23 August 2015


I live in Colorado where I run, mountain bike, and ride my dirt bike. I also make videos on the trails, produce a podcast show, and coach athletes. That's pretty much it.

18 July 2012

Hardrock 100 Race Report 2012

After my experience at Hardrock last year, several people have asked whether I would even consider running the race again.  The answer was always yes, but what I don't mention is that I was looking forward to giving it another crack while driving back to Boulder the same day I finished the race.  Something deep inside me knew I'd be given another chance and when the lottery was drawn and I was just 7th on the wait list, I knew my fate was sealed.

The unfortunate aspect was that I now lived in the Bay Area at sea level and didn't readily have access to altitude.  I did, however, have access to hills and many, many races, which I took advantage of right out of the gate in 2012 with a trail half marathon on Jan. 1st and then a 50k the next weekend; I've raced nearly 400 miles in the first six months of 2012 before Hardrock.  I switched things up beginning in November of 2011 with a focus on climbing and long tempo-style runs (like the half marathons).  I also changed my diet some, which evened out my energy, tempering the swings I used to experience from a ball of energy to a sloth with little variance in between.

Along with the heavy race load of half marathons and 50ks, personal life was occupying much of my mental capacity (scarce to begin with), and it seemed I was in nearly constant conflict with a couple of the main people in my life.  Running, I realized, had become the one thing I turned to for happiness.  It wasn't only the simple activity of running but the people that running was bringing into my life that provided the enjoyment.  Even with those new people and certain amount of happiness, I was still missing something and that, I slowly realized, were the mountains that gave me so much fulfillment.  I craved mountains and I craved racing in the mountains, so Hardrock was a main source of escape for me.  I must have looked at every photo on the internet of the San Juans a dozen times each.

Slowly, the chaotic parts in my life either lost interest in me or I in them and they fell away leaving a somewhat clean slate on which I could create with a new brush and fresh, bright colors instead of the dreary greys that had grown darker over the last few months.  Hardrock was always there for me, even though I took steps to back out of it a few times, mostly to appease the negative people and situations in my life.

In terms of the training leading up to the race, as mentioned, I raced a lot.  I laid out a solid plan and schedule of races that gradually grew in both distance and intensity.  In February I raced the American Canyon 50k.  In March I raced Way Too Cool 50k hard to a 3:59 finish, followed that up in April with the Diablo 50k, which I won breaking my own course record in 4:51.  Then, two weeks later, I ran hard at Miwok 100k, resulting in a 10th place in 10:15.  And, finally, I raced San Diego 100 mile and chopped 3 hrs 45 mins off my 2011 time there, finishing in 3rd overall in 19:01.  The re-work of my training plan and tweaking of my nutrition had changed my running for the better and I felt good for Hardrock, though realized my pure mountain running and climbing was lacking.  Also, having now lived in the Bay Area at sea level since November, I was quietly concerned about the elevation I'd be facing in July.  There wasn't much I could do about it.


My recovery from San Diego 100 lingered a bit and I felt low energy and dull on my runs up until about a week before Hardrock.  Milage was low during those four weeks but there were some decent runs, including the fun of pacing Brandon Fuller for 38+ miles at Western States to a 23:22 finish.

Shaun (left) and GZ at Silverton Brewery
Please don't let me get lost.

A couple months ago I blurted out a post on my site that I'd like a pacer and possibly crew for Hardrock.  I ran it last year without crew and had JT as a pacer for just the last (excruciating) 28 miles.  By the end of that day, I had two friends committed to my race, Shaun Katona for crewing and George Zack (GZ) for pacing.  I couldn't have been more content.  GZ picked me up from the airport and I stayed with Shaun in Boulder before we all three left on Wednesday morning for Silverton, arriving just in time for the medical check and bib pick-up, where I got to chat with my friend and one of my biggest running influences, Karl Meltzer.

Miners Shrine
Thursday morning we met up with JT and Brian Fisher (who I'd seen the night before and invited) for a little 40 min shake out run on the eve of the race.  Then we attended the brief pre-race meeting (Dale does a superb job of keeping it focused, informative, and engaging).  Suddenly, all the lead-up to the race was done and all that was left was waiting to line up and start.

Our dainty hotel room in the Grand Imperial.
GZ, Shaun, and I had dinner and Shaun headed back up to his campsite (his choice) and GZ and I retired to our floral room in the Grand Imperial Hotel (opened in 1882).
Shaun's campsite. 
I didn't sleep one minute that night; a situation I hadn't experienced before a race in the past.  I simply lied in bed and thought about everything from the race to where I might end up living at the end of the month.  So, when 4:45am rolled around, I was bleary-eyed and completely drained.  I just put it out of my mind and went through the motions of getting ready after running down to the start and checking in with Dale.  I purposely avoided going down to the start and mingling with everyone and at 5:55 I went downstairs, hugged and thanked my crew, and lined up next to Nick Pedatella and we were off at 6am.

