“The forecast for today was never in doubt,” the volunteer told me when I asked if they thought we’d be running all the way to the summit or if we’d be looking at a shortened course for safety reasons. So it was going to be 8000 feet up, and then 8000 feet back down. Swell.
I had a backpack stuffed with layers in anticipation of the three miles above tree line to get to the summit. Indeed, before the race started the announcer mentioned that at 6:30 AM that morning it was 28 degrees at the summit. I thought I’d be glad I brought a jacket and pants to switch into. I was happily wrong as we wound up having near perfect weather the entire way — no rain, no hail, no sleet, no dark of night. A little bit of wind. And it was clear and 45/50-ish at the summit. I was frustrated at having a proverbial monkey on my back with a literal backpack there but the alternative in needing those layers was much, much worse than the annoyances and chafing of the straps on my shoulders as I sometimes ran but mostly shuffled up and down the trail.
I used to date a project manager and her 1st rule for her teams and for me whenever doing something was, “First — don’t die.” The rest of the rules flowed from that. There was a moment on the mountain when I thought maybe I had broken that rule and everything thereafter was just the fever dream moments before my atoms rejoined the cosmos.
It was above the tree line and the altitude got to me. I was light headed, kinda found myself embodying a drunken sailor with none of the fun of getting to such a state. I was wobbly and my footfalls were decidedly non-uniform and unsteady to say the least. Not an ideal situation to find oneself on a cliffside, I have to say.
I got passed by many, many runners. The final three miles averaged somewhere around 23-25 minutes apiece. It was arduous and I’m pretty sure I cried, cursed, and reconsidered A LOT of my life choices. I also kept replaying in my head the darkest line ever uttered in any Walt Disney movie: it comes from The Black Hole (1979). Old B.O.B the android tells the crew of the USS Palomino that Dr. Hans Reinhardt has lobotomized his former crew and reprogrammed them to serve only him. “Death is their only release now,” he intones. I kept thinking that as I watched others ahead of me and behind me march up Pikes Peak. I thought that as I experienced the out-of-body sensation of watching myself march up that incline.
Four hours and change after starting the race, I hit the summit. I downed some powerade and water and snapped a selfie at the top to prove I made it to the marathon’s halfway point.
The way down provided additional oxygen with every step… but I am unfortunately a very timid trail runner. I’m always worried I’m going to trip and faceplant… or worse. I could see myself slipping and missing a switchback turn and sliding right off the edge of the mountain. Gingerly I would pick my way along the rocky terrain and amidst the tree roots of the trail further below. Many more runners would pass me; I don’t know if they’re half-mountain goat but they sure seemed to be. I took zero photos on the way down, ever fearful that if I did try and snap a picture I’d more than likely trip, fall, and snap my neck.
I wouldn’t say I ran down the trail; I guess you could say I was falling with style.
It was slow going but unsurprisingly I wound up with a negative split. If it was 4:04 or so to the top, it was about 2:37 on the way back down. I think I finished the whole thing in something to the tune of 6:41.
A friend of mine from Mainly Marathons spotted me in the finishers’ chute and it was a nice boost to see a friendly face… not that the volunteers on the course weren’t friendly. They certainly were. But if at times I run on fumes into the finish line at races, this was more akin to a car idling, stalling, and dying, rolling to a stop just past the finish line. Still, nice to see Pam at the finish:
This was my 400th marathon. I didn’t really tell anyone save you here on the website. It wasn’t a big deal — Crash Davis breaks the minor league record in Bull Durham (1988) but only Annie Savoy seems to know it… and that’s more than okay. So it’s more than okay that I only made a big deal out of here on the blog and on Instagram.
The rest, to quote Hamlet, is silence.
