I am Finally Proud of my AC100 Finish

I've been thinking a lot about my experience at Angeles Crest this year.  And man, if you thought the race was a battle - welcome to the war raging in my head.  I've replayed the events in my mind thousands of times, and return trips to the course have actually been quite difficult at times.  A few weeks ago, I literally had to run sections of the high country in reverse so as not to ruin my run with overanalytics.

So maybe you're thinking I'm completely crazy and that I should just get over it.  And to a large extent, I agree.  But it's not so simple when it's something that you devoted your life to for such a long period of time.  I don't know if I quite delved into the amount of time I spent training for this race, but let me assure you, it was more time than I've spent doing anything ever.  My favorite week of training was when the running time totals equaled over 24 hours.  In essence I had spent 1 out of 7 of my days running in the mountains.  That seemed wildly prudent.

Life was so beautifully simple then.  Time outside of work existed solely for training and Dom and I camped pretty much every weekend in the San Gabriels - running the various sections over and over and over.  Taking splits… stringing them together… finding ways to make things harder.  I dove headfirst into training for my first mountain 100 and I did not let up.  I followed Dom and Jorge, veterans of the course and champions of hard work, into the forest and never questioned whether or not I was ready for the types of workouts and the amount of mileage they had planned.  I never accepted running a shorter distance or cutting out one of the climbs.  If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right - and this was what it took.

In retrospect, the fact that I never sustained an overuse injury during these months and months of hard training is kind of amazing.  I would go long stretches without a single day off - in fact my first day of real rest in 2011 was in April.  This wasn't to say I wasn't tired sometimes and had periods where it was extremely hard to get the work done.  I remember sitting in the car at Eaton Canyon one morning, literally crying because I didn't want to get out and start a 4,600' climb.  As motivated as I was to achieve my goal in July, it wasn't always easy, but I got it done.  By May, it was undeniable how much I had improved.

My thoughts around the race have been largely jumbled and easily influenced over the past few months.  I've learned that people will always have their opinions and alternate realities that they create for comfort.  But if you're truly interested in the reality of what happened and why I didn't finish in or close to the time that I was honestly capable of (sub-24 hours), then you can go ahead and read on.  I've deeply explored what happened and what has resulted is sheer amazement in myself.  Does that sound cocky?  Well, I don't care.  What I did out there on July 23rd was fucking amazing.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about if it was possible that I just wasn't tough enough.  If it hadn't been my knee, something else would have hurt.  It's 100 miles, for chrissakes.  So did I just give into the pain?  Did I whimp out when it got really hard to bear?  Could I have pushed through it harder?

The answers to all those questions is a resounding, "I don't know."  But what I am 100% sure of is that I did not give up or weenie out on account of pain.  Looking back, I couldn't even bend my knee before the start of the race.  That's right.  I COULDN'T BEND MY KNEE.  And yet, I saddled up to run 100 miles up and over some treacherous mountains anyway.  What happened was this:  I was in mild pain from the get go, but ran remarkably well through the high country.  I stayed in control and let the lead women go - feeling very sure that if I ran within myself, I could catch them later.  I was running below 24-hour pace and I felt like a million bucks.  Hitting the gradual downhill into Three Points - probably the easiest part of the course - was when my knee really started to crap out.  I knew it was a problem that anytime I hit a little uphill, I was golden, but when the grade turned down, I was in an incredible amount of pain.  I felt good otherwise.

I've said it over and over, but my recollection of the turning point was Chilao, mile 52.  My knee was officially wrecked and the pain was outstanding.  I gave up all time goals and turned to survival mode, even though I was still on a decent pace.  While you deal with altitude in the first part of AC, the terrain gets gnarlier and nastier as you progress.  So in essence, I was heading into the roughest parts of the course on a knee that was completely shot.  So shot, in fact, that I'm having freaking surgery.  This part of the course breaks completely healthy and super talented runners every year, and I was heading into it already broken. It was a ridiculous endeavor, yet I was courageously committed to pressing on.  For that, I am proud.

My knee stopped working at Chilao.  Here is visual proof.

In fact, I'm really proud of the whole thing.  The work I put in, my bravery to endure and finishing what I started.  Ego checked.  Running for love.  FEARLESS.  I can't wait to see what's in store once my knee is back to good.  It's pretty much impossible for 2012 to be anything but awesome.

I wanted to do something REALLY epic for my last pre-surgery adventure,
so we ran to the moon.

