Author Note: I have been on a break over the past few weeks. Initially, I intended to post on the previous Fridays, however, I decided against it and to treat the break as a full-on vacation. I do not regret it one bit. I want this to be a reminder to any of you workaholics who try to fit some work in on vacation downtime. It’s just not worth it. Take a break. You deserve it.
As soon as we stepped out of the car at the Philmont Scout Ranch, the all too familiar pre-race anxiety was palpable. Across the rows and rows of structured canvas tents, Sawtooth Ridge and the rest of the Sangre de Cristo mountains loomed ominously on the horizon, providing a sense of foreboding of what was to come the next morning.
After checking in, we began our pilgrimage from the car to the other side of camp where our tent assignment was. The structured canvas tent was just large enough to stand up in, came equipped with two metal-framed cots, and was our refuge for rest the night before the race.
All around, fellow racers and occasionally their family were settling in, preparing their gear, and trying to relax as much as possible. Once we had our stuff settled in our tent, we made the walk back to the car and prepared a soul-lifting meal of pasta covered in veggie-blended tomato sauce and plenty of parmesan cheese.
Not long after we finished dinner and repacked our cooking equipment, it was time to shower, stretch, and try to get as much sleep as possible. Unfortunately, the showers were a little too close in similarity to the showers in the Navy, but the warm water helped to ease my jitters.
By now, the sun was hiding behind the Sangre de Christos and the golden hour was fading. A simple stretch and foam roll later, we settled into the oven of our tent, and I began my attempt to sleep.
All too soon, the chime of my alarm pulled me out of the small amount of live sleep I was able to grasp. While the warmth of the tent kept me awake for much of the previous evening, the remaining trapped heat made for a comfortable morning. One that I was expecting to be quite chilly.
Trying to remain quiet for the people sleeping in other tents nearby, I began to dress and pack the small remaining items left out of my pack.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, the camp was quiet at 4:30 a.m. as only the 50-mile racers and the marathon early risers (myself included) were awake. With my race bus scheduled to depart an hour later, we made our way to the car where I started to warm up, finish preparations, and eat a nice warm bowl of oatmeal.
The darkness of the morning and my pre-race haste led to some interesting cosmetic details, but eventually, it was time to head to the race briefing.
The race and safety brief was, as expected, a short refresher course on common sense and courtesy. A little late, the busses eventually pulled up to the parking pavilion and the 63-person group of runners climbed aboard.
Bumping and swerving down a series of dirt roads, we arrived at the start line half an hour later and five minutes behind schedule. Waiting for our arrival were two Boy Scout leaders and a large mule standing guard.
Being behind schedule, we wasted no time lining up so that we could be officially started. While the sun had not crested the horizon yet, enough light spread about the meadow surrounding the start line.
All of my pre-race anxiety vanished when the starting gun popped and our herd began jogging up the dirt road, bound on both sides by long grass fields spreading to the edges of the forest.
About 30 minutes into the early climb up to the first mesa, the sun began to climb into the sky, spreading an enchanting blanket of warm light along the valley below.
The first climb would prove to be the second-most difficult of the course, and because of this, the race pack began to spread out quickly based on performance. Luckily, I was able to engage in a relatively early chase of people near my fitness level.
Thinking about the race in a basic way, we started in a valley entrance, were to work our way up to the ridgeline, follow the ridgeline around another valley, up and over the sawtooth ridge, and then back to the Scout Ranch. All of this is within around 26.5 miles and almost a verticle mile of elevation gain and descent.
Making the trek up to the ridge provided some opportunities for beautiful views. At the end of the big climb, a clear view emerged across the valley we were set to go around with the big sawtooth cliff at the center view. It was at this moment when I fully realized how far 26 miles actually is.
During the middle 50 percent of the race, I entered a mind state that I think is common across us masochists who do this for fun. It is almost as if my mind goes numb and I become entranced by the trail and surrounding nature. The whole segment blends together into a blur of green and pine and sweat.
An increasing frequency and proximity of thunder brought me back to reality at a fairly inopportune time. I was finishing the largest climb of the race and was about to enter the exposed ridgeline of Sawtooth Ridge, not the ideal place to be for a storm. I knew that there was still some time before I was in any real danger, and at a certain point the best way out was forward, so I put my head down and picked up my pace.
My increased pace proved to be short-lived as I crested the ridgeline where I was slowed down by some very technical rock scrambling. Still feeling concerned about the coming storm, I wanted to get out of the exposed section as quickly as I could without getting injured. Ultimately this extra exertion came to catch me later on in the race.
As I reached the edge of the forest again, the rain started to come. Cold, hard, and windy. Sheets of needles came flying through the trees, hitting my exposed skin with vengeance.
After a while, I got somewhat used to it, although never completely. The storm moved quickly but stuck around long enough for me to have to deal with it for a decent chunk of mileage, ending at a good time as I exited the forest onto the final switch back down to the Scout camp.
About three miles out from the finish line, I spotted someone from the marathon group ahead of me and knew it was go time.
I switched the afterburners on and step by step, chased them down the trail. Catch, pass, bury.
There was no way I was going to let up after passing them about a mile from the finish. Running as hard as I could, balancing the adrenaline of competition with the feeling of needing to vomit, I was determined to build as big of a lead going into the finish as possible.
While most people came across the finish line that day with smiling faces and two thumbs up, my late-stage sprint pushed me past the edge of being able to flash my pearly whites. Instead, I stumbled to a stop, stopped my watch activity, collected my medallion, and immediately looked for somewhere to lie down.
As I regained a little energy (and took in some more calories), the reality of finishing settled in. I felt, and still feel, proud of completing this race. There were many points along the way where I could have easily quit, but I didn’t and I feel very pleased that I didn’t.
While right after this race finished, I questioned my thought process on putting myself through this, the selective runner’s amnesia settled in before the day was over and I knew I would do this again and again, with no regrets.
