aty 23/24

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In “Love Minus Zero/No Limit” — Bob Dylan states:

Some speak of the future
My love she speaks softly
She knows there’s no success like failure
and that failure’s no success at all

Where to start with the tale of the best race of my life thus far, failure or not? Hats to everyone who made it possible, especially Molly, for her part in this escapade. My fascination with Last Person Standing events, or Backyard Ultras as the cool kids call them, has been brewing for years. My debut at GoBeyond Racing's Lastest Not Fastest was a humbling affair. Picture this: me, turning back to camp on only my 9th loop for an urgent rendezvous with my rebellious stomach.

The tail end of 2022 was like a poorly written sitcom, with illness throwing my training off-kilter. But life's a comedy, right? So, I signed up for the Last Person Standing event at Across the Years, partly because my pal Eric Hallsten was going for glory. My grand strategy? Walking on the treadmill since running was as alien to me then as a flying fish. I endured for 14 hours but called it quits due to a toe rebellion; I'm not keen on a trip to the hospital.

I was satisfied with my performance; less than three months after my dramatic exit from Lastest, I managed an extra 23 miles. The plot thickened in early 2023 when I started working with coach Scott Traer. Scott, a saint for dealing with me, sat through my ambitious race list for the year, about three events too many. After a chat, we set our sights on building a solid base for the Cascade Crest 100 at July's end. I hung out on the waitlist, training like a man possessed, and Scott got me to the start line in stellar shape.

Cascade Crest was a scene from a novel – wild, wonderful, and a bit wacky. This year's course was an out-and-back thanks to some construction, doubling the fun with the infamous ropes section and a 2-mile tunnel, not once but twice! I finished in under 30 hours, with just one technicolor yawn and a brief flirtation with the idea of Rhabdo.

With a newfound sense of having turned my failures into stepping stones, Scott and I dived into longer speed work. As 2023’s Across the Years event loomed, we prepared for the 1-mile loops every 15 minutes, aiming for an average of 10-minute miles. My training became a series of loops and lawn chair breaks, simulating race conditions. Diet-wise, I was all about carbs – think Reese’s cups, Snickers, pastries, and a Cluster Dextrin carb beverage, aiming for 400 calories per hour. I had a concoction of electrolytes and plain water to hit 20-24 oz of hydration each hour.

The grand plan also involved nocturnal runs, like a 12 am to 5 am stint to get used to night-time running. I even practiced power naps on a sleeping pad, training myself to spring up at my watch's alarm for the next lap. However, as it often does, life threw a curveball, and the course had to be altered by Aravaipa due to construction at Camelback Ranch.

Earlier in the year, I floated the idea of a road trip to Arizona to Molly, who viewed it with the skepticism of a cat considering a bath. Our adventure prep hit a snag worthy of a Hollywood plot twist when we hit a deer in a perfectly timed catastrophe akin to a toilet paper roll running out at the worst moment. The collision was a mere seven weeks before our race departure. The car, now resembling a wounded animal with one headlight and a crumpled bumper, waited patiently for parts to arrive in our secluded Columbia River Gorge abode.

Tick-tock went the clock, and finally, less than two weeks before our Arizona expedition, we reclaimed our metallic steed from the shop, now less of a limping creature and more of a battle-scarred warrior. Hurrah indeed!

Our cats, Klickitat and Clackamas, fancied themselves lone rangers, but even these independent souls needed human attention. So, after setting the automatic feeder on Christmas Eve morning, we bid farewell to our feline overlords and hit Confluence Cafe for a final local treat and caffeine infusion. We embarked southward after some eagle-watching (from a distance) and croissant-savoring.

First stop? La Grande, OR. I planned to conquer 1.41-mile loops around a course at Eastern Oregon University there. This campus jog was the final dress rehearsal before the main event, and excitement buzzed in the air. Adding to the thrill, Molly treated me to Denny’s post-run, allowing me to devour pancakes seconds after wrapping up a chilly, breezy, damp 2-hour trot at a leisurely 10-minute mile pace.

With our bellies content and spirits high, we set our sights on the interstate, eager to see how far we could travel that night. Our plan? Drive to a rest area in Idaho, catch some Z's in the car, wake up, and continue our journey to Bryce Canyon for a Christmas sunset view. But, as fate would have it, our plot thickened. Those two cats of ours, Klickitat and Clackamas? They're fans of regular meals, and our automated feeder chose this particular day to throw a wrench into the works. A Christmas Miracle, indeed! Luckily, we managed to get ahold of our neighbors, Kyle and Shanna, who played the roles of cat saviors, resetting the feeder and treating our feline friends to an extra snack. What a relief! But in a journey resembling a novel, we couldn't help but wonder: what else could go awry?