I thought about all of the above a lot this past weekend, as I headed out for one more round of hard training in the San Gabriels with Dom, Jorge and Mari.  It was just what I needed, as it was just how it always was before the yucca incident.  And to a greater extent, it reminded me just how it would be when I'm all healed and officially back.  This was how it all started back in January… miles and miles of trudging through the snow in the high country on Saturdays, getting stronger, followed by quicker miles down out of Chantry and Eaton on sore legs.  And then followed by Chipotle.  I'll follow the same plan this year and work harder to avoid plants.  It's a fool-proof plan.

I leave you with a few images of my last epic weekend for awhile.  And oh, what a weekend it was!  The first big snowfall in the San Gabriels provided for some amazing (and tough) running and now I can go into surgery a happy woman.  (Although, I can still get 2 more runs in before tomorrow.  And I will.)

Heading up via Sierra Club/Baldy Bowl

View of Baldy Bowl from Devil's Backbone

The source.

Alpsadena, CA

Mind you, it was only 2 weeks ago that it was over 100 degrees.

Third summit this year. Next time I'm bringing my board.

Looking East: Gorgonio over yonder.

Treacherously beautiful.  And excellent "fancy feet" training.

El Chivo Loco on the approach to Mt. Harwood

The freaking smoke monster showed up.

In case you were wondering what heaven looks like

Lucky for us - decent conditions on Devil's Backbone

Just do it, man.

Saddle dancing

I found a distinct unicorn sized footprint on the top of Wilson.
We love our NB MT/WT 101s!

My awesome company for my last long run for awhile (a Wilson Loop).
Thank you Mari!

Planned? Probably.

Excellent day with excellent friends

Now that is one happy panda.

Decisions and Incisions: Let's Party

Making decisions is probably one of my least favorite activities ever.  I think this has something to do with the fact that I generally tend not to enjoy things I'm not very good at, and logical deductive reasoning happens to be one of those things.  Somehow I always seem to derail somewhere.... which usually results from the creation of some alternate reality where everything works out perfectly.  Because I'm really good at that.

A few weeks ago, I decided to jump into the Los Pinos 50k.  Given that I am in no shape to give an honest effort at another 100 right now and my knee likely couldn't handle it anyway, I wanted to get at least one more race in this year.  I thought maybe I'd feel fulfilled.  Maybe I wouldn't feel so bad about myself if I could run really fast.  Maybe I could prove that the pain in my knee isn't that bad.  Maybe I just need to get over it.  And so I registered on Wednesday morning.

On the Los Pinos trail (aka "Beast") the week before.

By Wednesday night, I felt altogether off and threw up when I tried to run.  Thursday, I had a fever and it felt like someone was stabbing me in the ear.  Friday, I missed work and spent the day in bed drinking water, telling myself I'd be good in the morning.  Saturday morning, I woke up and knew instantly I should not run.

I ran anyway.  

I felt winded in the first easy mile.  By mile 2, I was soaked through with sweat and shaky all over.  Around mile 4 I tried to take a hit off my gel flask and immediately threw up.  For the next 2 miles I was dizzy, had a migraine and was now absolutely positive there was a small creature repeatedly shanking my ear canal.  As such, I was forced to end my day at the first water-only aid station, where Steve Harvey told me to sit down.  Now.  I waited for the rest of the runners to go through, cheering my friends on and trying to gather my senses, and we hiked the 3 or so miles out and back to the start/finish area.  Later that night I noticed that my ear was actually bleeding.  Turns out by running hard in the mountains with a nasty ear infection can actually rupture your eardrum.

This is an example of a poor decision.  

Portrait by Dom

Now, lucky for me, oftentimes a bad decision can influence other decisions in a decidedly positive way.  This was the case as I sat and talked to RD Keira Henninger about my experience at Angeles Crest and the frustrations of the yucca setback.  Keira recently had arthroscopic surgery on her hip and for the first time in a great long while is running without pain.  Like me, she was extremely hesitant to have any sort of surgery and hoped that she could heal it via other methods.  But at the end of the day, she's finally making real progress now that she's had the procedure.

Physical therapy has done absolutely nothing for me at all.  In fact, it was more annoying than anything given that the woman was dead set on proving that I had a biomechanical issue and had created this injury myself.  It was almost as if she just could not accept the fact that I was literally stabbed in the knee by a plant.  Instead she was first disappointed to discover that I don't pronate.  Then she told me I should be striking on my heels.  No jokes, people.  For her third and final trick, she wanted to know what sort of running shoes I wear.  That exchange went a little something like this:

So Katherine, what type of running shoes do you wear - do you happen to know the model?
No. 
OK, well do you know the brand?
Nope, I have no idea.

