Leadville & Cascade Crash & Burn
Note: Joe Prusaitis is a
very tough runner, and he is the race director for the
Motorola Marathon
in
For him to not finish a race (DNF), is a rarity. If
you run enough races, you will eventually DNF.
This will hopefully give you some
insight as to how it can happen, even to an experienced and tough runner like
Joe. –Ben Holmes
Leadville Trail 100
Mile Run
Joe Prusaitis
Dropping to my knees, I roll onto my side, then flat on my
back. My
chest expands and contracts
rapidly, hyperventilating. An unhealthy
wheeze escapes my lungs. I begin to
wonder if maybe this isn't my day.
It's time I got off this beast. Slowly, I get up and then
begin my fall
off the mountain.
After running Bighorn and Hardrock,
I know that Leadville is chancy.
Matter of fact, I have decided not to do it. But there are a
few friends
who know where my buttons are and
they push them. I am easy prey. So, I
enter and make my plans. It’ll be
tough, with little vacation time
leading to a fast in and out. Two
weeks at Hardrock gave me plenty of
altitude, but it’s now four weeks
behind, leaving me cold at ground
zero. The aggressive intermediate
cuts will also force me to go out
quicker than I’d like and the final
30hour cutoff will keep me from
slowing much. I can run a good pace
now and then and I can run at
altitude reasonably well, but I
can't seem to run fast at altitude. The
combination of circumstances seems
to gang up on my weaknesses at the
cost of my strengths. Still, I am
confident that I will find a way. I
usually do. I always seem to be
able to adapt, to recover. I have to
believe it. To think otherwise is
to fail before I even begin.
Arriving on Thursday, I feel comfortable at Leadville's
10000ft
elevation. It'll feel different
once I start running and again and when
I start to climb, but that'll have to wait until Saturday.
Check in and
drop bags go according to plan, and
Joyce hooks a ride for crew and pace
chores. I spend the day eating
well, drinking a good bit of water, and
getting plenty of sleep: a simple
plan with no stresses or hang-ups.
With a
the dark. Butch Allmon
and I go out fast and I quickly fail my first
test with simple mathematics. I
have 2 water bottles and 1 flashlight,
but only two hands. I should know
better. I neglected to bring my third
hand. I must be getting forgetful
or more correctly, just not thinking.
My pants have large front pockets, but the full water bottle
doesn't sit
there well. I try holding the
flashlight and 1 bottle with one hand, but
my arm gets tired quickly. I end up
holding the 2 bottles with one hand,
but it's hard to drink. Every
combination still leaves no free hands to
take my salt or pick my nose. I
drink one bottle quicker than usual,
just so I can put it in my pocket.
That’s about when Butch and I reach
the lake perimeter trail, where a
guy bangs on a large base drum. It's
also when we realize this is too
fast and back our pace off just a bit.
Butch stops to wiz every few minutes, which provides ample
opportunity
to test another combination that
might work, but does not. Eventually
the sunrise solves the problem for
me just minutes before reaching May
Queen. I stash the flashlight in my
other pocket, leaving me with just 1
water bottle in 1 hand and a lot
more freedom to scratch every itch.
What an idiot!
We reach 13mile May Queen faster
than I normally would. Our pace is
insane, and short lived too. I feel
good, but so far, it has been flat.
The jury is still out when we start to climb, but the
verdict arrives
too soon, and judgment is passed.
On Sugarloaf, bad news comes with a
whisper. A roughness in my
breathing, a wheeze that slips out with each
exhale, a very slight rasp. The
2000-pound gorilla is aboard. It’s not a
good sign. Quietly, I back off even
more, trying to go easier with less
effort, but it makes no difference.
