You ever run a race where there's a totally bullshit rocky steep section that makes you want to quit running forever? The Frozen Snot is what happens when you create a course entirely out of these sections. And then schedule the event for the coldest weekend of the year.
In other words, it's my dream race.
 |
| 2019 mid-race selfie. Too good not to share again. |
There are four major climbs and descents, each with their own distinct "personality," that is to say, their own unique way of kicking my sorry ass. I'll break them down below, but first let's recap my 2019 performance to set the stage...
 |
| Ugly climbs. Cute names. |
The short story is that I came down with a stomach bug 12 hours before the start of last year's race and spent 4.5 miserable hours on course dry heaving whenever I attempted to run. The long story can be found here.
Needless to say, I went into the 2020 event looking to improve significantly upon my time. This course is, after all, right in my wheelhouse (in the sense that I am absolute garbage at anything involving real running but somehow marginally competitive at rocky bullshit courses).
Okay, here goes.
Three, two, one, go!
Climb 1: Barb's Kiss My Ass
+1,022 feet in 0.47 mi (+40% grade)
A mile and a quarter of road running helps the field spread out a little bit. I spend the first quarter mile weaving through the crowd and then settle in around 50th place in the field of 300 people.
Barb's KMA starts on what appears to be an old logging road but then quickly turns into a rocky leafy section of woods. My pulse is already audibly pounding in my ears as I exhale a frozen cloud into the 5 degree morning air with each breath. Awesome.
After the longest quarter mile ever, we emerge into an open boulder field. The sun is rising and the mountains are turning a pale red in the distance. I can feel frost forming on my eyelashes. I remind myself to take a look around once in a while. This is a special place.
There are volunteers at the top of the climb cheering wildly for us. I think to myself that the only thing crazier than running this race is hanging out on the course to watch people run it. I am eternally grateful for their support.
Prepare Ye to Meet The Beast warns a sign at the base of the climb. You know when a race organizer breaks out olde English that they're not fucking around.
After the longest quarter mile ever, we emerge into an open boulder field. The sun is rising and the mountains are turning a pale red in the distance. I can feel frost forming on my eyelashes. I remind myself to take a look around once in a while. This is a special place.
 |
| Step. Breathe in. Step. Breathe out. Repeat. |
There are volunteers at the top of the climb cheering wildly for us. I think to myself that the only thing crazier than running this race is hanging out on the course to watch people run it. I am eternally grateful for their support.
Descent 1: Unnamed
-751 feet in 0.36 mi (-39% grade)
My thoughts during this can be best summarized as:
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!"
Inhale.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!"
And so on.
This section is the first of many to have ropes strung up for runner safety. I find that I can do an awkward sideways run while firmly holding the rope with both hands. I still manage to lose my footing occasionally.
I leave the safety of the rope a few times to pass people. I can feel my life insurance rates go up by the minute. I trip and take a few big downhill strides to catch myself. I'm pretty sure I have briefly become the fastest moving human being on the planet during that stumble.
The end of the descent arrives and I have never been happier to start climbing.
Climb 2: Goat Path Extension
+817 feet in 0.44 mi (+35% grade)
Back to hands-on-knees hiking. The weather is still below freezing but I am already overheating. I remove the Buffs that are over my ears and around my neck. I unzip my shirt. I consider taking off my gloves but know that I need them for protection on the ropes.
Over the sound of my own ragged breathing, I hear a runner speaking calmly to his GoPro. How is he still able to form words? I immediately hate him for having this superhuman ability.
From somewhere above, I hear the deep clang of an enormous cowbell every few seconds. After another minute of climbing, I see that it is hanging from a tree, and a woman is swinging an enormous stick at it like a baseball bat every time a runner passes her. Pennsylvanians truly are a different breed.
She welcomes me to the top of the second climb and I respond with something profound, like "Uhhh." Nailed it.
Descent 2: Lightning Bolt
-1,002 feet in 1.32 mi (-14% grade)
This is one of the few runnable sections in the entire race. That is, unless you are puking your everloving brains out. In 2019 I was only able to eke out a sad little trot in between depositing little puddles of last night's dinner on the course. This year I redeem myself and hammer out a seven minute mile on this fucker.
 |
| Runners descending the last part of Lightning Bolt via fixed rope in 2019 |
I realize that my legs feel really good. It's too early to tell, but this might be one of those magical races where things go well all day. I haven't had one of those in a long time. This thought bolsters my energy, and this energy leads to more positive thoughts. Is this the mythical runner's high that those assholes always talk about?
A bit of rolling single track brings us to the first aid station, where I am greeted by the smell of fresh bacon. I think to myself that life is good, and that if there is a god, I think he wants us to be happy.
I leave the aid station with a mouthful of bacon and a heart full of gratitude. This race is simultaneously the dumbest and coolest thing in the world.
