"I can do hard things." —Ms. Rachel
Around 1pm on December 2, the messages started to roll in:
"Yeah brother!!!! Hardrock!!!!"
"Waitlist for Hardrock! Yeah brother!! Hope you get in!!"
"7!!!!"
I had been selected seventh in the Men's Never waitlist for the Hardrock 100 Endurance Run. THE Hardrock. The big granddaddy of US mountain runs. My singular running goal for almost a decade. I had heard about Hardrock back when I started running in 2012, worked my way up to finishing a qualifying race in 2016, and started applying for the lottery immediately. I had been "lucky" to get selected so quickly.
Seventh was an exciting but awkward spot on the waitlist. Low enough that I wasn't guaranteed to get into the run, but high enough that I would have to train. Hard.
Like the name suggests, Hardrock is one of the most difficult 100 milers in the world. Starting in the old mining town of Silverton, the course makes a single massive loop through the heart of Colorado's rugged San Juan Mountains, crossing multiple 13,000 foot passes and summitting a 14er. The average elevation is over 11,000 feet. The run is an homage to the hard rock miners who built many of the trails and jeep roads to extract precious metals from these brutal, gorgeous mountains.
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| Climbing Grant Swamp Pass early in the course |
Training
(This section is unlikely to be interesting to most people. You should probably skip it. The actual race report is down below.)
My training volume has been hit and miss over the years, but I was determined not to show up to Silverton unprepared. The only minor, teensy complication was that, for the first time in my life I would be balancing 100 miler training with fatherhood. Yes, it turns out that my first official race after the birth of my daughter Emily would also be the most personally meaningful race I had ever run. No pressure!
Okay, there was a secondary complication if I'm being honest: How do you train for a race that you might not actually run? The answer to that ended up being straightforward. I would simply gaslight myself into believing that it was a 100 percent guarantee. And if I ended up not running it, I could deal with the emotional fallout later. What could go wrong?
As for the actual nuts and bolts of training, I no longer had the time for 8-10 hour meandering long runs every Saturday. I needed to be strategic. The first order of business was to lose some of my "dad bod" weight, which meant cutting out my morning bagel and evening beer(s) during the week. I dropped from 175ish pounds to about 160 before race day.
I also adopted the unholy trinity of aging ultrarunners: stretching, strength training, and cross training. I despise every one of those things, but I could feel the benefits almost immediately in my runs, so I stuck with it. My hip bursitis, IT band pain, sciatica, and various other old-person ailments gradually improved even as I ramped up my mileage. I suppose I should have started doing all of this stuff years ago.
Instead of making the long drive to the Catskills, Adirondacks, or Whites to find sustained climbs on the weekends, I spent my lunch breaks on an incline treadmill set to 20%, knocking out 3,000-5,000 foot workouts while watching Hardrock videos on YouTube. Saturday's long runs generally started around 4 or 5am so I could be back at home for Emily's breakfast. Occasionally I would run a second time during her morning nap or in the evening when she went to bed. I did manage to sneak away for my annual Everesting attempt in March and a Cactus to Clouds run in May, which both gave me confidence in my training.
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| Breakfast at the summit of Mount San Jacinto midway through Cactus to Clouds |
My peak weeks were a respectable 60mi/20k', 61mi/20k', 46mi/20k'. By the time we got to Colorado, I had logged 350,000 feet of cumulative elevation gain in the past six months.
Now I just had to get into the dang thing.
The moment of truth... or is it?
We landed in Denver still not knowing whether I was going to run Hardrock or not. I had gradually moved up to first on the waitlist, but time was running out. Flights, hotels, and a sprinter van had all been booked months in advance, and my crew/pacer dream team had made plans to travel out too. We collectively held our breaths waiting for some movement on the list.
In the meantime, Alex, Em, and I had some vacationing to do. My top priority was to get Emily to the summit of a 14er. I was halfway up Quandary Peak with a sleeping baby on my back when Alex stopped to answer a work email. I figured I'd take my phone off airplane mode to check my emails too, only to see a voicemail from an unknown number.