Instead of going over every step of the run, I'll simply say that I hit my splits within about a minute for the first 25 miles.  I put splits together for a near 30 hour finish somewhat based on Ted Mahon's Hardrock in 2010.  Sure enough, Ted caught up to me just as I was leaving Chapman aid station at mile 20.  We ran together for the next section to Telluride at mile 29.  We climbed well together up to and over 13,000 ft Oscars and descended.  I stopped to pee and Ted gapped me, so I spent the 4,500 ft descent down Bridal Falls "Rd" trying to catch up.  He and John Hart were motoring and I felt uncomfortable pushing so hard that early but maintained the pace, catching them just before the bottom and we three jogged into town and the aid station.  It was pouring rain, which made the first crew stop a little chaotic, sock change (my new socks were rolling down under my heel and had caused some nice blisters), grabbing a jacket, trying to decide when the rain would stop and whether I'd be too cold, all while trying to eat something after that nauseating descent.  GZ ran/walked with me a couple blocks and I was off on my climb up Virginius feeling drained and in an abnormally high amount of pain.

Me climbing Virginius just ahead of Christian Johnson.
Photo Evan Honeyfield
The bad patch continued the entire section and I got off course for a while, which sucked.  When I finally reached the peak and Roch Horton's Kroger Canteen aid station, I was in a sour mood and feeling like it might not be my day.  Typically, I can talk myself out of bad spots and know I'll feel better at some point but this was different.  I was sleepy, sluggish, and in an intense amount of pain, feet, joints, back, everything.  I ate a little and dropped off the backside of Virginius half falling, half running, with a lot of scrapes and cuts along the way.  Jogging along the path leading to Bird Camp Rd., Krissy Moehl was coming up behind me and told me to latch on for company, so I did.  My mood immediately improved, if ever so slightly.  I could tell Krissy was hurting but she just plugged along like the champion she is.  It was so nice chatting with her and sharing our silent misery.  The long run down Bird Camp went by reasonably quickly and soon I was at Ouray at mile 45 where Brandon was waiting to run with me for the next section to Grouse.

Ouray dinner.

Contemplating sanity.

Geared up and heading out.
Brandon was great.  I was tired and quiet.  He was tentatively making light conversation and it was nice talking with him as we made our way out of town to tackle the long section with 6,800 ft of climb in it. He also took some video footage; gives one the idea of the scale of the area in parts of it:

We crested Engineer Pass and descended the long road to Grouse Gulch (mile 60.5).  I was miserable on the descent and told Brandon I'd need to lie down for a bit.  The lack of sleep leading up to the race had taken hold of me and there was no going on until I recharged a little.  Shaun, Kara, GZ, and Brandon went to work immediately.  They ripped my shoes off and Brandon taped my mangled feet like a professional.  The others tried feeding me and keeping my spirits up, while GZ prepared himself for his long 42 miles to come.  After a few minutes, they convinced me to get up and dressed me for the cold night climb over 14,000 ft Handies Peak.  Here are some photos that pretty much sum up my condition.  I'm usually a master of sleep deprivation but I was close to unconscious.

Brandon concerned his awesome foot taping job was wasted on a corpse.

Soft kitty blanket…. whatever.

keeping the sandwich handy on my shoulder.
Kitty blanket hell.
Trying to rally my cloudy mind to get up and go.

GZ and I almost ready to go.
It was now 20 minutes after midnight and we were making our way out of Grouse Gulch to make our way to Handies Peak, the highest point of the race at 14,048 ft.  Before that you have to climb American-Grouse Pass, a nice little 13,000 ft climb.  In my fudge-thick mind, I thought we had summited Handies until GZ pointed out we were only at 13,000 ft.  I scanned around with my light and found no higher point around us and then remembered we'd need to drop to a basin where I filled my hydration pack last year, albeit in the middle of the day at that time.

We made our way across the basin and began the climb up Handies.  It was windy and cold at times but otherwise just a long grind that felt like we were handling well.  Only one set of lights were gaining on us while the others seemed to be slower.  It turned out to be Billy Simpson and his pacer who was dragging a little.  The four of us summited together and scrambled across the peak before dropping off the steep backside onto a series of fairly technical switchbacks.  I fell once with my left leg collapsed and twisted between two rocks.  It was more startling than painful but I got to my feet and continued on.  I could feel the air thickening, which helped me increase the pace a bit and we reached Burrows Park aid station just before 5am.  It was a brief stop since we had Sherman aid station just down the road about 4-5 miles.

Reaching Sherman in that pasty blueish light of very early morning with the night chill in full effect, I wasn't in the best of moods and not very interested in lingering there long but we had some work to do in the form of dropping off our night gear and extra clothes in my one drop bag there.  I ate a breakfast burrito that was tough to choke down.  We had a big climb ahead of us, not the steepest but very long with a lot of gain.  I remembered this section as one of my favorites from the previous year, mostly because it was a very long gradual descent through beautiful meadows, around waterfalls, water crossings, and views rich and expansive.  GZ loved this section.  He kept commenting that we'd been going for a long, long time and the valley meadow seemed unending and pristine.  It is definitely void of any human evidence.  It was getting a little old for me and I was pleased to finally see Pole Creek aid station situated on a large lump of a hill with a sadistic little climbing path straight up to it.