I'm trying to determine if Butch is
waiting on me or struggling also. I
tell him to let me be, but he's
waited on me before and seems
content to do so again. My breathing seems
to be getting rapidly worse as I
go. We walk up Sugarloaf together,
talking up old times, and making
plans for new ones. A couple of old
fools who know better and care
less. We'll take what the mountain give
us, and odds are good it will be
bad. A tingling in my fingers confirms
the thought. The powerline crackling overhead confirms the beginning of
our descent, and where I usually
get even with this type of course. We
do run much of the downhill, but
not with the same flair as usual. The
last mile leading into the Fish
Hatchery is nasty ol’ asphalt that we
share with a few cars. I don't care
much for paved road, but I have run
a bit of it, so I'm surprised how
much it seems to bother me. Even
though the people in the cars are
friendly, I'm irritated by their
presence. I must be real low on calories.
We're still well under the
cutoff, but the telling signs are
evident that all is not well.
Joyce is waiting on me, and helps with my drop bag. I trade
one of my
water bottles for the lightweight
Camelback. I've been drinking well,
but my stomach is bloated and
uncomfortable. My salt caps have been at
regular intervals, same as usual. I
could be eating more, but I'm doing
ok. I begin to wonder if this is
another symptom of edema. I try a bowl
of hot oatmeal with hope that it'll
help. Joyce walks out with Butch and
I, handing us a tortilla sandwich with avocado and tomato.
More asphalt and traffic lead us toward Half Moon. Cars whiz
by in both
directions as we run & walk
while we eat & talk. There are a lot of
runners and a lot of cars on the
road. A few miles, but way too much for
me. I'd like to rip up this road
and make it single track. My Achilles
flare up on me more on roads than
it does on hills now a days, and I can
feel it starting to talk to me
again. At the turn off the main road, the
asphalt continues but with enough
shoulder for me to escape. Butch and I
hook up with Mike Riggs to share
the road, along with quite a few
others. We should all be quite a
bit faster on this flat surface but
nobody in this crowd appears either
fast or happy. Are we all cussing
the asphalt road? The heat seems to
be up a bit, making me wish for a
good storm right about now. If I
had any piss in my vinegar, I'd pick up
the pace to get off sooner than
later. But, my piss and vinegar seems to
be mush right now. Still dragging
my legs, I watch as Butch manages an
ambling run to pull ahead and
slowly disappear. Mike also seems to have
good energy, and has one heck of a
fast walk. Watching him, I realize
he's holding back, waiting on me. I
suggest he unhitch me and get on
down the road. I'm in a bad funk
and he dare not wait on me. This seems
to galvanize him as he quickly
changes gears and speeds ahead. He's a
good friend and I'm proud of him,
his power walk paying big dividends. I
seem to be in a middle zone,
somewhere between good and bad, half awake
- half asleep. Is this normal for altitudinally maladjusted individuals?
I assume it must be, but I still need to eat and drink, so I
do. Half
Moon is a wonderfully shady roadside pull in. Two kids
assist with my
drop bag and cold drinks while I
sit. I leave with Mike but again can't
hang on. He's only walking but
quickly disappears down the road. Even
after some food and rest, I still
can't get the motor going. I’m all
sputter! I try on a few good
memories and test a few high-energy songs
in the back of my mind, but nothing
seems to put the bop in the bee. I
have no choice but to wait it out,
as I have done before, but I do this
while moving forward down the road,
albeit painfully slow.
We finally leave the road for a wonderful single-track trail
and I'm
thinking this has got to help. It
starts with a good stiff climb, but I
like this and get into a rhythm as
I climb. Ascending slowly, exhaling
evenly, I pass a few others, and
start to get that really good feeling
back again. A hint of a smile
begins to creep back onto my face. I pick
up a rock now and again but usually
just ignore them until one works
itself into a position with the pointy
end up. As much as I hate to
stop, one of them does find that
painful position, so I stop and remove
it. Standing back up almost knocks
me out. Seeing spots, I sit down and
lean on a tree, breathing like a
dog, rapid breath and edema rasp. The
hyperventilation lasts much longer
than I would have thought. A few
minutes, then I'm up again, but
moving slow again. I try to dial in a
pace that allows me to move as fast
as possible without stopping, a
speed where I can breathe without
going anaerobic. The pace I eventually
find will kill my chance of
finishing if I'm forced to stay on it. Past
the steepest part of the climb, I
start running again. It aint too fast
or pretty but at least I'm running.
