Crimson Canyon Ultra in Richfield, UT

Race date: September 21, 2024 

It’s 8 PM and I am parked in Ken’s Field. No, it isn’t a famous baseball stadium, like Wrigley Field. It’s a field of weeds and sage brush across the street from the Richfield Flying J. “$3.49,” the price for unleaded, glows at me in giant, red letters. Ken’s Field is owned by the race director, and he allows race participants to camp here for the night. I took him up on it. It’s kind of hot, boxed inside my car, but if I roll the windows down I get the noise from the Flying J. I settle for the noise. 

I awake early and look forward to a pleasant morning of stretching and other race preparations. As I get dressed there’s a small hiccup. I can’t find my socks! The more I run trail races, the more I realize it's a sport of logistics.

I had brought two pairs; one to be placed inside a drop bag at Aid Station 5, about 36 miles in, in case my feet called for a fresh set. Drop bags are what racers can place belongings in and have available to them at specific points in the race. Thankfully, I had taken a picture of everything I placed in my two drop bags, and in my picture I see that I’d put both my pairs of socks in my drop bag. I drive like a banshee to the race start and am elated to find out the drop bags haven’t been dispatched to the aid stations on the race course yet. I’m all discombobulated, but I manage to strap on my running vest, fill my hydration bottles, and lather on sunscreen just in time to make the race start.

The race director's mother, a grandmotherly lady who drove from Washington to be a part of her son’s annual race, hits a big bell with a hammer and we’re off in the night. A trail of headlamps forms. I settle in with the top of the pack, but a few are much too fast for me. What’s difficult is the 60K and 50-mile runners run most of their race together, and I don’t know who’s running what. 

The first 18 miles of the race is one big climb from the Richfield valley floor to White Pine Peak. There was a full moon on Wednesday, so I have been looking forward to running under a hearty, waning gibbous moon. But the night sky is cloudy and hides the moon. A sprinkle or rain mists us, and I start to wonder if I should have packed a jacket. The race required a rain jacket or a poncho, and I went with an emergency poncho since it can be folded down tightly. 

As the morning breaks the clouds keep the sky darkened, but a flaming-orange, horizontal sliver of sky shows between the hills and the clouds on the horizon. I do my best to observe this as I also try to run and not trip. 

As with my last few races, I begin 16-hours fasted and run the first couple hours with only water and electrolytes. This is actually pretty easy to do when the week leading up to the race I’ve been doing all I can to pack in calories and carbs. I also think of it as a superpower. If I’m running close with someone early in the race I say (in my head), “Just wait until I eat something.” 

Aid station 2 is a little over 9 miles in, and it’s time to break the fast! I eat some stuff from my drop bag and graze the aid station spread. The aid station volunteers have music going on a bluetooth speaker. Not kidding - “Mary, Did You Know?” the Christmas song informing Mary that Joseph is NOT the father, is playing. I pray to Mother Mary that these lyrics do not cycle in my head for the rest of this race.

Fueled, I begin a steep, uphill climb. I still have a triangle of watermelon in one hand and a quarter peanut butter sandwich in the other. The sun is peeking through and I reach for my sunglasses, which were in my dropbag at the aid station. They’re missing from their little bag. I weigh the cost of running back down the hill to the aid station to see if they’re there versus running the rest of the day without them. I head downhill. The aid station workers haven’t seen them. I run back up, dismayed. Then I find them on the trail, just about right where I originally reached in my pocket for them, where they must have fallen out. Logistics. 

“Confidence marker” is a term with a warm, comforting connotation to trail runners. Typically, intersections of trails are well marked, to keep one from getting off path, but confidence markers are placed along the trail, in between junctions, to give you peace of mind: “Yes, I’m still on the right path," one can lovingly say to themselves. At the race briefing the race director announced that he doesn’t use a lot of confidence markers, and all racers need to have a GPX file downloaded onto a device. Man, one of the reasons I run is to get away from my devices. Did I get lost? Yes, twice. 

At about mile 18 I reach the summit of White Pine Peak, put on a rubber wristband from a box for proof, and now I’m rewarded with 18 miles of beautiful, glorious downhill running. Furthermore, the course follows the famous Spinal Tap Trail, typically used by experienced mountain bikers, but today also used by numbskull runners. The terrain is a glorious mix of banked curves, rock gardens, jumps, and drop offs. 

I’m weaving through a forest of juniper trees, looking around, and then I find myself going down. At this age, this is going to be an adult fall. Not like one of the five falls my 8-year old has per day. I manage to get an elbow and palm down before my face or any other vital organs hit the ground, and rotate my body to see if I can skip on the ground, rather than dent it. I achieve this with fair results. No time to assess damages. I’m still breathing, so I hop up, dust off, and carry on.