I was in a dour mood, nauseous, dizzy, and still in some of the worst pain I've experienced in any races.  I was trying to choke down scraps of banana in a tortilla and GZ was just trying to lighten the mood, I'm sure, by being coyly overbearing on the insistence of me eating.  "Eat something.  Want a cookie?  How about some potato chips?  A gel?"  I snapped at him to stop and that I was eating.  Then I asked Chris Price, who was working the aid station if he'd like to pace me the last 20 miles.  The volunteers just sort of stood there saucer-eyed not really knowing how to react to this crazy looking runner who was obviously about to snap.  GZ and I laughed it off and headed out, to the relief of the aid workers, I'm sure.

Maggie Gulch (mile 87 of 102.5)
It was a long, hot, exposed haul to Maggie Gulch.  It was a nice surprise to see Shaun and Kara there, since it's a non-crew access aid station.  Justin Mock was there as well as his little dogs - good to see him.  I ate a little but the thought of food was repulsive.  I knew from my 4 hours of not eating at San Diego that I had to choke down some calories, so I tried.  I was mentally and physically drained.

I don't really remember the next section to Cunningham, except that it was very long and we encountered a couple of icy cold rain storms that forced me to run hard.  We caught up to and passed Krissy Moehl and her pacer during the rain storm.  We were flying.  I was pretty fucking pissed and in my fragile mental state I felt the rain was part of the race to make it more difficult.  We passed by this old hippie guy taking photos and I remembered him taking a photo of me in the beginning of the race.  "Hey, you took my picture 31 hours ago.  How's it going?"  Then we began the ankle twisting long, dry descent to Cunningham aid station.  It seems there was a large bear on the trail here just minutes before we arrived.  At that point I would've kicked him in the teeth just for existing.  This shit was getting old and I wanted to be done.

Should say, "Next stop, bed."

Dropping down to Cunningham.

Finally getting my appetite back a little

Leaving Cunningham for finish.
 The climb out was atrocious.  I was blacking out from exhaustion and the switchbacks seemed endless.  Knowing this was the last substantial climb was about the only thing that kept me going, just had to crest this sucker and make it to town.  Once over the top, it was a giant view where you could see the trail descend all the way down to a rustic, rocky road further dropping into trees where it disappeared. I had it in my head that Krissy was close behind us and didn't want her to see us when they reached the top of the climb, so we ran the entire descent fairly well until we caught a glimpse of two specks just coming over the top of the mountain.  The rock strewn, rutty road seemed unending.  I ran nearly two miles of it with GZ until I felt feverish and had stars flooding my vision.  My knees were really swollen (another thing I had never experienced).  We broke into a fast hike with intermittent jogs, finally reaching the end of the road and onto singletrack that lead to the Kendal Ski School at the north end of town.  We broke into a soft run for the last few blocks. I couldn't breathe at all and was gasping for air, so I couldn't thank GZ at that moment.  I rounded the flags and knelt to kiss the rock, sat down, and it was over.

35:49 and 34th place.
Just about to enter the finish chute.

With race director, Dale Garland.
GZ, me, and Shaun

GZ, companion for 40 miles and nearly 18 hours.

Everything is still a little raw in my mind.  There've been a couple times when I look at photos or watch Brandon's video, or simply think about parts of the race and my chest gets tight and eyes well up.  Hardrock is difficult.  I can't express what it's like to be pushed to the point of apathy.  You simply need to have the faith that it will end at some point and the suffering will be over.  Why put yourself through it?  That's a difficult question I get asked all the time.  It's not like I enjoy suffering.  I suppose the rewards, from seeing and experiencing remote, rugged, beautiful places, to stretching your perception of what is possible are a couple of the reasons.  I'll have to think more about it all and maybe write more later this week or soon about it.  Needless to say, Hardrock is in my heart and soul, imbedded in me like a belief.  I love the place, the event, and, most of all, the people.

Thank you Shaun for your quiet kindness, hospitality, generous gift of your time, and for being a good friend.  Thank you Kara for your organization, support, friendship, and kindness.  Thank you Brandon (and your family) for your companionship on the trail, knowledge of aid station needs, and friendship.  Thank you George for the adventure of sharing a good chunk of a race that's become an intrinsic part of my life.  We've had a couple of good adventures together and I look forward to more.  You're a good friend.  I value each of you deeply.

13 July 2011

Hardrock Follow Up Thoughts

Based  on a good friend's blog post today and my ability to think about the  events from last weekend, I'd like to provide some more insight into the  whole thing.  I may have to do this a few times over the next few weeks  or months to finely clear my mind of it.