Voicemail: Hi Ryan. Dale Garland, Hardrock Endurance Run. When you get this message, if you would, please give me a call. Thanks!
Alex: Call him back! Call him back right now!!"
I dialed back.
Me: Hi Dale, this is Ryan Thorpe returning your call.
Dale: Hey, Ryan. Where are you right now?
Me: I'm on the side of Quandary Peak.
Dale: That seems like driving distance to Silverton.
Me: That was the idea.
Dale: Well, I have a bib with your name on it if you're interested.
Me: I would be happy to take that off your hands.
With my limited reception, I formally accepted my invitation on Ultrasignup and paid the registration fee right then and there. Then Emily summited her first 14er. Also, we saw mountain goats. It was an exciting day all around.
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| Alex, Emily, and me at the summit of Quandary Peak |
I posted the good news to social media, and almost immediately got a flurry of congratulatory messages and a few asking if I had taken Zach Miller's spot. Unbeknownst to me, he had just announced that he'd had an emergency appendectomy and didn't know if he could recover in time to run.
This ended up causing a bit of drama for me (yes, I'm going to make Zach's appendectomy about me for a moment; bear with me), because a few days later he announced that his doctor had cleared him to run. If I had Zach's spot, was there a possibility that Dale would now rescind my entry? The Hardrock Instagram page had posted a picture of me and then immediately deleted it. Plus, the lottery webpage still showed me on the waitlist. Was this all a big mistake? I was mostly sure that the organizers would honor my entry, but I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that I was going to go home empty handed. Between these thoughts and the lingering headache that I always get for the first few days at altitude, I became a sullen, miserable prick in the week leading up to Hardrock. Sorry Alex and Em!
Finally, the day of the runner check in came, and I got my number. My mindset immediately flipped from the anxiety of "Oh shit, I'm not running Hardrock" to the anxiety of "Oh shitfuckshit, I'm running Hardrock!" I calmed my nerves by buying every piece of Hardrock swag available at their expo. I also made it my mission to introduce Emily to all of the most badass women we could find. Pro tip: If you're too nervous to talk to famous people, just tell them your adorable baby girl wants to meet them.
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| Left to right: Courtney Dauwalter, Anna Frost and her daughter, and Maggie Guterl. Not pictured: Stephanie Case and Tara Warren, whom we talked to but didn't get pics with. |
Cruising with Legends (miles 0-11)
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| Hardrock clockwise map |
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| Hardrock clockwise elevation profile |
By the time I made it to the starting corral, I was positively vibrating with excitement. This was it: my dream race. Not only that, but I had my wife Alex, my daughter Emily, and some of my best friends (Jess, Boy Alex, and Virginia) there to crew and pace. The dream team for my dream race!
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| Still not fully comprehending that this is happening |
Despite all the adrenaline, I started at my usual conservative pace. So conservative, in fact, that before we had even left the town of Silverton I was the very last runner. Given the amount of older Hardrock veterans at the start, I was a little surprised not to see anyone else walking, but I wasn't overly concerned. Back in 2019 I started the Ouray 100 in last place and worked my way up to 19th by the finish. Let's see how many people I could pass today!
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| Dead last and loving it |
It didn't take long before I caught up to a small pack of runners. I immediately recognized one of them as YouTuber and prolific race director Jamil Coury, who once ran a 29 hour Hardrock in his younger days but had shown up undertrained this year. A few minutes later, 17-time Hardrock finisher Chris Twiggs came charging out of the bushes, explaining simply, "I had to take a massive shit." I had found the right crowd to run with. I also spent a few minutes running with American Ultrarunning Hall of Famer Pam Reed, who would tell me jokingly afterwards that I wasn't breathing nearly hard enough for a New Jersey runner. Nice to have some validation from a legend!