The trail and the woods through here
are gorgeous: my favorite part of
this course. A tad cooler here in the
shade and it may be that my body
cools down some, giving me more energy.
I don't really know for sure what it is, but I am starting
to have some
fun again. The final section into
give it a try. There are eight of
us bunched up in a line and we soon
discover we're in reverse order to
our downhill speed. As each one pulls
over, those following go faster. In
this manner, I slowly get faster and
faster as each person steps aside
until I sprint past the last fellow in
front of me on the jeep road
leading into
the final turn just before hitting
bottom. I walk into the
station in time to hear Mike tell
Joyce that I'm falling back and may be
awhile. He's surprised to see me
and I am too. I'd never have believed
that I'd catch him, and Butch too!
For the moment, I feel good. But the
joy flies quickly and fades to
something else. Still, my time is good
despite my condition. I've made all
the cuts so far with plenty of time
to spare, but I know that my
condition is rapidly deteriorating. My
energy's been a rapidly descending
sign wave that should flat line
somewhere up on Hope Pass.
A light rain is falling as Butch and I walk out. Accompanied
by a stiff
wind, we cross the river marsh. The
race leader passes us coming in, and
we decide that it's impossible that
he's in the race! Multiple stream
crossings sting our legs while the
rain continues to fall. I'm quite
comfortable in shorts but I pull on
my rain jacket just to keep my
clothes from getting saturated. The
water feels great on my legs, even
though it’s a stinging cold. The
open marsh turns to trees soon after
the last water crossing and quickly
begins to climb. Butch waits
patiently on me for a bit longer
and then finally turns me loose. He
seems to be climbing well or least
a lot better than I am. I try to dial
in my best possible climbing rhythm
but it's well short of pathetic. My
cautious lazy pace cannot repair
the difficulty of my breathing. My
labored ascent quickly spirals down
to a crawl. With Mike and Butch long
gone, alone I focus on my
breathing. I try to get my mind around it, but
for nothing. I attempt to leave my
body, escape into a comfortable place
in my mind. It seems to work as I
wonder about in my memories, but I
come back to find that I'm standing
still. My toes start tingling, so I
back off even more, if that's
possible. Runners are sprinting by in the
opposite direction, wondering, I'm
sure, why I'm standing still. I
attempt to get out their way with
little success. Hell, the sweat on my
face is moving faster than I am.
The Hopeless station comes with little
relief and then much later, the
summit. Takes me four and a half hours
to get from
to my discomfort and body
confusion. I lay down on the summit and it's
an enormous mistake. My breathing
rapidly accelerates: a hard, heavy,
raspy wheeze that lasts until I sit
back up again. I need to get off the
mountain and quickly.
It's my kind of narrow track downhill, but with meager room
for two
bodies to pass, and full of runners
coming up hill. There are so many
people I can't get into a rhythm.
Most are generous, moving over to give
me room, while others barrel right
through me with nary a nod. I'm not
sure who has the right of way so I
watch each one and react accordingly.
I fall a few times as I struggle past one after another. I
know many of
these people on the 25hour bubble,
and they're in a hurry to summit and
move on. My breathing seems ok on
the descent but it usually is. Still,
it takes me way too long to reach
the road.
On the dusty road to Winfield waits the 50mile turn-around.
I move my
bandana up to cover my nose and
mouth, shove my hat down to block as
much as I can, but still able to
see the road. Cars are going both ways,
most attempting to be considerate,
but some not really giving a damn
that they dust everybody on the
road. The bandana makes it even harder
to breath but it does keep out most
of the dust. I try a few times to
run but manage no more than a fast
walk. I stop only once, when I see
Butch, to lend him a flashlight.
He's going to need it and I have
another at Winfield.
The cutoff is
attempt to hurry me through so I
can make the cut and keep going, but I
don't want to hurry. It's starting
to rain. I ask for my drop bag and
sit down to eat, but they can't
seem to find my bag. I need warm clothes
and my flashlight for the return.