I  went into this race fit and ready.  The fact that I only got into the  race a couple days before the start is not optimal but it's something I  anticipated.  Had I been selected from the lottery initially, I'm  certain my focus and training would've prepared me more specifically to  this race.  As it is, my training mostly focuses on constant running.   Of course, I've been doing 60-70 miles a month of fast walking along  with my running (usually walking 3 miles 5 days a week in the  mornings).  The majority (all but Hardrock) are runnable, SD100, Ice  Age, CP50, Grand Mesa 100, Leadville 100, Bear100, Chimera100… all  runnable, for the most part, and my training lends itself well to those  and I'll prove that I have some speed at one or more of them.

Hardrock  is an anomaly.  It's not like any other 100 in the US.  Huge chunks of  time can be added onto your run in an instant.  One mistake, whether you  go off course or fall in a river crossing and all of a sudden you've  lost an hour or more.  Get caught in a stiff thunderstorm and it could  force you to hunker down for a couple hours.  Develop breathing problems  and all of a sudden you are 30-40% slower than you would be with oxygen  in your lungs (took me THREE hours to complete the last segment from  Putnam to the finish…  I should've done it in 1 hour 15 mins).  There  are more opportunities for obstacles that suck huge gaps of time in  Hardrock than any other race around (save Barkley, which isn't even a  race imo).  

Here's a quote from an email I received yesterday from Dale, the race director, in response to an email I wrote to him,"Nicely done Tim!! You persevered through one of the toughest Hardrocks we have ever had!! In 20 years of directing this event, I have never seen the combination of weather, conditions and other factors come together to make a tougher run-you're finish is truly a testament to your tenacity!!."

Losing  time and being out there longer only increases the chances for problems  encountered.  Had I stayed on my 31+ hour pace (i.e. not gotten lost  before Handies peak), I would've likely avoided the major problems later.   I would've missed the storm on Engineer Pass.  I would've alleviated  much of the suffocation symptoms (that got progressively worse after 30  hours).  I would've missed the hideous storm and 3 hours wasted on  Putnam Pass.  At points I felt like Hardrock was throwing everything she  had at me trying to break me.  And she nearly did.  I've never been  pushed to that limit, awake for two straight days, unable to breathe,  daunting scale of distances and climbs to cover, extreme weather  changes, all of it.  I'd like to say I conquered all of it but in  reality I simply was humbled and somehow survived.  I can't even  pinpoint how I was able to keep pushing.  I think it came down to some  primal, raw, innate need.  There was no other choice.  Kissing that rock  was all I had in my life at that point and nothing else mattered  because it symbolized survival.  I'm fairly hard on myself and have  never admitted it publicly but have a low self-esteem.  I suppose my  fear of bolstering that image of myself by quitting was stronger than  whatever Hardrock was doing to try to break me.  I'm happy I truly did  it for myself and didn't care about others' perceptions.  I'm ashamed  that I was basically guilted into this drive to finish because of my  fear of lowering my self-perception.  It's a character flaw that has  lead to many careless and dangerous situations throughout my life,  whether through fear of fulfilling my low self-esteem or callous  disregard for my own well being.

Here's part of an email from Chris, the one who basically saved me on Putnam.  
"I  hope you made it back to civilization alight and are recovering well.  I  just wanted to tell you again how impressed I was with how you stuck in  with the race, and more importantly, how you handled yourself when  things went south out in Putnam.  I was glad to be able to be around and  able to lend a hand to you and JT, but the person that saved you was  you.  If you weren't as tough and as well-trained as you are, you never  would have pulled off a 2 hour wander in those conditions.  At that  point when we had to turn around and head back, hoping to find a flag to  get us back on track, I've never had a more sickening feeling in my  gut.  Most people, even having made it as far as you had, lose it right  there and I pretty much figured I'd killed you with that wrong turn.   That you had the guts to turn it around and keep moving at that point is  what made for a successful close to the evening. 

All  that crap aside, great work getting after the run and sticking in to  the finish.  I'll let you draw your own lessons about what Hardrock is  and what it isn't, but in my opinion, the guys like yourself, Mike  Mason, Christian Johnson, and some of the other legit racers who saw  their goals and expectations crumble but still pushed on for the finish  help define what the run is all about.  It's not Western States, and  never will be."

Solid guy with a lucid view, whom I look forward to seeing again some day.

Hardrock  has stretched my perceptions.  Runners I coach (I coach runners but I'm  not a coach.  Does that make sense?) hear it from me all the time.   Perceptions of what is difficult, possible, easy can be stretched like a  rubber band.  Pull the rubber band taught and the next time you pull it  to that distance it's easier (or seems easier).  My perceptions of  running 100 miles is much different than it was last year. And I can't  imagine a more difficult time than those 44 hours a couple days ago.   But that's my perception right now.

I'm  not one to open up my personal stuff but I'd rather folks have a  clearer understanding of who I am than to project their own  personalities when judging me.  That's why it's puzzling to me when  occasionally someone (who doesn't know me well) says I have a big ego.   That may be the furthest thing from the truth.  So, my finishing  Hardrock was more for my own internal survival mentally than anything.

