Palisades Ultra 50M in Irwin, Idaho

Race date: July 22, 2023 

At the pre-race meeting, the evening before, we're instructed on how to navigate the course successfully. "Try not to throw up," the medical director mentions, since it can deplete your body of valuable liquids and electrolytes. I mentally add that to my list of tries for tomorrow. Someone else on the race staff steps forward and says that on the section of trail he marked a week earlier, mountain critters of some type have been eating the colored sprinkler flags he put in the ground. So we're told we may need to keep an eye out for bare metal wire sticking up from the ground. At least that portion of the race will be in daylight.

Race start time is 2:00 AM. Check in at 1:30. We'll be working a graveyard shift in the mountains. I have the seats folded down in the back of my SUV and make myself a little bed. The guy next to me gets into the passenger seat of his car and leans it all the way back. We both nod to each other, acknowledging the silliness of what's going on here. My setup would have worked well but I'm parked on a slope, and I keep sliding towards the back of my car at a glacial pace. 

Just as the pre-race jitters have started to fade and my mind is drifting into a dream, I hear car doors opening and closing. It's 1:13 AM and racers are getting ready for the fun-filled day. I can sleep tomorrow.

I've never run in the dark. For the race, I'm using an old headlamp I use for camping. It's a good light and all, but the elastic band has been stretched out with age so it bounces around on my forehead. The trail in front of me is thus illuminated by a strobe light. 

I'm three miles in and my feet are slipping around in my shoes. I tied them as I normally do, but this course has so much slope and so many rocky portions that they need to be more snug. I stop on the side of the trail to re-tie them, which is a hassle when I use double knots and gaiters over my shoes to keep pebbles out. I think about how funny it'd be to see a racer in a track and field event stop to retie their laces. Like if Sanya Richards-Ross stopped half way around the track in the 400 meter to get her laces right. But in a 50 mile race you can probably stop for a 10 minute nap and keep your place.

After the first big climb I'm running closely behind a guy. "Go ahead," he says and motions me past, "I suck at downhills." I oblige and cruise on past. He passes me a couple hours later, on the second mountain climb. "You're the guy who likes uphills," I say. He affirms and bounds off in front of me, prancing swiftly up the mountain like a deer. It's incredible. For his training he must run up a hill and call an Uber to get back down. 

I have a new fashion accessory this time around. I ended up with a couple broken ribs after falling in my last race, so I invested in a pair of padded biking gloves. While running across a large rock slide I catch my toe and fall forward. I put my hands down and the gel cushioning on the palms makes it feel like I'm landing on a cloud. Plus, with the cutoff fingers I look like a UFC fighter, just without the muscles and jawline and such. But the predators in this country should still be intimidated.

After 8 miles we're running down a dirt road. On such flat terrain I'm able to turn off my headlamp and follow the light of runner in front of me. I can finally look up and enjoy the star filled sky without tripping. It's majestic. 

As with my last race, I again start this one fasted. At the first aid station, 10 miles in, I go to my drop bag and stuff food into my race pack. Now it's time to throw down some calories. I always manage to bring stupid things to eat for races. This time it's a ziplock bag of corn nuts. I figured the salty starch source will be great carbs for the race, but you just can't eat those suckers while breathing heavily. In desperation, I pour some water from my water bottle into the bag and envision making myself a little mess of grits. But I learn corn nuts are not water soluble. I still manage to chomp them down then drink the salty juice I just created. "Try not to throw up," enters my mind, and I quickly take mental command of my physical faculties.

It would be pleasant to have dry feet for such a long run, but the course is riddled with stream crossings. In fact, at points the trail is a stream. It'll be an amphibious day in soggy shoes.

At the base of the second mountain climb the night sky starts to give way to light. It's fun to watch every minute of the transition, out in the forest. The birds wake up and begin their chatter. I'm in the Paradise Loop part of the course, and it's a lush, green mountain brimming with wildflowers of all colors. But this is more backcountry than any part of the course, and it's where I start thinking about grizzly bears, which I learned have now "inhabited this area but seeing one would be rare." I read an entire book on grizzly bear attacks a couple years ago. They wouldn't want to mess with such a student of their game.