I’m completed soaked with sweat and the cold rain is causing
my body to
shake just a bit. They're still
trying to hurry me, but I know better
than to go out without fuel and
warm clothes, so I have some soup while
they continue to search. Kathy
comes over to help and finds my bag.
She's asking me questions that I struggle with the answers,
so I go off
to change my clothes, before I
answer. She's trying to gauge my status
and I'm not doing too well with the
answers. She says I have three and a
half hours to get back over Hope to
five and a half hours to get here. She
looks concerned and scrunches up
her face but doesn't say a thing. I
haven't felt well all day and I'm
pretty certain my pace won't
improve any time soon. The rain continues
to fall and my body continues to
shake. I can still hear the rasp in my
breathing and begin to wonder about
my health. It would be so foolish
for me to go on, get half way up
the mountain, and then lose control of
my core temp. No way could I keep
my body heat up at this miserable
pace, not to mention at what point
my breathing problems would become
dangerous.
I don't have a medical background,
relying more towards what feels right
or wrong, and usually ignoring
that. But this time, maybe it's time for
me to stop. I wonder! I roll it
round in my mind for a bit, then walk
over and have the medical team cut
off my band. It seems the smart thing
to do.
This is not my first DNF. The first one felt awful for a
long time. The
second one wasn't much fun but I
didn't dwell on it for near as long.
This time, I just feel empty. Maybe I'm getting good at
this! I want to
beat myself up but can't find any
good reason to do so. I'm not confused
or disoriented: Just tired, bone
tired! I can't seem to breath. I'm sure
it's just the altitude I hitch a
ride back to
waiting for my return. When I get
there, I'm not sure where to find her,
but I do see Butch's wife, Donna. I
climb out of the truck and
immediately begin to shake
uncontrollably. I rush over to Donna and ask
if I can please sit in her car for
a minute. I can barely climb in as
the shakes overwhelm my body. Joyce
arrives with a lot of concern and a
warm change of clothes. Everybody
we know is waiting on somebody else,
so for the moment, we're stuck
right where we are. Joyce eventually
talks a stranger into giving us a
ride back to our room in Leadville. A
warm shower and a night's sleep
does wonders. By morning, I'm still
exhausted, but my breathing is
better. Only a bit of wheeze remains. I
suspect it'll be days before my
lungs recover.
Mike arrives at the hotel around
the walls are paper-thin, so I can
hear his breathing is about as bad as
mine. He made it as far as 70mile
Half Moon before the edema took him
also. Butch didn't quite get back
over Hope before he started blacking
out. Every time he stood up, he’d
start to see spots, so he sat down
just below the summit. The sag
found him there and helped him over and
into the Hopeless aid station. He
spent the night under their care,
eventually getting off the mountain
in the morning, while Donna waited.
Moogy made it to 77mile Fish
Hatchery. He tried to push his body past
all the issues that eventually
overwhelmed him. They had to cut his ring
off because of the swelling, and
his leg was numb, but it was the edema
that got to him.
Turns out, it was just a 50 mile training run at altitude. I
have
another race next weekend and
precious little time to dwell on what went
wrong. I have done better, but such
is life. We learn more from our
mistakes, I understand. I wonder
about that. I had a great time hanging
with Butch for most of the day and
the weekend with Mike. Another grand
adventure regardless the outcome.
There will be many more, I am certain
of that.
----
We skip the awards ceremony to wash our dirty laundry and
then start our
drive back towards
with a direct flight, we arrive
home well after
by
escape again on Friday. All week
long is insane, including the unpacking
and repacking on Thursday night.
Joyce and I drive back out to the
airport again at
Hitzfeld is waiting for us at
baggage claim. We drive downtown for lunch
and then an hour more out to Cle Elum for our hotel. Our travel plans go
without a hitch. We are now ready
for the next one… I hope!