We didn't have to wait long for an answer. Our next pit stop was a gas station north of Salt Lake City. The plan was simple: refuel the car, use the facilities, and carry on. But lo and behold, it was Christmas in Salt Lake, and everything was as closed as a Bethlehem Inn. Not even the gas station welcomed visitors, leaving our restroom break as a pending item on our adventure checklist. In the spirit of the season and the unexpected turns of life, we shrugged it off. After all, what's an adventure without a few unplanned detours and closed restroom doors?

Molly was at the wheel, the latest chapter in our ongoing saga of trading driving shifts like we were flipping records to find a better tune. She fired up the car, and the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree – a bit on the nose for the season, but there it was. We took it as a cosmic hint that Bryce Canyon was a no-go, especially since sleeping in our car in 8° weather seemed like a plot designed for discomfort, not only for us but for our trusty metal steed as well. So, with about five and a half hours to Sedona, we decided to keep that engine running non-stop. Even during driver swaps, we left it purring. We rolled into Sedona just as the sun took its final bow for the day. Later, a mechanic would tell us he couldn't find a thing wrong with the car and simply reset the lights. They stayed off, for the time being…

In Sedona, post-Christmas, we tried our hands at stress-baking, dabbling in half-hearted watercolor, and strumming on the guitar. On the 30th, we scooped up my mom, Teresa, and her husband, Stede, from the airport in Phoenix and shared a meal. Then, we went to Camelback Ranch to check out the race course and cheer for the other runners. Krista and Eric joined us after setting up shop at our Airbnb and whipping up dinner.

It was grand to catch up the night before our big race. Everyone had their own (flat) mountains to climb: Molly was set on breaking her 12-hour distance record, Krista aimed for a sub-24-hour 100-mile, there were rumors of Stede joining the 6-hour race at the crack of dawn, and Eric and I were bracing ourselves for the Last Person Standing challenge, a potentially 69-hour test of body and soul. Eric had recently smashed the Oregon PCT section FKT, a record that stood for nearly a decade!

Eric had cooked up a storm, literally, with a staggering 1,878 lbs of food; we weighed it, a mountain of quinoa and beans. Meanwhile, I was calculating my calories with the precision of a mad scientist and then hit the sack. The next day, I watched Molly, Krista, and Stede kick off their races at 9 am before returning to the Airbnb for some downtime and a snack. I made my way back around 10:45 am, ready for the noon start of our endurance dance.

Luckily, Eric and I had snagged some strategic chairs in the back corner, foreseeing the need for a quick rest on our sleeping pads through the night. I hauled my calorie-packed saddlebags into the Last Person Standing tent, where I ran into Wes Smith, another brave soul who’d forgotten the sweet torture of this race type. We chatted as I organized my station to minimize mid-race brainpower. Wes had a busy year, tackling the Black Canyons 100k and UTMB. Liz Derstine, a familiar face from last year, was also there. She’d impressed us with her first 100-mile run at last year’s Across the Years LPS and recently set an FKT on the Swiss Via Alpina.

But these were just the folks I knew. There were others, like Maia Detmer, a 130-mile runner from the inaugural event, and Derrick Lytle, a swift runner with multi-day FKTs to his name. And then there was Michael McKnight, fresh from an Arizona Trail FKT attempt, now trying his hand at Last Person with a diet of nothing but Raw Milk—quite the choice.

Honestly, it irked me a bit how casually Mike appeared to be taking this race, treating it as an 'easy' jaunt. I saw him as my main competitor and wanted him to take it as seriously as I was. I’d learned loads from past failures and believed my experience and fitness could catapult me to victory. I meticulously measured my nutrition and electrolytes, readying for the moment when thinking would be a luxury. Before we knew it, the two-minute warning whistle blew at 11:58 am. Showtime.

Across the Years this multi-day running festival has been doing its thing since 1983, each year a bit like a cat changing its sleeping spot. The usual suspects were the 24, 48, and 72-hour events, with an ambitious 10-day event thrown in for those who think sleep is overrated. The race has shape-shifted over the years and now finds itself in Glendale, AZ, at Camelback Ranch, a Major League Baseball spot ironically nowhere near Camelback Mountain. The Last Person Standing is the new kid on the block, twisting the traditional backyard ultra formula into a 20-minute, 1.41-mile loop fiesta.

Ultras and cowbells go together like peanut butter and jelly, and with the bell clang, 21 of us brave (or clueless?) souls embarked on our first lap, not knowing when this shindig would wrap up. Some folks might have had grand plans for mileage, dreaming of a 50-mile victory dance at the dawn of the New Year.