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| Leading the charge with Chris Twiggs and Jamil Coury |
The pack slowly spread out and Chris and I ended up running as a duo. I took the opportunity to ask his advice about pacing, nutrition, which sections to carry extra water, etc. Normally this is the kind of stuff I would figure out weeks before a race, but I'd had sort of a mental block about studying the Hardrock course ahead of time. I think this was my small way of protecting myself against the potential disappointment of not getting in. Chris was a wealth of knowledge and was thrilled to have someone to share it all with. We reached the first aid station together quite a bit behind the splits I had given my crew, but I was feeling great and soaking in the experience.
At the pre-run briefing, Dale had described Hardrock as a "culinary tour of the San Juans," explaining that each aid station prides itself on cooking gourmet food. I am typically pretty good at eating during races (and outside of races), and in that moment I decided that I was going to get my money's worth at every opportunity. In my three minute stop at KT, I consumed a full Denny's breakfast worth of bacon and pancakes.
Views for Days... Literally (miles 11-28)
The next section was the crown jewel of Hardrock: Grant Swamp Pass. Despite the name, this might be the most beautiful place in the world. A remote mountain pass with Island Lake on one side and a sweeping view of the San Joaquin ridge on the other. The top of the pass is guarded on both sides by unrelentingly steep scree.
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| All smiles at Grant Swamp Pass Photo by Sharlota Kay |
The climb up took a bit of effort, but I was too distracted by the scenery to care. I passed the Joel Zucker memorial at the top and placed a rock on it. It's impossible to convey the severity of the terrain on the descent from the pass, so instead I'll just link an old video of world class mountain runners struggling to stay upright on it.
I managed to mostly stay upright through this section through an extensive application of upper body movement. That is to say, I flailed my arms wildly as my feet turned over at a thousand steps per minute. I reached the bottom with some scraped palms, both shoes full of debris, and a big stupid grin on my face. I sat down to empty my shoes and recognized Jenny Capel from the briefing. She had applied for ten years before getting in and had been recognized by the race director for her tenacity.
"Was that descent worth the wait?" I inquired.
"Fuck no." was the response.
She would go on to finish, hopefully enjoying the remaining sections a bit more than that one.
I cruised into Chapman aid station in 115th place, having passed thirty people in the first 18 miles. I had told my crew not to make the rugged drive to this aid station, but I was instead greeted by my NY/NJ running friends Elaine, Tiffany, Devang, and Nobu, who had come out to crew for two more of my NY/NJ friends Stephen and Jun. They helped refill my bottles and got me back on the trail after just four minutes. Another lightning quick stop! Stephen and Jun were just ahead, and I hoped I could catch them and spend some time together.
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| Jun near the summit of Oscar's Pass |
The climb up Oscar's Pass is kind of an early crux of the race. Fully exposed to the afternoon sun and rising almost 3,000 feet in 2.4 miles, it can be a demoralizing climb. On the bright side, like the rest of the course it's breathtakingly beautiful. I passed the time by talking to a Utah-based runner named David Fuller, who would pass me on all the climbs, and whom I would pass back on every descent for the next 30+ hours. Just before the top of the pass, I caught Jun and we chatted for a few minutes. He was moving well but the altitude seemed to be taking its toll on him. He would end up having stomach issues but pushing through for his first Hardrock finish in 46 hours.
The descent into Telluride began as a talus slope but gradually transformed into flowy singletrack. I soaked in the extra oxygen as I dropped below 10,000' for the first time in many hours. I was still riding the high of running THE HARDROCK, I could hear the music thumping, and I was about to see my wife and daughter for the first time since the start. I could barely contain my emotions as I ran into the aid station, now in 89th place.
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| Seeing Alex and Em for the first time since the start |
In my memory, Telluride was a long stop because I scarfed down a burrito, two slices of brisket, and a bunch of watermelon, I changed my socks, and my crew refilled my bottles while I told them about seeing Jun. In reality, all of this happened in just seven minutes. A far cry from Ludovic Pommeret's insane one minute turnaround but still respectable for a mid-pack runner.
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| No, I will not stop eating watermelon for your picture, Devang! |
I planted a big sweaty kiss on Alex and Emily and I was on my way again.
