Elephant Rock 50K in Bountiful, UT

 

Race date: August 24, 2024 

A race starts the night before, I keep finding out as I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep. Like intruders, in come new thoughts about race preparations. On my pillow I rethink my water strategy, and decide to bring my 1.5 L back bladder, in addition to my 500 ML front vest bottles. Good thing, too, because while the first aid station is only 4.75 miles from the start, it is also over 3,300 feet in elevation from the start. Slow, time-consuming miles consume more water.

It's a small race - 16 of us gather in the dark at 5:20 AM for the race briefing. I've only run one other race in the dark, last year, and my headlamp had a lousy strap. It kept bouncing on my head. For this race I bring a smaller, lighter one we've had in the camping box for years. I tested it in a closet at home, and it seemed fine, but out in the open wilderness it's no brighter than the half moon above. I lock step with a guy in front of me who has a good headlamp and take advantage of his light. There's a religious allegory here, for anyone needing one. 

While I'm on his heels we spark up a conversation. He's already run a 100 miler earlier in the year, and he's got another one next month. What a beast. He says he tries to get 70 miles in per week, during peak training season, but he also has little kids at home. So he runs 10 miles almost every morning, before they wake up. 

The sun starts to rise as we climb, and I'm feeling good enough, so I pass him. I'm now in second place. But I hit a steep, rocky section, and another runner comes charging up the hill, hiking poles in hand. He passes me in a fury, putting me in third place. He's built like Sam, friend of Frodo Baggins, only taller. Big ol' calves. 

The wind is howling, especially up on exposed ridges. I take my hat off and tuck it in my back waistband so it doesn't blow off. As I finish the first big climb I reach back to put it on, but it's gone! It must have jostled out. I enter a mild panic, thinking about how I hadn't put any sunscreen on my head (which at this age is not lush with hair). Gonna be a long day under the sun. 

I am on the ridge at 8500', and the trail flattens out. I pass Sam, Frodo's friend, as he's built for hills more than flats, but I know he'll be at my heels when I reach Mordor, I mean the Sessions Mountain Peak in a few miles. 

I see a small, wooden sign with a wagon on it indicating I'm on the Great Western Trail. I could take this thing north to Canada or south to Mexico. But not today.

It's archery-hunt season, and there are hunters wandering the hills. I pass one and we have a short chat. He says the wind is messing with the hunt because his arrows won't fly true. Yeah, I'd say that too if I came home empty handed. 

I knew this race had serious vertical gain, and I'm ready. I have been doing a lot of hiking (and my oldest son has happily gone along with me on these hikes). I didn't want this race to turn into Speedgoat 2022, a 50K race which about reduced me to tears.

One of the most sensory experiences one can have is walking (or running) through an aspen forest. I'm weaving through tall, white pillars that make up the trunks, and I'm seeing silver-dollar sized leaves that have turned golden on the forest floor. I wonder about staying instead of running through it, but that would not be a good race strategy. 

On the way back down from the big climb (the first half of the race is an out and back) I keep my eyes peeled for my missing hat. I assume it blew off into nothingness with the wind. But I'll be darned if I don't see the thing right there in the middle of the trail! I'm back in business. Hatted once again, I continue my descent to complete the first half of the race. I pass a couple hikers, who must have something to do with the race, because they say to me, "You're in second; Finn is about five minutes ahead."

As I descend to the half-way-point aid station I see Finn taking off from it. I don't think I'll catch him, but I'd like to at least put some fear of God into him. That motivates me to keep up the pace. At the aid station I'm directed to a boot brush to scrub my shoes off. The BLM doesn't want shoes from one canyon carrying who knows what to the next, the race staff says. I wonder if the deer are also doing this. 

I run through a paved, residential area to another trail head where I'll start the last 16 miles. This section is in a popular hiking and biking area, and I'm constantly dodging others who also recreate outdoors. And some who stop in the middle of the trail to take selfies. I even come upon a family of wild turkeys and we share the trail for a pleasant moment. "Be thankful you weren't born on a Butterball farm," I tell them. They seem happy in the scrub oak. 

I make it to the mile 23.6 aid station and some guy has a spread of food in the back of an old Toyota pickup, with Russian pop music pumping from the speakers. I pick up a stale PBJ sandwich and refill my water. I think about how the county health departments regulate food trucks and concession stands. Race aid stations remain libertarian.  

For the last six miles or so I am in pain and don't feel like running. Sometimes waves of energy come in bursts during the tough miles, but the bursts aren't coming. This is a chance to not resist the pain but be present with it. I start counting to four in my head and run to that beat, over and over and over again. This is the meditative state that's hard to achieve elsewhere. 150 bucks and a 3:40 AM wake-up buys it today. 

As I enter the finish line I come to a stream crossing. I see my two sons playing in the water while they wait for me to finally finish the dang race. "Dad, come see this caterpillar over here!" shouts my youngest son. "Okay, let me cross the finish line (which is 25 feet away) and I'll come see it," I reply. My sweet family has made the drive to Bountiful to watch me end this thing. They're the best.

I never did catch up to ol' Finn, but he and I gave each other respectful nods as we crossed paths on the out-and-back trail near the second-to-last aid station. After the race I walk gingerly down to the stream for a bath in the frigid waters. It's the kind of bath 150 bucks and getting up in the dark buys you.