11 July 2011

Hardrock 100: The Race Report

Climb up Oscars Pass

"Karl told me for my months of Hardrock training to soak my feet with a hose before every run." -Donnie

" Advice - it will get bad somewhere and you will try to talk yourself out of finishing BUT DON'T LET IT HAPPEN!"  -Scott Jaime

"There is always one more climb.  You will feel the worst when you are high on the passes so get off of them quickly, your condition will return to good quickly.  I know this.  I have sat there on the passes with death coming soon but just know it will be a matter of minutes before you feel better if you get down."  -Scott Jaime

"Virginius is henous, especially at night.  Snow at night on a pass = ice, take a tent peg with you to go over virginius.  It will scare you."  -Scott Jaime

"In terms of water crossings, I would think there may be more this year than last..."  "pretty much expect wet feet for most of the day".  -Nick Pedatella

"Don't worry about wet feet, you have no choice."  -Karl Meltzer

"Be careful crossing above the waterfall, it's a fatal spot."  -Karl Meltzer

"Watch out for cliffs on the left.  Fatal spot again."  -Karl Meltzer

"Virginius Pass, go across the Talus slope and pick up the route through the notch, it is steep, slippery, brutal."  -Karl Meltzer

With those words of wisdom I received from friends leading up to the Hardrock 100 this year, I felt ready, scared but ready.

There is so much that made up this event over the course of the 100 miles (107 for me, actually) that I would need to take two weeks off from work and write a short book to cover all the emotions, conditions, observations, physical sensations, and demons that emerged.  I'll try to cover just the highlights with a little description that will hopefully weave together some sort of coherent story for you to get the general idea that Hardrock is the hardest 100 mile race in the world.

My training was not specific to Hardrock at all, not much climbing and not much milage.  But I was in shape.  In the 8 weeks leading to the race I: raced two 50 mile events (Collegiate Peaks 50 and Ice Age 50, back to back weekends), road two 100 mile centuries, raced the San Diego 100 mile (16,000 ft of climb) and ran 30 miles up and down Mt. Evans (14,000+ ft).  Not a bad 8 weeks but for Hardrock you need a special and specific training regiment that involves a couple hundred thousand vertical feet of climb and many hours at over 13,000 ft.  Regardless, I felt fit enough and confident that I could survive.

I arrived in Silverton last Tuesday and went through the organized preparation, drop bags, check in, medical check, race briefing (the eventual winner and other European contingent sat just behind me and talked loudly and consistently through the entire briefing, so I didn't catch much of what was said), etc, all while studying my descriptions of the course and staying relaxed.

On race morning we lined up (it went by so fast).  I only talked to one person, Scott Jaime.  I said hi to him, shook his hand, and thanked him for the encouragement.  There are very few racers I respect more than him.
Hardrock 100 Counter-Clockwise Elevation Profile - 34,000 feet of climb and 34,000 feet of descent

Silverton and the start sit at 9,305 ft and mile 8 of the race is at 13,000 ft, so there's a nice little climb right from the get-go.  I eased into a soft jog with the top 30 or so folks, focussing on breathing easily.  At 4 minutes into the race we crossed a creek and my feet were wet and would remain wet for the next 44 hours.  I felt great on the climb, chatting with a couple of people.  Once crested, we descended down to 10,500 ft and the Cunningham Gulch aid station.  I was early on my splits by 10 minutes.  I had made up a laminated split card (something that's become part of my 100 mile race prep) and based it on a 31:45 finish time; a time I'm certain I'm capable of running there.  I lingered at the aid station for a long 6 minutes, mostly because I couldn't find Bill Dooper, who had my Black Diamond carbon Z-poles.  Once I found him (casually spectating the race while I was frantically looking for him), I made my way to the next climb up to Green Mountain and Buffalo Boy Ridge (both around 13,000 ft) before dropping down to Maggie Gulch, up and over Maggie Pole Pass, where I ran off course and down the other side of a ridge where the course normally goes but was rerouted due to heavy snow conditions.  So, I made my way back up the ridge and then down to Pole Creek aid station at around mile 19.6.  I was on my splits and feeling just fine.  It was cool and mostly clear and there was a sense of cautious excitement building in the other runners and myself.  

The next 9 miles is all runnable through rolling meadows with waterfalls, MANY water crossings and a nice descent down to Sherman aid station at mile 28.7.  I was advised to "tank up" at Sherman because the next stretch is supposed to be the longest without aid as we climb 5,300 feet (that's a vertical mile folks) over the next 5 miles to 14,048 ft Handies Peak.  I left Sherman and started up the dirt road.  I was mostly alone with a guy way behind me.  I started getting that feeling that I had been on the road too long, so when a ranger was coming at me in his little ATV, I flagged him down and asked.  He advised that I had a 1.5-2 mile trip back down the road to the correct trail leading up to Handies.  I was deflated, to say the least.  It was hot and exposed and I was nearly 4 miles off course.  To add to the dilemma, the lady who filled my hydration bladder must have spilled half of it while cramming back into my pack because the pack was soaking wet (contents included) and the bladder was half empty.  It was too late to worry about it now and I hadn't noticed the mishap due to my rush to get out of the aid station.  So, now I'm over an hour behind my schedule and facing the highest climb of the day in the heat of the day.  One may notice foreshadowing of things to come...