Near the top I come to a fork in the trail. I see course flags to the left but a sign with an arrow is pointing right. I pull up the gpx file on my phone and decide on left. The right arrow is probably for the 100 mile course, which does the 50 mile course twice but once in each direction. Then I see another 50 mile runner bounding down the hill coming my way. He realized, after running right, that right was wrong. There's nothing funny about adding mileage to this course. I mutter words of comfort while he curses the world, then he runs off ahead of me. He's fast.

The trails on this course, often, are in the shape of a narrow trough or half pipe. Landing flat footed is not a luxury, as each step is inverted. Then of course the base of the trail is littered with cobble and roots and the occasional beetle you don't want to unnecessarily end the life of.

Of the four aid station locations, three of them have to pack everything in and filter water, mind you. Yet at the Paradise Loop aid station they've decorated the spot with a canopy, an inflatable palm tree, and stuffed marine animals. These volunteers are incredible. One of them offers me a little baggie of boiled potatoes rolled in salt. These go down easy. I also down a pickle juice shot here, the sour saltiness of which is liquid heaven to my dehydrated self.

I run down the valley floor back to the first aid station, where I'll repeat part of the course before splitting off another direction. This time I get to do the stretch in daylight. I'm feeling confident now, knowing two of the three climbs are done. But this last one is a beast. I hit the base of it late morning, with the sun up and already cooking everything in sight. At the last aid station I got a little cute and decided on only my front two water bottles and half of the bladder in my pack. I quickly realize I have to go into ration mode. 

I decide to limit myself to the front two bottles for the climb up. Then I can use the remaining .75 liters in my bladder to get down the mountain and over to the next aid station, which is several miles off in a hot valley floor. The climb has no switchbacks. It's a long death march, as described by a runner I pass. All told, this race has 11,600 feet of vertical gain which, to my Utah friends, is like hiking Mount Timpanogos 2.5 times. By the top of the mountain I managed my liquid situation according to plan, which I feel good about, but my lower back muscles are all seized up from the climb. So going downhill now, at about the same incline as I went up, is trying.

At the bottom of the last climb the trail is almost tropical with thick, tall, foliage. It's humid and the bugs are out. Flies attack me like little kamikaze warriors. I am out of water and know I have about a mile until the next aid station. I'll make it; it'll simply be uncomfortable.

Right before the final aid station is a river crossing. It's about thigh deep, but I can easily bend down and get up to my torso enveloped by crisp, clear mountain water. It washes off all the dirt and grime from the day. I get out and resume adding dirt and grime, but not before enjoying salted watermelon and a cup of cold Coca-Cola at the aid station. 

The last stretch runs parallel to Big Elk Creek. A spur of it is an out-and-back, so you get to see who's ahead of you and then on your way back who's behind you. Other runners are so friendly, giving words of encouragement and compliments. Everyone out here is a hero for taking this thing on, whether they finish or not and regardless of time and rank. 

For the last three miles the afternoon summer air envelopes me like a hot, damp blanket. Having stopped again for a drink at the final aid station, I take the remaining water from my pack and squirt it around on my body like a NASCAR driver swinging a bottle of champagne. I enjoy the cool down but also don't want the extra water weight. Now I'm out of water but I'm down to the length of my typical mid-week run on the canal bank by my house. About a mile later I am really regretting my party move. My mouth is parched again and this final stretch seems to be stretching.

I pass a few fishermen walking on the trail. They tell me I'm close to the finish and congratulate me. "A river runs through it," I say, knowing it doesn't really make any sense. The finish line ends with a jaunt up railroad-tie steps leading to the lodge. The riser height of each step varies, and the race director with the megaphone shouts, "Don't trip!" as I bound up them with surprising energy. I just went through 50 miles of tripping territory, I think. Nobody warned me about tripping until now. 

I finish and a real nice man from the racing staff sits me down on a bench then hands me a wooden finisher medal and an Otter Pop. At this moment a place to sit, a frozen kid's treat, and a 50 miler behind me is as good as it gets. 

The course is a gorgeous monster. For the 50 mile race, 32 people finish and 36 do not. More likely could have finished but simply didn't make the cut-off times. They were forced to stop and hike their way out of the race. For the 100 mile race, which runs it twice, 8 people finish and 16 do not. The mountains are the real winner and the racers are only along for the ride.