----
Cascade Crest Classic
100 Mile Trail Run
The Cascade Crest Classic starts at
station by
hear the pre-race briefing. 10am
sharp, we start on a relatively warm
and sunny day. George and I run
just a little at a very relaxing pace.
The mood is laid back and easy, while the road is dirt and
very dry. A
fine powder dust rises from it,
filling the air. A mile or more of this
before we start up something a bit
steeper. After Hardrock and
Leadville, it feels nice to be able to breath this well
while running.
We reach the 1st aid station at the Goat Peak Trailhead.
After only 3
miles, there is nothing I need, so
I turn off the road and start up the
trail.
I had hoped to get out of the road dust on the trail, but we
remain
inside of it. The trail looks fresh
cut such that the pack I'm running
with continues to raise dust even
as we rise up towards
George and I hang together, making good time, and talking
with our
neighbors. I stop a few times to
take pictures, but still continue to
run and feel well. George pulls
ahead during one of my picture breaks
and then we summit and I get ahead
of him when he steps off trail for a
pee break. I feel great. The uphill
went real well and the downhill goes
just as well. I don't realize
George is behind me until I stop and he
catches back up. We roll along the
summit with a few nice up and downs.
George gets ahead of me in here and gone.
My legs start to feel a bit rubbery. I begin to trip a bit,
I think
because I can't seem to lift my
feet. I wonder if I'm low on fuel. I had
a good breakfast but I eat some
hammer and continue to drink well. The
sun has come out strong and I begin
to feel the heat. I roll into the
next station at Cole Butte to top
off both bottles and then try some
melon and a sandwich. With only 9
miles done, I'm surprised at how
poorly I feel. I don't feel well at
all and walk out trying to solve the
problem: heat, calories, water,
salt, sugar, altitude?
The starched white road surface on this high ridge seems to
reflect the
sun such that the suns heat and
glare come from both directions. I’m
surprised to find myself completely
alone now. The road turns are not so
obvious such that I have to stop at
a few turns to find the ribbons and
my way. My eyesight has been
getting worse these last few years. I
wonder about my ability to find my
way because of it. A bit of breeze
feels nice, but I wish for more.
How about a bit of that famous
rain or maybe even some cloud
cover? I can't get my body to move well,
even on the long downhill. I'm
barely 10 miles in and already it feels
like the late race downward energy
spiral. I spot somebody running well
below on the road across the
bottom, which allows me to believe I’m
going the right way. This helps me
relax and run a little faster.
The dust rises from the road as I walk into the
station at 14 miles. It’s sitting
out in the open, baking under the sun.
I refill my water bottle, eat some melon and start back out.
The road
quickly turns uphill into the
glorious shade of a single-track trail. As
soon is I slip into the wonderful
coolness of the deep shadows, I step
off the trail and sit down. Sweat
pours off my head, running down my
arms and back, drenching my
clothes. A steady drop off one elbow creates
a small mud puddle on the ground.
Disoriented, I watch the muddy spot
grow while a few people pass by. A
couple slow to ask how I'm doing. If
I look as bad as I feel, then I must look pretty bad.
The next climb is a long slow head-hanging sweat drenching
struggle. I
tough it out as best I can,
attempting to not look too bad as people
come by. It’s a tough job trying
not to look bad, and I’m sure I fail
miserably. Once on ridge, I roll
along a fun trace of a goat trail with
breath taking views all around. The
route twists about a bit before it
finds the Pacific Crest Trail. A
sharp right turn drops me into a deep
old growth forest, cool and very
soft. Not much sunlight gets through to
the ground, but does light up an
occasional low hanging branch in a
brilliant blend of light &
color. Majestic displays of natural art
decorate the forest walls, making
me wonder if art studios study the
deep forests to see how to present
rare art. Getting out of the heat and
my own misery for a bit does
wonders for my legs. My cooling core temp
gets me going again, but it’s the
natural beauty of my surroundings that
lifts my spirits. For the first
time in a while, I pass a few people,
rolling into the
I'm surprised and happy to see Joyce waiting here for me.