Hmmm, well I sincerely hope that it's something with good cushioning and proper support.  

This is exactly why we are not having this conversation.
What?
Nothing.

Taking matters into my own hands, I employed Dom for a session of digging his thumb into the lump of nerve infested devil tissue in an attempt to end it's reign of tyranny.  This resulted in absolute hysteria and near passing out, even after a shot of Maker's.  Also, it didn't really make a difference.  On the brink of hopelessness, I had to consider the recommended option presented to me.

As such, I will be having arthroscopic surgery on November 9th.  They will go in, remove the damage caused by the yucca (and possibly running 100 miles on said injury), stitch me up, and I should be good to go by the first of the year.  It's minimally invasive - the doc makes small incisions and goes in with a little camera rather than slice through a bunch of shit I need.  He said a week of no activity, then probably a month before I can get back to my training.  Sure, I'm going to have to start back quite a few blocks with regards to my physical training.  And to be honest, that is frustrating as hell.  But it definitely won't be at the beginning with regards to the mental side of things, because I now know what I'm capable of.  At the end of the day, I'm damn proud of the work I put in this year.  I turned myself into a pretty descent climber, handled some consistently high mileage weeks, got faster, stronger and ran through some really hard challenges.  Though I don't have a specific race to prove it to all of you, I know this and really that's all that matters with regards to having the confidence to build myself up again.  It will be hard to regain speed.  It will be difficult to climb mountains with ease.  It will hurt to run at altitude.  But now I know that if I can just endure a little more than seems reasonable, I will  achieve great new heights.

IN the Vegas:  Lights, Smoke, Sin and Zombies

ABOVE the Vegas:  ...

Last weekend, Dom and I went to celebrate some of my college friends' 30th birthdays in Las Vegas.  (They had flown out from St. Louis and Chicago.)  After dancing all night in smoky casinos, our bodies literally craved the fresh air that only the high altitude of the mountains can bring.  So we drove up to 7,500 and set out to climb up over 11 in the Mt. Charleston wilderness.  Encountering snow already at the trailhead and unsure of what we might find, we grabbed some jackets, water and gels and headed out into the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest, about an hour or so outside of the Vegas.  Immediately, we were consumed by the thick scent of rich pine and humbled by the sheer faces of rock that rose intimidatingly up from the canyon where we started.  (Kyle Canyon, to be exact.)  It was freaking beautiful, and after the last few weeks of being sick and fearing the impending non-running future, it was exactly what I needed.  As we climbed, we were both amazed at the great footing of the well-maintained trail.  Just about every step of it was runnable, and it was a nice change from some of our recent adventures in California - such as the insanely steep grades on Gorgonio and the boulder hopping up Jacinto, via Cactus to Clouds.  Apparently Nevada knows what's up.

 We were also both amazed that there were hardly any people on the trail on a seriously PERFECT day.  I'm not kidding… the weather, the trail, the scenery was absolutely amazing in every regard.  This might have had something to do with the fact that it was really hard to find any info or maps on the area.  I'm guessing most people who live in or frequent the Vegas are probably not interested in roughing it in the wilderness, but my only response to that is 'wow, what a shame.'  This forest was seriously one of the more beautiful places I've ever seen, and I am so grateful that our random weekend lead us there.  In many ways it was a difficult run, because I felt like I had begun a countdown of the amount of steps I get before next Wednesday.  But in others, it was incredible, because I didn't take one of those steps for granted.  

Vegas. Always a party.

Dom getting ready for TNF50 showdown

So, that's that.  I go into surgery in less than a week and I've basically been running myself retarded over the past week.  My knee hurts worse than ever.  But before I go away for a little bit, I've got one more last minute, objectively bad decision to make.  As such, after work today I'm leaving to do one of the following:  hop a train and do R2R2R at the Grand Canyon, head to Wrightwood and lose myself in the high country or I'm throwing around the idea of driving to the King's Canyon/Sequoia area... or maybe something else.  This all depends on schedules, transportation and most notably, weather. A big storm is on the way and we're supposed to get snow down to 4,000 feet!  Whatever ends up happening, I'm pretty sure my knee will be nice and ready for surgery.

Listen, you can say whatever you want about my decision making process, but my life is awesome.  I leave you with additional proof:

 Dom in the classic NB 574's.  Me in the Dolce Vita 5"-ers. 