A Quick Stop at Kroger's for Snacks and Tequila (miles 28-44)
The Kroger's Canteen aid station is the stuff of legends. Perched precariously at the top of the 13,000' Virginius Pass within a gap in the rocks that's barely bigger than a dining room table, Kroger's is staffed by the hardiest volunteers you'll ever meet. Alex and I had tried to hike to it a few weeks before the 2017 Hardrock but got turned around by deep snow. I was looking forward to finally reaching this mythical place.
All I had to do was climb 4,400 feet to get there.
The initial climb out of Telluride was uninspiring, rising steeply up dusty dirt roads as the afternoon sun bore down on us. Vandals had removed a few course markings, and I briefly followed another runner off course before checking my map and correcting our mistake. I heard rumbling in the distance and wondered if we would get a thunderstorm.
Hardrock is held in July as a compromise between allowing the snow to melt off the trails and avoiding the peak of the summer monsoon season. At the Ouray 100 in 2019, a bad thunderstorm had derailed my race. I had not carried enough spare clothing then, and perhaps as an overreaction to that trauma, I was now carrying enough gear to waterproof myself from head to toe. I was thankful for this decision as I imagined myself getting pummeled by a hail storm at 13,000'. Luckily, this was all a moot point as the storm passed harmlessly in the distance, dissipating the afternoon heat nicely in the process.
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| Good views and cool weather. What more could you ask for in a race? |
I finally caught up to my friend Stephen England later in the climb. A type-1 diabetic, he has finished some of the hardest races in the world, making it clear that his disease doesn't limit him whatsoever. His blood sugar was a bit low and he sipped on a Dole fruit cup as he hiked up the steep slope.
I called out "Hey, it's Stephen America," which is our little inside joke that only I find funny.
Once again it was great to run into an east coast friend in the middle of the Colorado wilderness. Unfortunately our pace didn't quite match up and I had a date to attend up at 13,000' so I wished him well and continued on my way. He would end up finishing in 41 hours after a spectacular rally (aka project Saturday).
As the trail snaked its way around Mendota Peak on an ancient mining trail, I scanned the craggy ridge above me looking for a gap where it would be possible to wedge an aid station. I couldn't imagine where you could fit anything useful in this jumble of rocks, but suddenly I heard cheering. Directly above me was Kroger's Canteen.
"You're almost there!" someone called out.
I held up a finger and responded "Be with you in a moment," before snapping this picture.
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| The Kroger's crew cheering me up the final pitch |
Then I made the final scramble up to the aid station. It was getting chilly out, so I requested the hottest, saltiest food they could procure. Within seconds I received a handful of wonderfully crispy pan fried pierogis. It's also tradition to have a bit of tequila at Kroger's, so I asked for half a shot. I didn't see the drink being poured, but I heard a *glug glug glug* followed by a volunteer saying "Whoa, that's a big half shot!"
Welp. Tradition is tradition, and maybe a little ethanol would give me the courage I needed for the vertical mile of descent into Ouray. Down the hatch!
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| Pierogis and mezcal with the Kroger's crew |
I thanked the volunteers profusely and set to work on the first pitch of the descent. Like Grant Swamp Pass, this section was utter silliness: nearly vertical scree and snow at 13,000'. This kind of terrain has no business being part of a 100 miler, and that's exactly what makes the Hardrock course so special. I attempted a standing glissade down the wall of snow and immediately slipped onto my butt, sliding down the remaining section while burping up smoky mezcal.
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| Looking back at the coolest aid station in the world |
I sat for a moment to empty snow and rocks from my shoes before realizing that I had nearly another mile of this kind of terrain ahead of me. I alternated between red-lining down impossibly steep, concrete-hard rock slides, resting on any stable rock, and then plunging downhill again. The terrain was like something straight out of Frozen Snot, but at altitude and with 32 miles on my legs. Insanity. Pure, wonderful, insanity!