I grinded my way up Handies, jogged the peak ridge, and dropped down the back onto winding single track.  I was getting dehydrated (easily recognized from my little problem at San Diego), so I took the time to fill my hydration bladder in one of the streams as I crossed running through the basin over to Grouse-American Pass.  Once over that pass, I made the descent to Grouse Gulch aid station at mile 42.1.  I was 1:10 off my splits now and beginning to realize I needed to reevaluate my run.  At this point, I should mention that just five minutes before the start of the race, I saw my friend, Tressa and she offered up her friend, Megan, to pace me.  I told her I had a pacer (JT) joining me at Telluride (mile 72) but she could run with me earlier if she wanted.  So they were here at Grouse Gulch to pace me to Ouray.  I was in a low point, not feeling well physically and had taken a mental blow by losing over an hour in the last section.  I changed my shoes and was chilled.  It was late in the day (7pm) and I didn't have any warm clothes in my drop bag.  John Prater (Homie) was at this aid station spectating and was a tremendous help.  He got me food, my drop bag, gave me some warmer clothing and was generally the stabilizer I needed at that point.  Megan was also trying to help and it was a distinct contrast between her ebullient enthusiasm and my dull paleness.  In our odd couple state, we began the trudge out of Grouse and up the climb to Engineer Pass.  Nearing the top of the pass, I kept my eye on the black (I mean, BLACK) ominous clouds with lightening cracking down to the peaks.  I timed the duration between lightening and thunder and it was approaching, fast.  I knew we wouldn't be able to crest the pass and drop down the other side in time.  Sure enough, the storm was upon us within minutes and I couldn't even see the two people's headlamps just up the way in front of us.  The icy rain was only a raunchy nuisance; the lightening dancing around us was terrifying.  There was no where to hide from it, so we kept going and finally dropped down the back.  I separated from Megan and caught up to the couple in front of me, so I could use them to determine the best footing since we were running down a mixture of snow, snot-slick mud, and general nasty marsh-like conditions all at a reach-back-and-touch-the-ground angle descent.
Megan (yeah, she's kinda ugly and out of shape and no fun to spend time with)

We reached Engineer aid station at mile 49 in 2 hours 40 mins (yes, 2:40 to go about 7 miles... this ain't your local 10k type terrain).  I was in rough shape and shivered soaking wet by the fire wondering what the hell I was doing this for.  I ate what I could and dried my shirt in the fire and we were off again to make our way down the over 4,000 ft descent to Ouray about 6 miles away.  Once we left Engineer, I started feeling better.  I began returning conversation to talkative little Megan and soon I was the one jabbering away while we fast-hiked and ran at a nice clip.

The water crossings and constant wet feet get left out of almost any race reports I've read, so I'll make it clear here:  YOUR FEET WILL BE SOAKED FOR THE ENTIRE RACE AND YOU WILL CROSS DEEP, FAST, AND POTENTIALLY LETHAL RIVERS.  I talked to people after the race who, when they came to a certain raging creek crossing, turned around and dropped out of the race because they determined the crossing to be too dangerous.

Megan and I were doing well with the many crossings after Engineer.  I would give her one of my trekking poles for stability and my worries for her were unwarranted, as she would simply jump into the water and bravely make her way across without hesitation.  Cool chick.  We came to one crossing that was so violent and deep that I was scared for the first time.  I was scared for myself and for Megan.  I didn't want to be responsible if she fell and got swept away.  It was so loud that we had to back track away from it to discuss options.  Obviously, we made it but I was pretty stunned for a bit afterwards.  The rest of the descent to Ouray is along a steep cliff on uneven, rocky trail, so focus is key.  I had been racing for nearly 18 hours at this point, so focus was difficult to come by.

We reached Ouray at 12:40am and I lingered there for 40 minutes (changing into my warmer clothes finally, since I was supposed to be in Ouray at 9:30pm, according to my plan...).  Megan and I said our good byes and I was off on my own.  A little ways out of the aid station, two headlamps came up behind me and I asked whether it'd be ok if I tagged along with them.  I felt that, alone, I'd be slow and unmotivated and I needed company for the long trudge up, what I was warned was dangerous and "heinous", Virginius Pass.  They said no problem.  After a while I realized one of the guys was Ryan Burch, so I told who I am (we both know one another through blogs and mutual acquaintances).  He was pacing his friend, Doug.  I don't think I said more than three words on the LONG 5 hours to 13,100 ft Virginius Pass.  They separated from me near the top as I dropped back.  Once I reached the peak and dropped off the back, I felt a little better.  On one of the glissading sections, I broke one of my trekking poles, snapping it right in two.  Let me tell you that if you use trekking poles, you know how they become part of your body and movement.  Losing one of those poles was like losing a leg.  Regardless, I made good time on the descent, running the entire thing and actually caught Doug and Ryan, so we entered mile 72, Telluride together at 7:23am (I was supposed to be here at 3am...whatever).