Goal for the Day: Griffith Peak at 11,000 in the background.

On the ascent out of Kyle Canyon

Sneaky kisses for my best friend

Ninja skills are always appropriate

And a triple salchow from Brian Boitano

Oh yeah.... the Cards won the world series.  BIRDS!!!!

AC100 Chapter 3: No pain. No descent.

Go Back to Chapter 2


I headed into Chantry and into a giant paradox:

There was no way I was ending my race here.  Yet there was no way I felt physically able to handle 25 more miles of gnarly, challenging terrain.  

Things had gotten really, really bad on that last descent and my knee was now looking like it was going to give birth to a mini knee growing on the lateral side.  Every step was jarring and very, very painful.  Nevertheless, I was ushered into a chair, and soup and coffee were placed in my hands.  Of course, first thing was first - I looked up to the giant screen to see where Dom was.  He had passed through Millard, the final aid station, but had not yet finished.  Yes!  I had still somehow met my goal of getting to Chantry before he finished.  And then I got a little sad.  Dom was about to achieve his dream of winning the Angeles Crest 100, and though I'd been there for most all of the finish lines leading up to this day, I would not be there this time.  And I was not going to see him for a very, very long time.  

My crew surrounded me with options and focused on getting me back on the course and working towards the finish.  Mari came over to offer words of comfort, knowing firsthand how hard I had worked for this day and obviously seeing that my goals and dream had largely slipped away.  "It's my knee," I said.  "It just stopped working.  I was doing so well…."

I trailed off and started to well with tears.  I was overwhelmed.  And then, before I could feel sorry for myself, I leaned my head back and just laughed.  And laughed.  And laughed.  And when I brought my head up, lo and behold, everyone else was laughing too.  "I have never hurt this bad.  Ever,"  I told my crew.  My dad later told me that it was this very moment that he knew I would finish.  He had absolutely no doubt.

Drying the tears, I took a few minutes to get some calories down, switch into some dry shoes and socks and tie a long sleeved around my waist.  Even though I was sweating, I was not taking any chances with possibly getting cold (like every other 100 I've done).  Knowing it would take me quite some time to get up Upper Winter Creek, I slipped on my Nathan Pack, with empty bottles rigged on the back.  What we can gather here is that I have actually learned from previous experiences. Sometimes it is good to take an extra couple minutes to make sure you are adequately prepared - especially when it is the last time you will see your crew, and you've got quite a long way to go.  I wasn't doing this pretty, but I was still going to do it right.

As I rose from my chair, I took a good look around.  Some runners were coming in.  Some were leaving.  Some had retired to a chair, unable to leave this aid station for whatever reason.  I saw Jorge, having arrived hours and hours before, still wrapped up in a blanket and watching it all unfold.  Over the long summer of training, I became fully convinced that this man was one of the strongest and most dedicated people I had ever met.  And on the starting line the previous morning, he certainly stood there with every capability to do something remarkable.  For him, it just hadn't all come together perfectly on this day.  This didn't make me respect him any less; on the contrary, I had more feelings related to "wow, he's going to destroy the next one, then."  And I suddenly realized that I was in a similar situation.  No one would think any less of me for finishing in 30 hours rather than 24.  And I shouldn't either.

Confidence and purpose restored - partially related to the aforementioned realization, but largely due to the man in tights who would be accompanying me the last 25 miles - I began to hike up the road and out of the aid station.  It was time to get this show on the road.  And fortunately, said show was about to become a great deal more entertaining.  Peter Williams is one of my best friends in the whole world, and I was so excited to have him along for this last part of my journey.  Actually, I don't know who was more excited - even given the current state of things - and that certainly made it easier to accept the challenge of climbing the next 5 1/2 miles, most of which was at a nice, 20% grade.  We immediately began ruminating about the day, the journey and how crazy it was that we were finally here.  In many ways, leaving Chantry Flats in the Angeles Crest 100 was an adventure we began years before - back when Peter was training for his first 100 and I did not yet believe I was capable of such a distance.  Peter was set to run the 2009 race, and after becoming instant friends that year, multiple trips to Chantry for long runs were an instant staple.  Here was one of my favorite days. (Please note the old school Nano arm band.)  And here's one of my all time favorite pictures ever:

You probably can't concentrate on anything but the
gray tights, but this is the top of Upper Winter Creek -
mi. 80 of the course.

