Palisades Ultra 50K in Irwin, Idaho

Race date: July 16, 2022

One of the most fitful night's sleep one can have occurs the night before a race. I'm on diphenhydramine (I have allergies, so no foul play here) and melatonin, but I'm restless. The ceiling fan is too loud. There's a grind to it, like the gears are off. It's too hot, so I can't turn it off. I open the window to the little motel room we're staying in, but then I hear the cars driving by. After burning a few hours of possible sleep I drift into a half sleep. The bed I'm on turns into a sort of parking lot and I'm trying to find a space to park, but every time I do I realize I'm parked in the wrong spot. I tell myself kind words about how you can be just fine missing a night's rest. Then my alarm sounds.

At 4:45 AM I get in the car with my wife and she drives me to the race location. I lather on sunscreen and apply vaseline to my armpits. I've chafed there enough times to remember this trick.

I catch the race director after I pick up my race bib. I ask him a question about the course. Then he shows me a couple other areas. He points to the largest climb of the race, Garden Ridge. "This part is going to suck," he says. "No shade and straight up." I thank him for his time.

I'm at the starting line and the race director announces the one minute warning over the sound system. I realize I left my sunglasses in my bag, which is in the lodge about 50 feet uphill from us. In a panic I decide to make a run for them. "This guy wants to get a few extra stairs in!" the director yells into the mic. I burst into the lodge and run to my bag. I rummage around and feel everything but sun glasses. It's like my little drawstring bag has turned into Santa's bag of toys. "10 seconds!" the announcer yells from outside. The gun goes off, and I'm in the freaking lodge. I give up and run down the stairs and enter the back of the pack.

After 100 yards of dirt road we go straight up a hill. It's all stair stepper. I'm too flustered by my lack of sunglasses that I don't even notice. I keep looking at all the other runners and their sunglasses. I don't only wear them for the sun. I wear them because I have sensitive eyes. If I get a bug in an eye it's the end of the world. Code red. I can't do anything until I wash it out. I'll have to run this race in a constant, protective squint.

After we peak the first mountain we go straight downhill. My toes are violently slammed to the front of my shoes. Then we cross a massive rock slide. It's gorgeous landscape; a place you'd see a mountain goat. We go back uphill and get to a high meadow. I'm running over a maze of gopher tunnels. Now, this is my first race since having surgery on my ankle in December. I'm testing out my remodeled tendons and ligaments. These gophers are out to ruin me for trespassing.

I'm not a hug fan of energy gels and whatnot. I like to eat real food if possible; it sits better in my stomach. I pull out rice rolls from my bag, which are basically hotdog-shaped rice cakes. Heavy as Styrofoam. They're good, but breath in while chewing and you'll never breath again.

I make it to the first aid station at 9 miles. They have watermelon! I also pick up an orange and head out. Peeling an orange gives you something to take your mind off running. I pop each segment in my mouth, extract the juice with a few chews, then spit out the pulp. I'd yell at my kids for doing this.

I had read about stream crossings before the race. I had hopes of finding logs and rocks to tip toe across, keeping my feet dry. But at the first crossing I realize that isn't going to happen. I forge through, splashing up waves. Maybe I should have practiced running in wet shoes. They are so heavy as I squish along the trail in them.

At the 14-mile aid station I have a big decision. Up ahead is the monstrous Garden Ridge climb. I'm inclined to really stock up on water, but that also means more weight to take up the mountain. I fill my pack reservoir but not the two bottles in the front. That should get me to mile 23.

We're running in a beautiful valley of wildflowers. I wouldn't mind stopping to look at them for a bit, but this is a race. I pluck the heads off a couple different snap-dragon looking flowers and admire them while I run. I know nothing of wildflowers, but this makes me want to learn.

I have no idea what place I'm in, due to the race starting while I was in the lodge. I know I was able to pass a lot of people on the first climb. But in the whole valley there's only two other people in sight, one behind and one in front. There is a huge mountain ridge in front of us. "I bet that's the one we have to climb," I think, half disbelieving. And yes, the trail turns a corner and heads up it. I'm glistening in sweat as I ascend. Slippery as a fish out of water. I remember how some trail runners use hiking poles. I see a 4-foot stick and grab it. It's got some pokey knobs all over, but nonetheless I employ it. It works well; adds stability.

Days before the race I began to wonder, in an almost panic, why I was signing up for this. I think it's the same reason people leave their homes to go to mosques, temples, landmarks, whatever. To recharge with a new perspective. To be humbled. To sharpen dulled senses and wits.

I summit. It's beautiful at such heights. Mountain peeks and steep valleys surround me. I look down at the ground and realize I've lost the trail. I'm standing in the middle of a bunch of vegetation. Weird. Thank the stars I downloaded the trail app from the race's website. I pull it up and find my blue GPS dot. I'm only about 25 yards off course. No idea how that happened. I find the trail again and plod along the mountain ridge.

The trail descends, and quickly. After pounding out sevearl switchbacks I'm back into lush, mountain vegetation. At one point the plants are as tall as I am. With the trail only being about a foot wide, it's a cool feeling, almost like running through a green slot canyon. Except you can't see your feet. I keep abruptly catching my toes on rocks and sticks. I feel optimistic, knowing the big climbs are behind me. At the 23 mile aid station I enjoy more watermelon. A wonderful volunteer hands me salt to sprinkle on it. I could give him a hug.

Next up is an out-and-back path, up the canyon (the rest of the race is a big loop). As I run it I expect to see the leaders run past me, head on. But I'm surprised that I'm not seeing anyone. I check my trail app. Yes, I'm on the right trail. After quite some time I do finally pass a runner. He must be first place. I count two more. Shortly after the third I see the turn around. Wow, I'm in fourth! And I can probably catch the one ahead of me! With new energy I'm bounding down the trail with six miles to go. Sooner than I expect, I see third place up ahead. He casually steps to the side and waves me to go by. I can't believe he gave it up that easily.

The last aid station at mile 28, which also served as the mile 23 aid station, is optional. I decide I have enough water to survive to the finish line. Plus, I don't want to risk losing my coveted third place. I passed several other runners on the way back which are probably now on my tail.

The course is quite flat now. I'm running in the bottom of a narrow valley, the sound of Big Elk Creek roaring alongside me. It is muggy and hot. I feel like I'm in a humidifier. I'm absolutely dehydrated. I turn to an energy gel, knowing my stomach will revolt, but I need the energy. I choke it down and feel like throwing up.

The last few miles are the worst. Up until them you run without thinking much about the finish line, but thinking about the finish line now just makes it slip further away. But it doesn't escape me forever. I see the glare of a few car windshields through the trees. A parking lot! I hear music and then I hear my name announced. I see my family, and they cheer me on. I pick up speed. As I approach the finish line I run the wrong way. Someone put cones in a place that looked like a finish line. The guy on the mic redirects me to the correct finish location. I wonder if he remembers me as the dummy running back to the lodge when the race started.

I cross the finish line and someone hands me my medal. "Congrats, you got 4th place man!" I learn the first-place runner beat me through the out-and-back before I even started on it. And the "third place" runner I passed after the turn-around, who waved me by, was the first-place 50 mile runner. They started several hours before us 50K runners. Fourth place it is. Whatever the case, the energy I got from thinking I was holding down a place on the medal stand helped me run a faster race. After getting in the car with my family, my wife stops at Palisades Reservoir so I can jump in and wash off before the 4 1/2 hour drive home. Probably swimming in the very water molecules from the creek I was running next to an hour earlier.