After the initial chaos, the course turned onto Camp Bird Road, which is a nicely groomed dirt road. This is the most runnable section of the Hardrock course, but I resisted pushing the pace to make sure I didn't blow my quads too early. A string of 11-12 minute miles had me in the town of Ouray in 75th place with 15 hours elapsed.
The Long Dark Night (miles 44-58)
I shuffled into Ouray just as the last bit of sunlight faded over the horizon. I was confident that I had paced myself well in the early miles and I was excited to have friends to run with for the remainder of the race.
Fellow east coaster John Kemp was volunteering at Ouray and shuttled food from the aid station grill to my mouth like a mama bird. The culinary tour of the San Juans raged on as I devoured more brisket, a cheeseburger, an ice pop, and a Coke. Somehow I also managed to change my socks again, and I still made it out in eight minutes, now with my trusty training partner Jess keeping me company.
One vital omission from my feeding frenzy in Ouray was a coffee or an energy drink. I hadn't anticipated feeling sleepy at just 8pm, but a week of living in a Sprinter van with an 11 month old had left me severely sleep deprived going into the race. Jess - like all good pacers - is a prolific talker, and we often chat for the entirety of our training runs. But within a couple miles I found myself unable to muster the energy to respond to her. Despite her efforts (and despite being on the most dangerous section of the course), I was fading.
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| Spot the runners Screenshot from a Mountain Outpost video |
I grunted occasional responses as Jess did her best to keep my mind going with hypothetical questions like, "If you could watch a concert by any three bands from history, who would you pick and what order would they perform?"
At the remote Engineer aid station, I asked for a coffee and a cup of ramen. I gulped them down like I was doing shots at a college bar and then realized that I was getting very cold very quickly. I put on every layer I had with me and called out "See you later, Jess!" I heard a squawk from her as she realized I was already leaving when she had only just gotten her own cup of Ramen. Luckily it only took a moment for her to catch up to me, and we were back to doing our 30min/mi march up to Engineer Pass.
The pass was marked by a blinking red light which was visible for an annoyingly long time. Climbing in the pitch black it was impossible to discern any progress toward that little blinky bastard. After an eternity, we finally made it to the top. I vaguely recall telling the light to go fuck itself, but that might have only happened in my mind.
The descent from the pass was on a relatively easy road but I couldn't find the will to run. We walked into the Animas Forks aid and I plopped down into a chair and announced to my crew that I would be taking a five minute nap. They bundled me in as many layers as they could find and set a timer. Despite my struggles, I had still moved up a few spots and now sat exactly in the middle of the pack at 70th place.
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| Sleepy Boy |
Usually I wake up from these cat naps feeling rejuvenated, but I couldn't get my mind to turn off and instead I just listened to the commotion in the aid station. Nevertheless, when the timer went off, I put my shoes back on and headed back onto the trail with Boy Alex.
The Lowest Point at the Highest Point (miles 58-93)
"It’s gon’ be some work, you should pack a lunch for it" —Prof
Because of a road closure, my pacers would not be able to switch at Sherman like we had originally planned. This meant that Boy Alex would be pacing me from Animas Forks all the way to Cunningham Gulch, a 35 mile section with about 10,000 feet of climbing. Essentially he was doing a third of Hardrock while having to take care of a cranky baby. But Alex and I have shared a ton of miles on the trails together over the years, and living in the Wasatch he knows how to take care of himself and others in the mountains.
At 14,058', Handies Peak is the high point of the course. It is considered one of the easiest 14ers in Colorado, but the old saying holds true: there are no easy 14ers. That was particularly true after 22 hours of running at altitude. The sleep monster and the altitude monster teamed up on me big time here. When all was said and done, it took me three hours to cover the five miles to the summit. Thankfully, we were greeted by a beautiful sunrise. And even better, someone from Mountain Outpost was there to film it, so I have been able to appreciate the beauty of this section in retrospect.
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| Me and Alex on Handies Peak at sunrise Screenshot from a Mountain Outpost video |
The descent was milder than some of the previous ones, but I was wobbly on my feet from the sleep deprivation. I kept tripping and slipping on the loose rocks, until finally in a fit of despair I threw myself to the ground and rage napped. Alex was a few minutes behind me, having stopped for a bathroom break. I thankfully heard him coming and gave a little wave to make sure he didn't pass by my corpse.