Unfortunately, in September of 2009, the Station Fire ravaged the Angeles Forest, burning over 160,000 acres.  Officially the worst fire in LA County history, it wiped out over a quarter of the forest, including much of the middle section of the course.  Obviously, the race was called off - and even when it would resume, it would never again be the same.  Peter and I both ran the Javelina 100 that year, along with many of our friends, but there was unfinished business with AC.  Little did I know that when we'd have our chance again, the roles would be reversed…. but alas, here we were.  Climbing out of Chantry, just as we'd done so many times before.

Perhaps two years before is a long time, because Peter seemed to have forgotten just how long UWC can be.  Unfortunately, I had not - as I knew every twist, turn, tree and pitch; even in the dark.  There was no fooling me that we were "almost there," because I knew we weren't.  That said, I felt stronger on this section than I'd felt in hours and hours - the 10 min break at Chantry and the excellent company were doing me good.  And I could hear that we were catching up to the voices a few switchbacks up.  This motivated me greatly, but my body was tired - now hitting those 'scary hours' of the morning where I knew that literally falling asleep on my feet was a possibility.  The good news was that I was in too much pain for that to happen, but my body was still very fatigued and this climb was really taking it out of me.  I took solace in the fact that I'd rather be climbing than descending, and concentrated on the stories Peter was telling me to keep my mind off the deep, deep burning and extreme desire to sit down.  I made a deal with myself that if I could just get to the bench, I could sit for 2-3 minutes and rub out my legs.  But that was harder than it seemed, especially given that my stomach was now finally rejecting the mass amount of GU I had been feeding it.  

Eventually, we did reach the bench and I did have my little reward of a quick seat.  (See above photo for 'bench' reference.)  We clicked off our headlamps for a few moments and took in the beautiful, silent night.  I was thankful for this day and this experience and everything to come.  I now had less than 20 miles to run, and for the first time, I could see the city below.  I could see where I was going.  After forcing some food down, we got on our way - for the last bit of climbing up to Mt. Wilson Toll Road.

Peter and I running down the toll road in January

Now, you think I would be thankful getting that nasty climb out of the way, but you are wrong.  As we approached the clearing and stared down the long fire road that would take us down to Idlehour, I knew I was in for a world of hurt.  This few miles of hard packed trail was painful at the end of a 20-30 mile day.  It was going to be miserable on a 100 mile day with a bum-ass knee.  And oh, how it was!

Apparently I had developed the following pattern:

1.  Shuffle and shriek

2.  Run for as long as I can

3.  After a few good minutes, pain becomes incredibly intense, and I begin breathing heavier and heavier, with the apparent goal of hyperventilating

4.  Panicked breaths turn to sobs as I stop and lean against a rock

Peter had grown accustomed to said pattern, and thus when he would hear my breathing begin to pick up, he knew we were about to have a breakdown.  He'd immediately slow me down and tell me to focus on getting my breath back under control, reminding me that even if we had to stop for a minute, we were still far ahead of the cut off.  It was all very Lamaze.  And so we continued on this way, Peter encouraging me every single step.  Even when we hit the rockslide and I had to climb over boulders (which by the way, was kind of surreal), he filled my head with thoughts of how well I was doing to replace those focused on how pathetic I'd become.  Hell, even if he was lying - the positive focus and energy was definitely what I needed.

Again, I was very intimate with this section of trail, and as we wound and wound our way down - alternating running and walking - I became increasingly frustrated with the aid station that would just never come.  I tried to focus on saying 'thank you' rather than 'no' or 'why,' but in all honesty, I was grasping for things to be happy about.  Luckily, the boost I needed was right around the bend.  As I began the final switchbacks down to Idlehour, I realized that I was gaining on someone.  Even with as slow as I felt like I was moving, I was doing more than just walking, and that was enough to catch another runner.  Once upon them, I realized it was Diana and her pacer and immediately felt for her.  When I'd seen her last at Chantry, she looked so good and fresh - but alas, things can quickly change in a 100 mile race.  I certainly knew that firsthand.  I figured she'd come back alive when the sun came up and told her I'd see her then as I moved on at a decidedly quicker pace. I wouldn't necessarily call it a spring in my step, mainly because that would be physically impossible at this point, but you get the idea.  Nothing like a little compassion to motivate you to 'get over it.'  In a 100 mile race there are always people out there suffering just as much, if not MORE than you, so who are you to complain?