I come to a major cliff edge in the middle of the trail, and two mountain bikers are at the bottom of the descent. One is on his bike, the other is off his and appears to be recovering from something. “Did you two go down this?!” I shout. “Yeah, and he made this big crater in the dirt here,” says the one still on his bike. I clamber down at low speed.

I make it to an aid station where, thank heavens, they have pickles and boiled potatoes. I ask the aid station guy if he has any salt for the potato. He produces a salt shaker and I hold out a couple potato halves. “How much do you want?” he asks. “Think white Christmas,” I say - a nod to Mary.

I come upon a racer, and he’s hobbling. I ask him if he’s hurt. “No,” he replies, “Why do you ask?” I remind myself that walking gingerly down a trail is normal in these settings. About another mile later I find myself behind another racer. His back is covered in dust, and we have a conversation about how tough the trail has been. “I fell on my @$$ a while ago. When I did my quad locked up in a cramp. I got it shaken out, though.” I tell him about my adult fall. Conversations are pretty short, as much as I’d like to ask other runners the existential questions that course through my head during long runs. 

At the bottom of the Spinal Tap Trail, 36 miles in, the 60K runners have a short jaunt to the finish line. The 50 milers get to turn around and ascend back into the hills for 16 more miles of fun. There’s an aid station here, and one of the volunteers asks me how I’m feeling. “I want to cry and throw up,” I say, honestly. Food has been hard to get down. The solids are not appealing, so I’ve been doing my best to consume energy gels and electrolyte drink. 

At this point in the race the trail enters a slot canyon. There are boulders to climb over, and this scrambling would be fun if I wasn’t dizzy. The sun has come out in full force, and it’s incredibly hot. My skin is suddenly glistening in sweat. I can feel the moisture exiting my body. I trudge through the canyon, enter an interesting section where I run on a ridge in the bottom of a valley. Like running on the middle peak of the letter W. 

I’m not so sure trail runners love running. I think they like it. What they love is nature. Running is simply a medium to experience nature in. An ultramarathon is an organized excuse to be in nature all day. I could simply hunt mushrooms or identify birds, instead. Maybe next year. 

So many of the racing energy products are acid-based. I’ve been using salt pills, glucose tablets, energy gels, electrolyte drink - all stuff low on the pH scale. My tongue is building canker sores, and the salt pill I’m eating feels like battery acid on my tender taste buds. I look around for something alkaline to suck on. I think hard about taking in a mouthful of the dirt trail I’m running on. 

I make it to the entrance of another slot canyon, this one called Cathedral Canyon. It has a short but gorgeous stretch of striped, fluted walls. All is well and dandy until I see the course markers turn sharp right for a unimaginably steep climb up loose dirt out of the canyon, to loop back to the rest of the racecourse. At this point I’ve been running for almost 9 hours, and it’s taking mental gymnastics to finish the ascent. I have a few mantras I’ve employed throughout the day to get me through the hardest parts. One is to repeat, outloud, the names of my wife and kids. Another is to proclaim, “I can do this all day… all day.” as if to get nature to be scared of me and back off its harshness. The third is simply well-placed, well-timed swear words. 

I come out of the slot canyon to an aid station. I ask for electrolyte drink, but they don’t have any mixed up. A kind volunteer begins measuring off scoops into a pitcher, then starts looking for a ladle. “Look, just dump what you have in my water bottles. I’ll drink the chunks down.” I get a lot less particular as the miles pile on. A while back I dropped my water bottle mouthpiece in dirt and didn’t even bother to wipe it off before using it. 

There have been major storm clouds threatening the horizon for most the day, and suddenly they let loose. I’m getting soaked, but the worst part is the clayey soil is adhering to my shoes, adding considerable weight. I’m also slipping all over on the muddy trail. I wonder about running the rest of the race in this condition, but thankfully the rain lets up after 20 minutes and that’s the end of it. 

I find my way down into the valley below and view the city of Richfield. I’m above the north end of town, near the Flying J. I see the “$3.49” red sign for unleaded that glowed on me in bed last night. I pick up my pace and run from 52 miles of dirt/rock/mud trail onto a civilized, asphalt path leading to the finish line. After passing the inflatable arch, I’m handed a large block of local sandstone etched with the race logo. My last challenge is to carry this big slab to my car, where I’ll accidentally leave my used socks under my seat for the next week and wonder why no amount of airing out is helping things. Logistics.