Climb 2.5: The Avenue
+335 feet in 0.13 mi (+48% grade)
In my bacon-induced euphoria, I take a few running strides up this climb before the burning sensation in my lungs reminds me that that's way too goddamn quick. I settle into a pack of racers who are moving well, and we discuss life, the universe, and everything. The whole climb lasts six minutes, but we are all best friends by the top, although we don't know each other's names.
This climb is the shortest on the course but it packs a punch.
Descent 2.5: Debbie's Drop
-342 feet in 0.16 mi (-40% grade)
The mirror opposite of The Avenue.
More fixed ropes. More slipping and sliding. Someone is trying to tell me a "hilarious" story about being an EMT and finding a dead body. I move quickly to pass him. My heart rate spikes. It's worth it.
Climb 3: Backside of the Beast
+1,048 feet in 0.84 mi (+24% grade)
Compared to the rest of the course, this section is pretty tame, though it would easily be the steepest climb in almost any other race. Matt Lipsey probably runs this thing, I think to myself. But he is (1) very fast and (2) a crazy person, in the best sense of the phrase. I'm content to do more hiking, but I make sure to push myself pretty hard. This is, after all, the second to last climb of the race.
The climb tops out at the summit of Mount Logan. At only 2,200 feet, we're still high enough that there is a dusting of snow on the rocky ground. I glance at the microspikes in my chest pocket and decide that it's not worth the trouble to put them on. The next section will make me question this decision.
Descent 3: Mt. Logan Direct
-1,148 feet in 0.82 mi (-27% grade)
The ground is littered with loose snow, loose leaves, loose rocks. Nothing wants to stay in place when I plant my feet. Consequently, my feet don't particularly want to stay in place when I plant them. Should I put on my spikes? Nah, that would take too long.
I end up on my butt twice despite having a white-knuckle grip on a safety rope. The runner in front of me does a half somersault and lands hard on his shoulder with an audible crunch. I stop to help him but he insists he's fine in between a stream of four letter words. We're all in this together, but no one wants to be a charity case.
Why did I sign up for that high deductible insurance plan? I think to myself, because apparently these are the thoughts that go through your head mid-race when you reach your 30's.
I complete the most hair raising 17 minute mile of my life and arrive at the Zindel aid station, where I quickly refill on water and pose for a picture from a volunteer who is impressed by my ice beard. (Incidentally, ma'am, if you could send me that picture I would really appreciate it!)
Climb 4: The Beast
+1,126 feet in 0.66 mi (+32% grade)
 |
| Pic from 2019 by Mike McNeil |
The Beast gets right down to business as I immediately find myself staring up at a thousand foot long nearly-vertical boulder field. There is no defined trail, so it's up to each runner to find the most efficient path through.
I pass a young runner who is cramping badly and offer him a Gu.
"Will it help?" he asks.
I shrug. "It couldn't hurt." What the hell do I know?
I wish him well and continue on my way. We will all need to get ourselves off this mountain one way or another. Food and water are the best medicine at this point in a race.
The boulder field ends but the climb is still only half done. We enter the woods and clamber over downed logs, mossy stones, and piles of wind blown leaves. My legs are feeling increasingly like a bowl of jello, but they only need to last a little longer.
We reach a small aid station near the top of the mountain where a boisterous volunteer informs us that we're done climbing: "They don't put aid stations near the top of mountains! You're there boys!"
We still have another 100 feet of climbing along the rocky ridge line. I'm not pleased about this.
My feet are getting clumsy as my legs tire, and I begin tripping over small rocks, but it's just a little further and I'm still moving well.
Descent 4: The Sluice
-702 feet in 0.53 mi (-25% grade)
One last downhill. Let's go quads! Let 'er rip!
I hammer this descent, high stepping over snowy logs and off-camber stones. There's nothing left to save my legs for, so I just need to survive this next half mile. Easier said than done though. Millions of sharp loose rocks are hidden under a layer of leaves, waiting to grab my feet with every step.
I come up behind another runner and he hits the gas pedal to stay ahead. Now that I have someone to follow, it's much easier to decide on each foot placement. We're running the same pace, but he's doing most of the work.
I pass him briefly on a short climb and he passes me back a minute later as the trail levels out. It looks like it's going to be a sprint to the finish, and I'm game. Unfortunately, he stops at the last aid station, while I fly through knowing that there are only two more flat miles to go. The 30 seconds he spends there prove to be insurmountable as I am able to hammer out the last two miles in 15 minutes (which is pretty quick for me).
I cross the line with a beard full of ice and a big dopey grin on my face.
10th place of 300ish starters, 3:31:43 elapsed for an almost hour improvement over last year's time.
 |
| Finisher pic from 2019 when I caught my wife on the final stretch of road |
Hell yes.