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| Find yourself friends who will take pictures of you napping |
After another five minute snooze, we continued our trek to the Burrows backcountry aid for a quick stop, and then a short jog into the larger Sherman aid station. Once again, despite ten minutes of napping and probably an hour of time lost to inefficient shambling, I had moved up to 53rd place. That fact really underscores how difficult the night can be in a mountain race.
Usually I come into each aid station with a plan, but I was so deliriously tired that I spent minutes just wandering around searching for something that would get me going again. I have a distant, cloudy memory of eating a breakfast burrito. That was probably tasty, I guess. I think I also chugged coffee. As a new father, I easily go through half a pot of coffee on a normal day, and that caffeine tolerance means I need to consume a positively stupid amount to stay alert during races. I distinctly remember that Elaine, Tiffany, and Devang all made the white-knuckle drive over Cinnamon Pass to see everyone at Sherman, and it was great to have some friends for support at a moment when my brain felt like a bowl of pudding.
Anyway, someone or something must have convinced me to get back onto the trail, and I found myself wandering up the gentle climb to Cataract Lake. I recall Alex saying how beautiful and unexpected the lush forest was here, but I didn't have enough mental bandwidth to give a shit. Above tree line the scenery got even better, and somewhere in here Alex wandered off trail and captured this video of me:
This is another one of those moments that I'm grateful to have a recording to look back on, because at the time I wasn't able to appreciate how stunning the landscape was. By the way, it's even better with Lord of the Rings soundtrack.
My mind started to come back online here, but the terrain made it difficult to get into a rhythm. The trail was narrow, rutted, and constantly crisscrossed Pole Creek. Rather than attempt to run, I just tried to maintain a fast power hike, which seemed to work well. However, it was becoming clear on the climbs that my lungs were shredded from thirty hours of running at altitude. Each deep breath resulted in a small coughing fit, and I was unable to generate any power despite my legs still feeling strong. I drowned out the noise of my own wheezing by blasting my rap playlist straight from my phone speakers. My apologies to any marmots who don't like Run the Jewels.
The last climb up and over Green Mountain was hilariously steep over cross country terrain. We were coming to the end of Alex's gargantuan pacing section. With a final 1,600' descent in just over a mile, we arrived at Cunningham Gulch, mile 93. I gave Alex a big hug, kissed my Alex and Emily, grabbed some snacks from the aid station, and headed out with Jess for the final nine miles.
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| All star pacer team! |
The Home Stretch (miles 93-102)
I had originally told the crew that 36 hours might be possible if I had a perfect race. I arrived at this estimate based on my 35:27 finish at TWOT, which is supposedly similar in difficulty to Hardrock. With 36:22 elapsed and time being linear, this goal appeared to be unlikely. I had also mentioned that anything under 40 hours would be pretty satisfying, but that the bottom line was to carry Emily through the finisher chute and kiss the rock. This mental image had been propelling me since the start of the race.
But still, the allure of 40 hours was strong. That gave us 3:38 to go the last nine miles: two miles straight up Little Giant Pass and seven miles downhill to the finish. On paper that sounds reasonable, but my lungs were staging a full scale rebellion. I was breathing so frantically on the climb that Jess turned around multiple times to ask if I was ok.
"Yeah, that's just what my lungs do now," I responded.
I had made the wise decision before the race not to have my watch display mile splits. If it had, I would have seen a split of 65 minutes for the first mile of the climb. Granted, that mile had 1,200 feet of ascent, but I believe it to be my slowest ever in a race. Mile two was a significant improvement at just 59 minutes. Dang. Speedy.
We reached the top just in time for sunset. Jess asked if I wanted to stop for a picture and I flipped her the double bird and sprinted away. Or according to her recollection, I sort of grunted with ennui and kept walking. It's unknowable which one of us is remembering this correctly.