Me? I wasn't shy about shooting for the stars with a 200-mile goal. My spreadsheet was beautiful; every 20-minute lap was planned like a military operation through the 69 hours we might endure, needing 142 laps to hit that sweet, round number. Had I run anything close to this before? Not even close. But after surviving Cascade Crest's 102-ish miles and a night longer than some relationships, I figured, how much harder could twice the distance on a flat course be? Spoiler alert: incredibly hard.

Eric and I had been strategizing like generals for months. My prep included binge-listening to the Backyard Ultra Podcast by this Australian guy, Patto. If you're into the nitty-gritty of ultra planning, this is your jam. There, I heard Ihor Verys (Assist @ 2023’s Big’s) talk about his downfall: too much walking and not enough running. So, I decided to stick to running every lap, keeping those running muscles in the spotlight and giving my walking muscles a vacation.

The first ten laps were a breeze, cruising at about a 16-minute lap, shooting the breeze with fellow racers. It's a hoot starting on the 31st when others have been at it since the 28th, racking up miles like they're going out of style. Rachel Entrekin was one such runner, tearing through the 48-hour event with eyes set on eclipsing 200 miles. Watching her was like seeing a human locomotive that refused to stop.

My strategy was to take it easy by day, maybe walking as the course's gentle slopes turned into imaginary mountain passes. But at night, I was all about banking rest time, targeting 14-minute laps and aiming for a quick power nap on each loop on my sleeping pad. I even penciled in stretch breaks, which kept me limber.

After lap 10, I hit a groove, knocking out 51 laps, or 17 hours, with an average loop of 14:05. It's hard to explain, but everything was clicking – I was on top of my nutrition, hydration, and electrolytes. Plus, the tunes by the start/finish line were so infectious I might as well have been at a never-ending karaoke party.

Getting horizontal between laps was vital, though calming my overexcited brain and body for actual rest was a challenge. This made the night zoom by. The only real hiccup was figuring out the right clothes to avoid becoming a sweaty mess. Then there was my right foot, starting a rebellion in my well-worn Nnormal Kjerags. I switched to looser lacing and eventually to my Topo Phantom 3s, like a magic wand for my foot pain. With that switch, I was back in the game, running almost pain-free as long as I watched my step.

My exuberance must've been shining like a neon sign to everyone around. At one point early on, Mike inquired about my state of mind. 'Best time of my life,' I told him, and I wasn't just whistling Dixie. Unfortunately for me, Mike, ever the strategist, noticed my high spirits were likely due to my constant running, in stark contrast to the rest of the plodding herd. So, he decided to join my one-man parade, blaring pump-up anthems like Journey’s 'Don’t Stop Believin’' and Survivor’s 'Eye of the Tiger' from his phone. Ironically, these tunes did the opposite for me, trying to turn my high into a low, but I stuck to my guns, running as if the music was fuel rather than molasses.

Mike and I were like two ships in the night, exchanging the occasional weary nod. My brain was in the zone, and I was having a blast. Oh, and did I mention the coyote that joined our little party at one point in the night? No hallucination – Eric and Mike were witnesses, too.

As dawn broke, painting the sky in shades of sherbet, Mike popped the question again. Surprised he was still interested in chit-chat, I confessed that the prospect of going home to build a house seemed less appealing than running in endless loops. What I didn't tell him was that my foot was staging a mutiny, developing a limp that made walking feel like a bad joke.

We were deep into the morning now, and I had been stealing precious moments of rest each lap. But with the sun’s arrival, the idea of lying down seemed about as likely as a snowball's chance in hell. I looked around at the survivors, those noble souls who had weathered the night. It was a battlefield; there was no sugarcoating that. We were a ragtag band of runners, each fighting our own private wars under a sky that couldn’t care less.

The field had dwindled down, the majority of runners having wisely decided to do literally anything else. David Valdez, my pacing pal, vanished into the night, his name now a chalky epitaph on the race board. Katie Tullman, a veteran from last year, outdid herself by two hours before bowing out. Then there was Norman Rosentreter, who generously offered to take anyone who wanted out with him. We all passed, and he shook our hands like a gentleman at the end of the world before taking his leave. So it goes.

Derrick hung in there until the first light of dawn, and Eric was the cheerleader Liz needed, keeping her in the game until breakfast when she finally called it quits. That left just five of us: Wes, Eric, Maia, Mike, and yours truly. After Liz’s departure, I ran one more lap at my usual pace before switching things up. I chatted with Liz to congratulate each other on surviving thus far. I realized this race might not be the epic saga I envisioned. A pang of guilt hit me – I hadn't been the backyard cheerleader I could have been, too wrapped up in my own world.