Here's where I was to pick up JT as my pacer.  It's worth mentioning that there was a reroute this year when leaving Telluride, which added on 2-3 miles to the race.  I had been going now for over 25 hours and had developed something very similar, if not outright asthma.  I've never experienced not being able to breath but I simply couldn't pull air into my lungs; it felt as though I was suffocating and it was worse when I exerted myself at all.  I told JT about it and was wheezing while were were just walking to the base of our next giant climb, Oscar's Pass, 4,400 ft of vert climb to 13,100 ft at the pass.  Combine that endless climb with the atrocious descent on jagged rocks and boulders for nearly 3,000 ft and 5 hours later we're at Chapman Gulch aid station, mile 81.6.  It was just before 1pm.  It was hot.  I'd been going straight for 31 hours and not feeling so well here (I later found out that this is where Karl Meltzer dropped from the race and can't say that I blame him). 
Bridal Falls

Grant Swamp Pass was next.  By the way, I had snapped my last remaining trekking pole, so now I had none of the climbing assistance that I'd grown to rely on.  My difficulty breathing was getting progressively worse.  I had to stop, close my eyes and concentrate (difficult to do after not sleeping since Thursday night) on relaxing my lungs and taking in a little air at a time.  I was honestly afraid I would black out from lack of oxygen and it would make me panic, which made me try to breath more, which would make me more anxious...  It was a vicious cycle that I thought would end my race for certain.  I mean, how can I climb another 13,000+ peak without being able to breath?  It was so frustrating and I was mentally fragile anyway, that it nearly brought me to tears a few times with JT patiently waiting up the trail, looking at me.  Somehow, we kept pushing forward, JT encouraging me, "Awesome.  You're doing awesome, Tim.  Almost there. Just another little climb."  I knew he was lying about the duration and steepness of climbs but I appreciated the motivation.  Without him, I'm not sure I could've finished on my own.  Grant Swamp Pass is sadistic.  The final tall pitch is near vertical that mandates climbing/crawling.  The climbing face is composed of loose scree, gravely dirt with shale rocks that clings in place until you put your foot into it and then you slide back down with loose dirt cascading down like a mini avalanche under each foot.  For every five feet you labor up, you slide back down three feet.  It was one of those coming-to-Jesus moments when I almost wished I was dead instead of enduring this (honestly).
The final scree pitch to Grant Swamp Pass.  If you click on the photo, you can see tiny me just to the right of that snow patch in the lower center of the photo (in the dirt scree and wearing the white hat).  Gives you a sense of the scale.

One of the few hundred snow traverses.  I've obviously already broken both carbon fiber trekking poles by this photo.

I finally reached the top in one burst of 20 feet of hand, foot, hand, foot climbing that left me gasping for the tiniest amount of air my lungs could muster.  I regained composure and JT and I sat down for a moment to discuss our options.  With a very hard effort, we may have the ability to finish with the last second of dusk available.  The other option, well, there weren't really any options.  Neither of us, in our wildest imagination, considered we'd be finishing in the dark, so neither of us had any light source.  My race may be over due to something as simple as a technical planning error.  Just then, an odd group of four people came bounding up to the peak from the other side.  They were out on a run and just watching the race in their own way (by running up 13 and 14 thousand foot peaks).  One guy knew the course extremely well and I asked him what our chances would be to finish before it was pitch black.  "It would be tough." was his response.  "You have to get down from here and make your way over to KT aid station, then climb Putnam-Cataract Ridge, then another 8 miles to the finish.  It was 4:07pm at this point and, with my inability to breath and my mental state deteriorated to the point of full on hallucinations, I knew we didn't have a chance, so we started thinking of lighting alternatives.  

We finally reached KT aid station after a hideous amount of muddy, ankle deep water slogging and river crossings (I felt like I was in Vietnam jungles).  We got to KT at 5:37pm.  I was able to borrow a weak little headlamp from one of the communications volunteers there.  It would have to do.  Our next climb would be the last of this hellish ordeal, Putnam.  I planned my split at 2:45-3 hours for this section and that was confirmed by the communications guy as a reasonable time frame.  After a mid-thigh creek crossing and climbing up the wettest, muddiest trail I'd ever seen, we got onto single track that zig-zagged up along side a giant waterfall that seemed to be coming from the peak.  Of course, once we reached what appeared to be the top, there was another ridge behind it and then another behind that one. By this point, I could barely get any air at all into my lungs and I was gasping like I just finished a 5k sprint but nothing was getting into my lungs. 