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| Ennui Ryan at sunset Photo by Jess |
That left us with 1:35ish for the last seven miles. Not terrible. We just had to average 13-14 minutes per mile on some relatively mild downhill trails, if I was remembering this section correctly. I've certainly run faster than that on the final descent of other races.
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| More Ennui Ryan Photo by Jess |
What I hadn't remembered from hiking this section many years ago, was that the first mile was more loose scree.
"Wow this section is pretty tough, Je-oof!" I said as my feet slid out from under me.
I heard a yelp from behind me and saw Jess also sitting on the trail in a dust cloud. Folks, only the best pacers will time their falls to coincide with yours. It's called teamwork.
That first mile ended up being 19 minutes, which really ate into our cushion. As the terrain got better, Jess ran ahead and started pushing the pace, finding the best line through the rutted Jeep roads. I willed my quads to absorb each downhill step, audibly panting with each breath.
"Stay with me, Ryan. We can do 40 hours," she would call back every few minutes.
"I'm fuckin' trying, brah." is what I would have said if my lungs were still capable of speaking.
We picked up the pace: 14 minute mile, 13:12, 13:17. This was gonna be close. We hit a rolling section next to the Animas River and I forced myself to run every step through every creek crossing and every diabolical little uphill.
"Shitgoddamnitwhatthefuck?!" Jess yelled as we reached yet another short steep climb and were forced to walk.
With a mile to go, Jess turned to me and said, "We have seven minutes to do this. Do you want to go for it?"
And while yeah, it would have been cool to say that I closed out Hardrock with a 6:59 mile and finished under 40 hours, what I wanted more than that was to calmly pick up Emily and walk her through the finisher chute of the first ultramarathon that she ever saw Daddy run.
Also, I desperately had to poop and didn't like the idea of finishing with shit filled shorts.
After I made a quick stop in the woods, we walked the final mile to the center of Silverton, making sure to break into a jog once we were within sight of the finish line crowd.
Then I gently picked up a very sleepy Emily who was wearing a very fuzzy bear suit.
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| That kid knows how to find a camera |
And we kissed the rock.
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| Well, I kissed the rock. She pet the sheep. |
Final time 40:14:42, 52nd place.
Closing Thoughts
Finishing at 10pm and being dead tired for most of the race meant that I got a surprisingly good night of sleep. Alex nudged me awake around 6am to remind me that the Hardrock depletion mile was starting soon. I really wanted to get the full Hardrock experience so I trudged over to the Silverton track and did my best impression of a real runner. My legs felt surprisingly good, and I was on pace for a 6:40 mile through the first lap until my lungs reminded me that we were still at altitude. Whatever, it was fun.
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| Ow. |
The awards ceremony was held on the other end of town under gorgeous blue skies. They served an amazing breakfast and I got to spend some time sharing battle stories with Stephen, Jun, and our pacers. Then my crew spent the rest of the day soaking our feet in Animas River and sipping on local beer. It was a perfect way to end the weekend.
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| The NY/NJ Hardrock gang at the awards ceremony |
When I think back on this race months after the fact, the feeling that comes to mind is an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I can't adequately express how thankful I am for the opportunity to run this race and for the time and effort that my family and friends put into making it happen. Thank you to Alex and Emily for kisses, cheers, moral support, and allowing me to spend way too many hours on the weekends doing hill repeats at the Water Gap. Thanks to Jess and (Boy) Alex for pacing me through some of the toughest terrain I've ever seen and to Virginia for being on Emily duty so my Alex could focus on me at aid stations. And another huge thanks to Dale Garland and the Hardrock community for putting on such a world class event. This was a truly special experience. Congratulations to Stephen, Jun, and all the other new Hardrockers.
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| My amazing crew at the Hardrock finish line |
Oh and kudos to Emily's new BFF Courtney Dauwalter for breaking her own course record!
With the benefit of some time to reflect, I have accepted that I can have my dream race without running my dream time.
I still want to go back and break 40 hours though.
Strava
