Speedgoat 50K at Snowbird, UT

Race date: July 24, 2021

The starting area is packed with healthy-looking, capable trail runners. I always get a bit intimidated around such a group. I eat a banana, stretch, and enter the crowd. Soon the gun goes off.

We begin a steep climb immediately. Many of us begin walking it because of the grade.  A drone circles overhead. I joke to those around me that we better run while we’re being videoed. Nobody even chuckles. Tough crowd. 

We run by the top of a chair lift, then begin running crisscross across the mountain, at an angle which keeps the grade low. It feels good to be out of the climb and running with more of a stride. Then we climb more. As we near the summit we reach a large slope of loose shale and other rock. It’s almost impossible to run on. I reach the first aid station. It’s at the top of the tram lift. My body feels good, considering the amount of elevation I’d just climbed. I just ran from the lodge of a ski resort to the top of a mountain. 3000’ of elevation gain in 8 miles. I eat potato chips and grab a few small oranges for the road. As I circle around the top of the mountain, to the other side of it, a photographer pops up and takes my photo. I’ve got a cheek full of orange pulp and a couple oranges still in my pocket. I look dorky.

The trail begins a descent on an old logging road and I’m really opening up my stride now. When running downhill you sometimes forget that it’s the downhill making you fast. But it feels good and boosts my confidence. Then the trail enters a dry creek bed full of baseball sized rocks. I worry about my ankles. If I hug the bank I can avoid most the rocks, but it also puts me on an annoying side slope, with one foot dropping much farther than the other. I’m running on a torn peroneal ligament. It causes me a little worry, but the doctor told me I could still run.

I reach the 15 mile aid station in an excellent position. I think I’m in 17th place, and this is a big race. I feel excellent, knowing I’m almost halfway. I eat watermelon and other snacks, then take off. Then I run right into an incredibly steep logging road in a heavily wooded area. I can’t run it, so I begin hiking. It goes on for miles. My hike falls to a trot. Slow, laborious steps. I begin to be passed by others. Then I pass a runner sitting on the trail. I ask if he needs help and he says he’s dropping out. I assume he’ll go back to the previous aid station? I like to think I can catch those who are passing me later, but I know I won’t. I wasn’t prepared for this kind of hiking. I’m humbled as I keep getting passed. A runner who’s been next to me for several minutes is cursing heavily. “F this hill.” Then she also passes me. 

Finally that ascent is over and I’m above the tree line. I see the 20 mile aid station. I’m beat, so it’s a haven. I eat more watermelon while looking at another gnarly climb to get over the mountain pass to the other side. I don’t think I can climb anymore. But, I finish my snacks, refill my water, and begin trudging up it. I feel small grit under my socks. I stop and empty my shoes. It’s quite a process to stop on a trail and take your shoes and socks off without losing serious time, but I know it must be done. 

I keep climbing, but the bottoms of my feet still hurt. Must be blisters. I was dumb and wore thin, wool socks. A sock with more cushion that could absorb little rock pieces would have been better. The grade gets so steep I begin to feel dizzy. If I stand up too tall I feel like I’ll fall backwards. As more people pass me they ask how I’m doing. I must look like a zombie. But I make it. After that climb we run horizontally on another dirt road. I see someone ahead veer off sharply, on the uphill side. I figure they must be going to pee in the weeds. Nope. I see small sprinkler flags and realize I have to leave the horizontal plane of the dirt road and go uphill. It is unbelievably steep. It’s straight up. I cannot believe there is another climb on this course.

With nowhere to go but up I concede and begin another trudge. My head is spinning. I’m crawling, using my hands to assist. My body is shot. But I make it. I run along the top of the mountain ridge. The bottoms of my feet are now on fire with blisters. Yes, my muscles and joints are in pain, but to have pain with every foot drop is almost unbearable. Now it hurts to run on even the “level” ridge I’m on. I see Megan and the kids. That makes me feel better. She tells me there is an aid station nearby. I was supposed to meet her at the final aid station, but I’m way past my estimated arrival time. She made it down to this other aid station, I guess because she was tired of waiting. I run through the tunnel in the mountain and reach mile 22.

After the aid station comes a long descent. Normally that would be welcoming, but the downhill pound on my blistered feet is unbearable. I gingerly complete the descent, only to turn around and run back up to the ridge of the mountain. I see another runner sitting off the trail. She says she’s done. I don’t know where she’ll go. I slowly make the hike. I can’t run anymore. I’m robotically hiking. I’m mad to be walking so much, instead of running. I make it to the top, where the tram is. Megan and the kids are there. I want to run for them but cannot. I walk with Megan and Ben. That’s the final ascent. 12,000 feet of elevation gain in one day is now complete. 

Then it’s downhill again. But it’s too steep to run. The trail is dusty and I slip around on it. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen another runner. I make it to lower elevation and the course levels off. I can start to run again. I can use my legs for something other than hiking! I run for about a mile, at a great pace, then I hear music in the distance. It’s the finish line. Megan calls me on my cell phone. I pick up and tell her I’m close. Then I catch my foot on a rock and fall. I land on my side. “I fell,” I tell Megan. She asks if I’m okay. I have no idea, but it feels good to be on the ground and off my feet. I could lay in the dirt for what seems like a long time. It’s holding me with magnetic force. I could take a nap. I have to convince myself to stand back up. I get running again and make it to the finish line. The race director gives me a high five and puts his arm around me. “You’re sick,” I tell him, for designing such a race. He chuckles and says it’s definitely a hard course. “Most people think they can run it much faster than they do." Previously I’d run two 50Ks in 5 hours. This one took 8 hours and 39 minutes. Megan and the kids greet me. It was hard, it hurt, but I finished it.