On the next lap, I slowed down, deciding to stick with the pack. The sun was high, we were a mere 15 miles from the 100-mile mark, and spirits were, if not high, at least not buried. Eric’s knees had given him grief since mile 25 – a little factoid I’d stumbled upon. There’s something seductive about the roundness of 100 miles, so I figured Eric could use some brotherly support to reach that milestone.

Those slower loops with my fellow runners were my first shared laps with Maia. After doing a post-mortem analysis of lap times, it’s clear Maia came in with a strategy and stuck to it like glue – a real treat to witness in action. Given our exhausted bodies and minds, we exchanged what could pass for conversation and kept pace with Eric and Wes, trudging along in a camaraderie born of shared madness.

One hundred miles. Wow. It’s a marvel, really, what the human body can endure with a cocktail of training and a buffet of carbs. All five of us breezed past lap 71, dragging Wes with us for one more round before the organizers cued “Taps,” the unofficial anthem of his race exit. Then there were four of us, marching on, no shiny new milestone in sight, just the relentless grind of the track.

Eric, bless him, seemed to hit a rough patch after Wes bowed out. It’s funny how round numbers can mess with your head. They’re like a comfy couch – lovely to sit on but hard to get up from. Not that Eric was lounging around; he was just appreciating the journey, aches, pains, and all.

Feeling like the race needed a jolt of drama, I stepped up my game. Mind you, every fiber in my body was raring to go, except for the nerves in my foot, which were staging a full-blown rebellion. On the other hand, Mike had been running like a machine, a model of efficiency and endurance. But appearances can be deceiving, and from my sneaky peeks into the crew tent, it was clear his journey wasn’t as smooth as his split times suggested.

Mike was learning the hard way that this kind of race chews you up and spits you out if you’re not tuned to perfection. He was battling some physical demons, his crew in a constant flurry of activity. In this race, everyone’s an open book – every grimace, every limp, every nut butter application on a troubled toe is public knowledge.

So, I put on a show. My mission was to exude joy in every cell except those foot nerves. I grinned like a Cheshire cat every time I breezed into the aid tent, high-fiving with gusto, belting out tunes like I was auditioning for a Broadway musical. I wanted Mike – and everyone else – to think I was having the time of my life. Because, in a way, I was. Pain, joy, delirium – it was all part of the grand, absurd dance of the ultra.

The next lap kicked off, and there I was, shuffling alongside Maia and Eric. Then, in a moment of ‘what the hell,’ I blasted off like a cannonball. I decided to flex every muscle, literal and metaphorical, to show Mike that if he wanted to win, he'd be in for the long haul – maybe another 100 miles if the stars aligned. I clocked in a blazing sub-8 minute mile – the fastest lap at 11:11. Make a wish, indeed. I zoomed into the tent, plonked myself down for some candy and salty water, and waited for the others. I was peacocking on the outside, but inside, every step was a negotiation with pain.

Moving that fast felt like freedom, but it was a ruse, a ploy in the mental chess match with Mike. Maia was going strong, and Eric looked like he was on his last legs. Finally, he called it quits and took a well-deserved nap on the ground. I battled for another two and a half hours, but the rebellion in my foot and the Herculean effort to maintain even a 15-minute mile signaled the end was nigh. I would ‘fail’ on my 88th loop.

Limping around the course, I bumped into Shashi, a beacon of positivity from Dallas, Texas, in the six-day race. His goal of 200 miles was tantalizingly close. Shashi had been a ray of sunshine every time I passed him, and I was profoundly grateful for that. We chatted about his ultrarunning journey and his plan to celebrate hitting 200 miles by handing out beers to other runners. What a champ.

Ultimately, Across the Years was about fun and pushing my limits. I’d say I nailed it on both counts. Despite my foot’s protest, I got to spar with some legends of the sport and hopefully gave them a run for their money. People often ask what goes through my mind while running. Usually, it’s a song, but before this race, I circled back to Bob Dylan’s 'Love Minus Zero/No Limit.' A line feels like it was written for ultras: 'She knows there's no success like failure, and that failure's no success at all.'

As I hobbled towards the finish line, a different lyric, courtesy of Little Simz, became my mantra. It’s a reminder that this adventure, this pain, this joy – it’s just the start of my story.

In “Gems (Interlude)” Little Simz writes:

Take your time
Inhale, Exhale
Breathe
Do you want fifteen years or fifteen minutes?
Do not tire yourself out
One foot out of line and you’ll be ridiculed