When I reached the Idlehour aid station (mile 83.75), I was in for another surprise.  Just in were Tiffany and her pacer, and just like that, I was back in the same position I was before, when I was doing well.  Tiffany had shared a similar goal with me going into the race, and as such, I was very sad to see that neither of our days had panned out.  However, we were both still moving and razor focused on the finish line.  As an added bonus, friend Jeff Biddle was manning this refuge - though I could only seem to recall his name as "Teva Guy" at the time.  He hooked me up with some hot soup and Coke as Peter stowed my Nathan pack and loaded up my bottles with water and yes… more GU.  I hurriedly choked the calories down and took off out of the aid station, telling Peter to catch up when he was ready.  Though AC had taken just about everything out of me, it had not yet taken my competitive fire.  I knew that I could be easily caught when the course took a downhill turn for the final 10 miles, so I was going to put as much time on everyone as I could on this next section through Idlehour.  And so I did.

It was awhile before Peter caught back up, and though under thick tree cover, I enjoyed the rising of the second sun alone.  Hey, at least I wasn't going to have to run Idlehour in the dark.  

Let me be straight:  Idlehour Canyon is a total mindfuck, even in the daytime.  You climb and climb and climb, yet you never seem to be getting anywhere.  A thousand feet up you start crossing the same stream that you crossed in the bottom, only from a different direction.  Where am I?  Who am I?  And where in the hell am I going?  Yes, welcome to Idlehour.  You're going to stay awhile, whether you like it or not.  

At any rate, I ran the entire section down to the depths of the canyon and the first stream crossing, in pain, but resolved to get to the finish as fast as I could.  I knew going into the race that the climb out of Chantry would be extremely hard, but the subsequent climb, which I had now reached, would likely be harder.  Steep, rocky and back into the purple poodle, it was just one more example of how this course would simply not relent.  Head down, I power hiked and even ran a little, up to the first false summit - spirit strong and hopes high.  After awhile, it was time to eat GU again, and now over 50 packets deep, I was beginning to resent the stuff quite strongly.  Choking it down was hard, and as a result, I could feel my energy and patience waning with the lack of calories.  There are so many battles to be fought past mile 80 - you literally must overcome each and every body part wanting to quit on you.  I'd fought the battle with my knee.  I'd fought the battle with my head.  And now I was fighting the battle with my stomach.  On one hand, eating sucked and hurt.  On the other hand, eating ruled and was entirely necessary to finishing this race.  Down the hatch.

I also knew that eating would keep me from becoming irritable and unpleasant, and if nothing else, I owed it to my pacer not to become a raging bitch.  He was already getting more than he bargained for with regards to the amount of time we would be out on the course - how dare I make it any more shitty with a bad attitude.  I will admit, I waned a few times in this endeavor - but for the most part, I caught myself and did my best to remain appreciative and as un-annoying as possible.  Besides, it was this second part of the climb that was getting seriously annoying, and we both emphatically expressed our feelings with grunts, yells and inquisitions of when this section might decide to grace us with its untimely demise.  It was here that I learned that Peter was under the impression that once we reached the top, we only had 5 miles to go. I knew this based on the following exchange, which was repeated a good 3-4 times:

We've just got to get up to Millerd, and then it's only 5 miles to home!  That's nothing!

No Peter, we are approaching Sam Merrill - and then it's 6 and a half miles of hell down to "Millerd" and then 5 more miles to home.  Also, it is pronounced Millard.

Are you sure?

Yeah man, I'm sure.    …….fuck.

Top of Sam Merrill. Poodles and yuccas a plenty.

Even in the wee hours of the morning, it was beginning to heat back up as we neared the saddle.  As I wondered how Peter was faring in those tights, he expressed an immediate need for Vaseline.  I had my answer.  I expressed my own need for some liquid calories and ice, but as we finally hit Sam Merrill (mile 89.25) we discovered my only options to be warm water and buggy watermelon.  Whatever, it wasn't GU, and that was good enough for me.  As I sat and choked it down, I cursed myself for not packing a drop bag for this aid station.  I really wanted to drop my headlamp and unused longsleeve, but didn't want to risk losing any of it in a random pile.  And then I got smart.  

Can I put some stuff in #6's drop bag?  He's my boyfriend, and he won the race!