This was not
part of her crew plan. She loads me
up with some ice-cold drinks and a
sandwich of avocados and tomatoes.
She asks how I feel and receives a
negative evaluation. It surprises
her because she's not used to hearing
anything less than perfect from me.
I hope for better, but I'm honest
with her about how things have
evolved up to now. The iced down drinks
work their magic and I begin to
feel much better quickly. The calories
will work their magic later.
I feel much better and life is good when I leave. A gentle
rolling climb
starts me out and the deep forest
soon thins to a high ridge where
Hans-Dieter joins me. I don't have near the energy I'm used
to, but I
hope that soon it will return. I
stumble along, hanging onto Hans as we
roll off the summit and then start
the next rolling climb. I have given
up on trying to go easy. Instead I
try to force the issue, to hang with
Hans, and steal some energy. But, the heat and the hills
quickly bring
me back down to reality. My
dexterity and grace gone to hell in a hand
basket, I continue to force the
issue. It's getting late in the day and
although I do have a flashlight,
I'd as soon get to Stampede before
dark. The Snowshoe Butte aid
station at 28 miles sits on a high
single-track trail in the middle of
nothing, three people with water and
a table full of goodies. Hans gets
a quick refill and goes while I take
a bit longer to fill my camelback.
I try to catch back up but each time
I get close, he pulls away again. We pass through another of
the deep
old growth forests followed by a
series of clear cuts. Regardless, my
muscles have deteriorated, my
energy deficit enormous, and my endless
drive emptied to nothing. I seem to
be slipping deeper and deeper into a
big hole.
I come into the 33 mile
Hans, but well before dark. Joyce tells me I look like hell
but I've
made up a lot of time from
a cold drink or three and a
sandwich. I swap out of my funked up nasty
shirt and start shaking in the
process. George has been through and
gone. Jan is here with Joyce,
crewing for another George, and still
waiting for him to come in. Hans
changes his shirt and heads out, while
Jan gets me some hot broth and then offers some hot
chocolate too. Other
people come and go while I continue
to sit.
Do I want to continue to beat myself up? With 70 miles to
go, my doubts
and the questions become a
high-speed spin round my mind. I'm not even
close to recovered from Leadville
and the edema. Hardrock and Bighorn
took more out of me than I want to
admit. But I don't want to quit! I
still have plenty of time and Joyce
wants me to keep going. She's ready
to continue, but I am not. It'll be
dark soon and I'll be much better
now that the sun's not roasting me.
I have been struggling with finding
the course, mostly because my
eyesight is so bad, but I wonder how much
harder this will be after dark.
They are all bad excuses and none of
them valid. I've rarely heard one
good enough to warrant quitting, yet
here I am, sitting down, and
knowing that I am done. I have no energy
and no longer wish to drag my butt
for another 70 miles. The joy is
gone. I am no longer having any
fun. I tell Joyce I am done. I take off
the cow-tag number and give it to
her. Jan's friend George comes in on a
bum leg and calls it quits also.
Joyce takes my number down to the
station and comes back with another
runner who has dropped. We offer
Mike a ride back to his car at the start. He doesn't have a
place to
stay because he also had planned to
run all night, so we offer him
George's bed for the night. It is
done. We climb in the car and follow
Jan to the highway and the hotel.
Pizzas and beer do little to ease the
gloom from the dark cloud hanging
over all of us. No warm fuzzies here,
we each slip off to bed and a
restless sleep.
In the morning, we go for breakfast and then settle in to
wait for
George. He comes in with an excellent time for his first
mountain
century run and a qualifier for Hardrock. He looks used up and sleepy,
but extremely pleased for beating
the dragon. His smile tells it all. I
am very happy for George but I
can’t help but feel some envy. I miss
what he is feeling right now. I
feel the urge to beat myself up for this
but I cannot. George deserves his
finish and what it brings. I got what
I paid for. I attempted a very rugged set of century runs
and it kicked
my butt. I gave it a go and it
went. Time to move on to recovery, then
rebuild, and plan the next grand
adventure.