Now it's nearly 8pm and we're almost at the true peak of Putnam.  In an instant it was pitch black as a storm cloud dropped upon us and settled in with heavy, icy rain and high winds to the point where I was having difficulty hearing JT.  I had my borrowed, weak little headlamp and JT had nothing.  We came over a small ridge and a guy was sitting on his pack, tying to stay low and avoid a lightening strike.  We got him up and, luckily, this guy is one of those people who comes prepared for things (unlike myself, who had no idea it would go from 65 degrees and dry to 30 degrees with a soaking, freezing rain in a matter of three minutes).  His name is Chris.  He gave JT an extra headlamp and the three of us were now trying to find the route.  The storm was blinding.  I was hypothermic and out of it mentally (I was ready to give up and literally die on that pass).  I kept replaying the events of the 1996 Everest tragedy with exhausted, frozen climbers wandering around lost in circles, dying, literally just a few meters away from their tents.  Chris saw that I wasn't responding to him and that I was convulsing with the chills.  During this torrential black storm he stopped, got into his pack and made me put on a fleece vest and emergency poncho (I was only wearing a running shirt and shorts).  He then instructed me to shadow him and never leave his back, which I did.

We were on the ridge criss-crossing back and forth, covering hundreds and hundreds of meters of ground for TWO HOURS all while this storm is raging on us.  It was bad and I truthfully didn't think I'd make it down (and didn't really care at that point).  All of a sudden we hear, "Runners!" and saw a faint light from a headlamp of a guy who had hiked all the way up to the peak to find us because we were so far delayed since the last check point.  I should point out that Chris was a pacer for another runner.  There were originally about ten of us up on that peak and just as the storm was hitting us we all found a trail but somehow only a few made it down and we three were left stranded up there.  So, Chris' runner must have told the next aid station that his pacer was still up on the pass, lost.  That, combined with JT and I taking 5 hours since the last aid stop that should've taken 3 hours prompted the search.  The guy who found us guided us over to the general correct direction and instructed us how to get down to Putnam aid station, the last aid station in this nightmare.

My mind was gone and JT will likely clear up anything I miss or misrepresent.  We reached Putnam aid at 10:33pm and didn't leave there until 11:10pm.  I again thought my race was over.  How could I possibly go another 6 miles with the biggest river crossing of the entire race (Mineral Creek) still to come?  I was hypothermic, delirious, and lacking much of my motor control.  There's no way to drop at Putnam.  It's a remote aid station that volunteers hike gear into.  The only way to Silverton and the finish was on my feet.  I decided it would be a good idea for Chris to come along with us.  He agreed, so the three of us made our way down the utterly endless descent of ridiculous rocky trail.  I had been hallucinating for so long now that I took it for reality.  At one point, a rock looked so much like a camera that I bent down to pick it up and realized it was just a wet, cold, heavy rock.  The rocks were all cameras, cell phones, children's toys, and I just plowed over them, trying to ignore the visuals and trying not to fall off the steep ledge on the right side of the trail, which I did have one leg slip and go over making me crash to the ground in a painful heap, straddling the ledge in an awkward splits.

We finally made it to the infamous river crossing.  There is a fixed rope that you have to hang onto with both hands and edge your way to the other distant side through the raging rapids that left me wet up over my belt line.  I was so weak and with my suffocated breath I literally nearly blacked out before reaching the other side.  I could feel my grip on the cold, wet rope loosening and I felt I would pass out and be swept away in the river.  It took me a good five minutes to regain my breath and get the rushing stars in my vision to subside.

JT and Chris left me to finish on my own over the last couple of miles of single track and into town.  I stumbled down the finishing chute in a jog and kissed the rock at 2:17am, 44 hours and 17 minutes since I started the race strong, clean, and breathing, just ten feet from where I now stood.  Dale put the medal around my neck, we said something to one another and I wandered away.

Without trying to sound mellow dramatic, Chris may have saved my life on Putnam ridge.

JT is one tough and smart person.  He never overtly pushed me on but encouraged me enough to keep me motivated to finish.  He didn't show frustration when I had to pause (many many times) to control my breathing and get a little air.  He remained positive and kept a can-do attitude, so dropping was never a viable option.  Finishing, no matter how long it took was the only obvious outcome.  I'm indebted to him for helping me get through those 31 miles and 17+ hours.

Hardrock is no joke.  It's reality, like wilderness is reality when you're deep in it and there are no "outs". You deal with the reality and harshness with what you have.

It is far and away the hardest thing I've ever done.  It makes the other two hundreds I've done, San Diego 100, Bear 100, and I imagine all the other popular hundreds look like a joke.

It was humbling and inspiring at the same time, brutally harsh and beautiful at the same time, despairing and joyous at the same time.  Hardrock is everything and will leave you drained empty in your mind and body and leave you full in your heart and soul.
Climbing Oscars

Island Lake abnormally frozen with huge amounts of snow for this time of year.

Descent off Oscars

Crazy river crossing at around mile 87

Beginning of climb up to Oscars

Cold rain for the climb up Grant Swamp Pass

Typical raging water crossing

Imminent death
All of the great photos JT took are available here:  https://picasaweb.google.com/114419867617992966948/Footfeathers?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCKX757DmgcygLg&feat=directlink#

And here is the follow up to this post: