after I had doted on it for over seven hours? Feeding it Endurolyte caps and Hammer gels, to the tune of 2-300 calories per hour, along with water and Hammer mix drink (al provided at the aid stations)? But although the real food, fetchingly set out at many tables in separate little cups and plates, had looked tempting, I just... I don't know, I just didn't eat any. Except watermelon. That was complete heaven out there: so juicy and sweet.

*By the way, I consider it a bonus and not a requirement that an aid station person know how many miles you have to go. If there is a detailed course description available ahead of the race, it's really upto you to make sure you know where the aid stations are.

The climb up out of Teepee, as promised featured "a major climb exposed to the afternoon sun. We strongly encourage participants to assess their condition at this point." I was assessing my first bout of real discomfort. Nausea. I hate it beyond belief. There are many other kinds of things and kinds of pain I would trade in an instant for the cessation of nausea. As I pulled out yet another gel, knowing that it would probably quell the nausea if I could just get it down, my stomach did one of those rising wave things and I knew I'd end up giving HURL its two cents of respect if I tried to get one more gel down. As a result, I completely stopped ingesting any kind of energy for the last several hours of the race... and although I tired to keep drinking water, at least, I don't think I was doing a very good job of that either.

It was on this last, big 1500 foot climb, when I was feeling like a sick dog and having the chilly sweats, that I passed a man who then took my picture ("Look dramatic," he said, as I limped upwards at about a half mile per hour), who identified himself as Charlie Steen (?). Thanks for capturing the moment, Charlie. :)

Okay, getting a bit long, here, so... after two more cheery, helpful and well-equipped aid stations, including one with gorgeous horses grazing nearby (I loved all the animals on this run, they really take me out of myself for a moment, even the tame ones, with their calm bored living- in-the-momentness), in which my mood and physical condition deteriorated but could not completely shut out the base line pleasure I was still feeling at just being in a great race, I ran by the last aid station in sheer survival "just got to get this done" mode, which was too bad as that last one was manned by triathletes and I at least wanted to say hi and thank you. I did manage those 3 words actually, but again, I feel BAD when I don't stop! So, after what seemed like endless ups and downs in just 8 miles, (how harmless the "trail climbs about 300 feet" sounds on paper! And how huge it seems right before the final aid station!) I finally hit the last section: a perfectly groomed dirt road which we had run in the opposite direction and in quite different states of being many hours earlier.

As I gingerly spilled out from the trail onto the road on quivering quads, a very real hallucination took place: there was my father, whooping and calling my name. I had traveled to this race alone, thinking it would be too long and hot of a wait for my parents to come out to endure (not to mention I was competing with Lyle Lovett and his very large band for Friday night's affections). But there he was, my Papa, he really was, and he fell into step with me for those last painful, grueling miles, with words of encouragement that I could barely even acknowledge, I was so on empty. It felt terrible to not be able to express how incredibly happy and surprised I was to see him there! I could only smile, nod, or shake my head. He said that my mother was at the finish, waiting.

I looked at my watch and saw that I could make 10 hours and 30 minutes, a nice round good-sounding number. The previous course record set by Liz McGoff was 11:14. So at this point it was all about that stupid game of picking one of the numbers on the clock and making the inane decision that that's the time you want or you'll never live a happy life again. I gave one look behind me to see if Brad had decided to shift it into fifth gear and make me fight for 2nd overall, which I somehow had crawled up into, but thank goodness he wasn't there to add to my ludicrous self-imposed pressure fest. Still, I liked the sound of 10:30 and I liked the sound of 2nd overall. So I tried to lift my legs a little higher and I fastened my eyes onto the distant glimmer of cars in the parking lot that were in and out of view as the road curved and gently rolled. It seemed like forever. I wanted to stop and just lie down on the side of the road. "Well, she ran the 49 miles quite nicely. Then she just kind of stopped. We don't really know what she was thinking."

After what seemed like five years squeezed into a 20 minute capsule, where I not only had thoughts of "let's never do this again" but also "you're a wimp... turn around and run this backwards now for a 100 miler before you call yourself a real ultra runner," I finally heard some shouts of people who realized someone was coming in. I ran abreast of the porto-potties, thought, "Hmmm, a bit anticlimactic, but oh well, I'm done" and then heard my mom yell "KEN!" and realized a sharp right was in order and there a proper finish line awaited... with cheering people, happy dogs, and camp chairs! I finally was able to smile (grimace) and when I stopped, Steve was right there with a steadying hand. I bent over at the waist and thought I was going to tip over like a rocking horse. It was a wonderful moment. Those first few seconds when you realize you can STOP, you can cry, or puke, or lay down, or laugh, or do whatever the hell you finally want to besides run... it's just a shot glass of pure joy.

Then reality quickly sets in. I sat down in a camp chair. A reporter from the Helena Independent Reporter asked me my name, age, and hometown. I congratulated P.F. who looked very relaxed in his chair, having come in 26 minutes earlier. When you go off course, it may be annoying at the time, but it's sort of a little bonding experience. I felt I got to know P.F. and Brad just a little bit better in those minutes when we were wandering around looking for random landmarks. "I didn't know this was going to be an adventure race!" P.F. had said good naturedly. After a few minutes of sitting there trying to look normal, in which an extremely sweet person brought me iced water and a huge plate of watermelon, I decided to "cool off" in Crystal Creek. I hobbled over, grabbing Steve's arm unabashedly by this time, and I somehow got situated half in and half out of the creek. It really wasn't that hot out and I started shivering but it felt so good. I was talking to Brad, who had come in, and my parents, and suddenly I couldn't form words very well because my tongue was cramping, for lack of a better word. It was like, squinching up and I couldn't say S's. I told my father "thomething thrange ith happening to my tongue" and within seconds I got helped out of that creek in a hurry. I mentioned something to my dad in German about being sorry and he said something back in German about nonsense at which point some other guy sitting in the creek said something ELSE in German and I thought oh shit, good thing I didn't say something really embarrassing and I also thought, how weird is all this? Weird and sort of cool? And then I was assisted over to the volunteer medic's vehicle, where I was given an albuterol treatment, blankets, glucose gel in my lower lip, and other things in response to some funky vital signs. Tammie Engebrecht came over and made me feel quite at home, though, by telling me she "hurled" at every race and that's why the Helena Ultra Runners League was a not an accidental choice of words from which to make an acronym.

You know, I feel crappy after every race, but this was the first time I actually had my blood pressure and blood sugar taken. My blood sugar "wasn't even registering" said the very kind, very concerned medic, who had been a medic in the army, and was such a nice, nice man, with such an interesting story of his own as to how he had gotten to be where he was right now. Although I feel bad for making people concerned, this whole experience of being cared for by people who were completely and totally just volunteering their time out of the goodness of their hearts was really incredible. You get to see such a wonderful side of people. From my warm and cozy resting place on the gurney I tried to give people a hearty, reassuring smile. It was a bit embarrassing for me but no one really cared, I mean, not in a critical way. It's not every day you put your body through this and we all knew it. There is a camaraderie after races that I really enjoy. So it was with real regret that I realized I'd have to miss the post race festivities. These were, I'm sure, a lot of fun, with more food brought right to the finish under the shade of the pines, and more prizes and good words and well-earned relaxation to take part in. I apologized to Steve, who, despite all he had to think about, ran and got me part one of my first place prize which was a bag chock full of The North Face gear and goodies: shirt, shorts, a certificate for shoes, a dual bottle fanny pack, and a visor. Outstanding. And a handmade print is part two, which I have not had the pleasure of receiving yet, but thanks to Steve, will have in my hands eventually. On the other hand, my nausea and the pain in my limbs was actually getting worse, and I don't know what I would have done if my parents hadn't shown up like two guardian angels at the end. I don't' think I could have even knelt down to get in my tent, let alone take it down, let alone pack up, let alone drive, let alone anything! Yikes!

Which brings me to the present. I took this past week off ENTIRELY. Previously, I would have already logged in another 50 miles in by now. So clearly I took on this race with desire writing a check my body had a hard time cashing. I decided that in the future, if I travel to a race alone, it would be irresponsible and dangerous for me to push to those extremes if there is no one at the end to take care of me. I was, for all intents and purposes, helpless at that finish line. I will have to teach myself to rein it in during races. I thought I had for this one, but apparently not. Breaking the course record was of course my goal. But did I need to break it by 44 minutes? Did I need to stubbornly keep my heart rate over 153? What a random number!

And yet I thoroughly enjoyed the race. I took in my surroundings, I thrilled in the downhill flying moments, I soaked up the icy stream crossings, I talked to the cows, I appreciated the aid station folks, and I took pride in what I was doing and how I was doing it. I think what happens is that I trained pretty good, pretty hard, but not really structured and mostly alone (read: slow)... and then race time came and those small deficiencies really came back to bite me given the hard effort.

Today was the first day running since the race: I ran about 8 miles and it felt so great to be running, and yet I could still feel lots of damage left over in the legs. There's no need to be a hero at this point so I'll just have to stop comparing myself to two years ago and "listen to my body" (I phrase I have mixed feelings about). Notably, my Achilles tendons are incredibly sore to the touch - something I didn't notice till I put actual shoes on. Thanks to Alison H. for giving me some advice on that.

Since this has devolved into a purely introverted self-analysis, let me come back out of it to end once again with unmitigated praise for the HURL Elkhorn 50. If you don't want to do the 50 mile, opt for the 50K which is also very challenging and takes you through the dreamy Moose Creek loop which I truly loved. You'll get to know some great people and you'll be able to reflect on a true gem of accomplishment when the winter snows begin to fall and you can't believe you were breathing smoke and sweating fire not so very long ago. Do it soon, while you still can. As the homepage states: Numerous housing developments are springing up along the Helena National Forest boundary. What the Elkhorn landscape will look like in twenty years is anybody's guess.

Thanks to all of your well-wishes and congratulations - even my fifth grade teacher wrote me to say good job. How sweet is that?