Well, at least I thought he did.  I realized that I never had absolute confirmation of this fact and as such, the radio operators checked it out for me.  It was official.  DOM WAS THE 2011 AC100 CHAMPION, and I was so filled with pride that I had no more room for the apprehensive thoughts towards the last 10 miles.  So we dropped our extra stuff, Peter raided the champ's bag for gels and we got on our way.  I was about to hit the single digit miles to the glorious finish line, and there was absolutely no way I wasn't going to see it through.  Even if that thought, which was admittedly in my head, had crossed my lips; Peter would never have let me give up.  He believed in me utterly and as such, committed to finishing this thing with me, no matter how long it took.

This next section down to Millard (not Millerd) was hands down the hardest part of the race.  Steep, rocky, overgrown, windy and never ending - it was a perfect storm of everything that my knee could not tolerate.  I handled the first section down to Echo Mountain alright, actually trying to enjoy the beautiful morning, but after that it was a shit show.  I had lost the will to eat and had to be seriously persuaded to get anything down.  As such, my mind really started to go.  I fault that for the overwhelming sadness that began to take over my being.  The extreme elation I felt for Dom's outcome had an extreme counterbalance as well.  That would be the disappointment of my own race.  How great would it have been if the intense amount of work we'd put in all year had paid off for both of us?  That should have been the story.  And that could have been the story if it wasn't for this stupid knee thing.  Or was it really my knee?  Was it really that bad?  Did I just give up at some point?  Did I not try hard enough?  And worst of all:  would Dom be disappointed in me?  I had to confer with Peter.  

Peter conferred that I was out of my ever living mind.

I WAS putting that training to good use.  Otherwise I'd never be able to keep going.  Sometimes certain days don't work out, and while that sucks, there will always be another one.  My knee was certainly a problem, and one look at the swollen mass could confirm that fact.  But I was still moving.  And given these facts, it was absolutely certain that Dominic would be very, very proud of me.  Actually, Peter was 100% confident that my favorite boy would be waiting at the finish line to give me the biggest hug ever.  Wow, that sounded good.  I freaking love hugs.

As such, a great and many of our remaining conversations went kind of like this:

Katie, it's been another half hour.  Do you want to eat another GU now?

No.  All I want is Dom.  I miss him.

I was so insanely proud of that boy, and I couldn't wait to tell him so.  His were the arms that I've collapsed into after some of the hardest things I've ever done - both in running and in life - and I knew that Peter was right.  Just as always, he would be there waiting for me.  But to get to that comfort, I had to endure.  

Admittedly, I walked a great amount of this descent to the campground.  A fact which I am not proud of, but could do little about at the time.  I was passed by a good 4 or 5 guys on this section, one of whom was quite certain that all I needed was a Tums.  You know, for my knee.... because that makes sense.  I guess after running for over 29 hours, anything seems reasonable.  So with miracle antacid now in hand, Peter and I continued to push down to the final aid station, one hard earned step after another.  When I finally heard campers, I knew that we had made it and holy moly, was I ready to sit down.  Funny, this very last stop (mile 95.83) was actually one of my longest in-aid splits - second only to the regroup at Chantry (which is pretty typical and necessary).  Those last six and a half miles had officially rocked my world, or whatever bizarro world I was now living in, and I needed to get my senses back.  Lucky for me, some of the most awesome guys ever were manning this aid station and really worked wonders on my somewhat broken soul.  They fed me cold watermelon and iced Mountain Dew and told me I was going to make it.  I was going to finish the Angeles Crest 100 mile run and that was a truly badass accomplishment.  When I tried to protest that my race had actually fallen apart and broken me, they told me I was nuts.  I wasn't broken; I was smiling and running.  The broken ones didn't make it out of Chantry; the really broken ones didn't even make it out of the high country.  The drop rate was, and I quote, "high as hell" this year and I wasn't part of that statistic.  In their opinion, if you've made it out of Chantry, you've really done something special - whether you're leading the race or DFL.  I noticed many of them were wearing the ram buckle themselves, so I believed them.  What I didn't believe, however, was that I had plenty of time to get to Loma Alta park and was at no risk for missing the cutoff.  I really, truly believed that it could take me over four hours to go the last 4.67 miles.  

Regardless of what I maintained in my head, I was going to try.  So after a bathroom break, loading my Buff with ice and the knowledge that I would only have to consume one to two more gels on this day, we left "Millerd" to the cheers of yet another group of people who believed in me.  I was ready to complete this journey, but I was wrecked, and as we hit the open patch of fireroad - the last real climb, that I had once envisioned running - my weakness was exposed.  My second favorite boy took my hand and held it tight as we hiked up the road.  We didn't say much, as I was greatly lost for words by this point, but my friend was by my side and he was not going to let me falter.  I wanted to cry, but I felt more compelled to smile.  The steps had turned to miles.  The miles had turned to a destination.  And a dream was about to become a reality.  

I tried to run as much as I could through the Arroyo, but sharp, rocky drops would often bring me to a hyperventilating halt.  Make no mistake, though the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world was to see Dom - there was also not one other person I wanted in my company at those moments than Peter Williams.  He was the absolute perfect blend of business and compassion - exactly what an injured runner needed to see out her goal.  Plus, the dude is funny as hell and that only becomes intensified by lack of sleep.  We continued on, clicking off mile after slow mile, until we had reached the end of the trail, where the road came in.  I was soaked through with the cold sweat of pain, despite the now intense heat, but I really was almost there.

Last hill. The finish is nigh.

Best sight ever.  See it live here.
(Photos:  Louis Kwan)

Vincent Chase has nothing on me.
(photo: Tyler Olson)

Before long, June, Erin, Natalie and Louis appeared in front of me and I nearly broke down in tears when I saw them.  It was at this point that I began smiling the biggest smile ever and did not stop until long after I had crossed the finish line.  We hiked and jogged to the final hill that would take me up to the city; fueled by the excitement of my friends and the love from my amazing crew.  Now I know how June felt at Robie point.  As the final crest de angeles appeared in my view, so did the most glorious sight I have ever seen.  My dad, my brother, my Kate, my Bev, Kevin and Pedro…. and Crispin doing an irish jig and making some sort of weird robot-chicken-esque noise.  I was in Altadena, bitches.  And it was time to go home.

Now with a full on entourage, (and even paparazzi in the form of Tyler Olson), I took to the streets and held my head high.  Though it wasn't how I planned or wanted, and there were many demons battled speaking contrary thoughts - I was about to achieve the most important goal in any race, or any endeavor for that matter.  FINISHING WHAT YOU STARTED.

Hey folks, just ran here from Wrightwood.
(photo: Tyler Olson)

I had started this journey months ago, and I was one final turn away from the end.  Still retaining my pride, I picked it up to a run and soon the park came into my view.  My crew and friends cut up to the finish area and my final pacer came out to greet me.  Miss Chyler had been there practicing for this role for many hours and now she was going to lead me down the homestretch and across the finish line.  (Apparently she had been telling everyone that I was going to pick her up and piggy back her on the way in - but luckily, she didn't seem to mind running it herself).  My friends, old and new, lined the last stretch, cheering like crazy.  My family stood proud, pulling me in.  Other runners who had crossed before me, or for whatever reason had been unable to cross at all, rose to their feet.  My crew embraced, their work finally complete.  And for the first time, I looked up to the finish line, and there he was.  The AC100 champion and (gag.) champion of my heart.  I lost it.

My last pacer:  Chyler DeSplinter
(photo: Kelly DeSplinter)

Best moment ever.
(photo: Monica Morant)

The true finish line was not the banner; it was one step further.  And I ran towards it not with my arms held high above my head in victory, but outstretched in total, absolute love.  I'd run 100 miles, climbed over 21,000 feet, descended 27,000, battled heat, nausea, fatigue, mental warfare and some of the most intense pain imaginable - all for a hug.  

And let me assure you, it was the best hug ever. 

4 legs. 200 miles. We did it.
(photo: Monica Morant)

  

A little overwhelmed.
(photo: Monica Morant)

Attacking June full force.
(photo: Monica Morant)

rother and the "special sister."
(photo: Monica Morant)

Larry Gassan makes it official.
(photo: Larry Gassan)

Getting my buckle from RD Hal Winton. Haven't slept in  over 36 hours and looking sexy.
(photo: Tyler Olson)

Hard earned hardwear.

(photo: Peter Williams)

I asked my crew to bring the sexy. They delivered.
I FREAKING LOVE YOU GUYS!
(photo: Tyler Olson)

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO CAME OUT AND SUPPORTED THIS RACE.  IT WAS AN AMAZING EXPERIENCE THAT I WILL NEVER FORGET, AND I AM SO GRATEFUL THAT YOU WERE A PART OF IT.  MY CREW, MY FAMILY AND MY FRIENDS ARE SOME PRETTY INCREDIBLE PEOPLE AND I AM DEFINITELY A LUCKY, LUCKY GIRL TO HAVE YOU ALL IN MY LIFE.  THANK YOU FOR BEING AWESOME.