Ultramarathon Man

by Dean Karnazes

  And then, amazingly, he pulled out a tube of Krazy Glue. He whipped off the red cap and inserted the tip of the tube into my blister. Then he produced a roll of duct tape. I was stunned. He was actually sealing my blisters with Krazy Glue and duct tape! I felt like a life raft having a leak repaired.

  Still, I was better off than the runner who’d collapsed into a chair nearby and promptly fallen unconscious. People scurried around him, trying to support his head and prevent him from tumbling to the ground. A volunteer had a stethoscope pressed to the man’s chest. She called to Jim, “Dr. Williams, we’re going to need you over here.”

  He stood up. “Okay, get those clean socks on and you’re good to go. Nice meeting you both,” he said to my folks, who were standing there in a trance, and then to me, “I’ll see you in Auburn.”

  Robinson Flat to Devil’s Thumb Miles 30.2 to 47.8

  It was 11:44 A.M. when I officially checked out from the Robinson Flat aid station. The projected pace of a twenty-four-hour runner exiting Robinson Flat was 11:30 A.M. (though I was becoming less concerned about maintaining a twenty-four-hour finishing pace and more about just trying to hold it all together). I was the 124th runner to leave the checkpoint.

  After Robinson Flat, the trail widened considerably. There were even long stretches of graded fire-road. Towering pine trees lined much of the trail, their bristles laying a soft blanket of mulch over the dirt for a cushioned landing. As I ran, I found myself instinctively favoring either the left or right side of the trail, never running down the middle. At first I thought this was because the bristle buildup was denser along the sides of the trail and the cushioning was advantageous. Then it dawned on me that it was getting hot; swerving side to side was an intuitive attempt to stay in the shade of the big pines.

  My pace picked up on this more gentle terrain; however, running faster generated more body heat, and by the time I reached the Deep Canyon aid station at mile 35.8, I was drenched with sweat. I paused there only long enough to refill my water bottles and grab a handful of pretzels, wanting to get as far along the trail as possible before the real heat kicked in.

  The only way out of Deep Canyon is to run up the other side. The uphill was savage, and the enveloping heat was becoming merciless. Every pore in my body now gushed sweat, and it was impossible to stay cool in the still, stifling air.

  At several points along the trail were some peculiar watermarks in the dirt—periodic squiggles of wetness, fifteen to twenty feet long, as though someone had been aspirating his water bottle, which made no sense in this heat, where the goal was to conserve water, not squirt it out on the trail. These puzzled me until I came up behind another runner and saw the source. Let’s just say it was a time-saving strategy: instead of stopping to relieve themselves, as I had done at least a half-dozen times so far, others were peeing on the run. They looked ridiculous doing it, but I had to concede that I’d probably lost five minutes so far pausing to do it the old-fashioned way. So I decided to adopt the technique and found that peeing on the run takes practice. It’s not something they taught us in the Boy Scouts. You can’t look down at what you’re doing or you risk running off a cliff, spritzing all the way down. You have to keep your gaze on the trail and aim by instinct. I had a number of false starts—kind of like stage fright—but eventually got the hang of it, so to speak.

  The sun beat down ruthlessly upon the trail as I progressed, heating the dirt and making every footstep uncomfortable. At the Dusty Corners aid station, mile 40, I showed the first disturbing sign of mild dehydration: my speech was slurred when I spoke to the volunteer who was sponging me down. He guided me to the nearby food table, where I promptly gobbled down every salty piece of food in sight: chips, pretzels, peanuts. My stomach full, I felt slightly more coherent.

  When I thanked him, my speech had come back . . . a minor victory in a major war. Departing Dusty Corners, a bit shaken but still determined, I started singing:

  “There’s a little black spot on the sun today . . . I will always be King of Pain . . .” Odd that these lyrics popped to mind.

  The trail turned into a gradual downslope, but now there was little shade to hide in. On the horizon, a pronounced layer of haze draped down into the valleys, hugging the topography as far as the eye could see. A balmy summer day in the Sierra foothills was in progress.

  I felt pretty good, mentally and physically, when I pulled into the Last Chance checkpoint—mile 43.3—about a half-hour later. I had broken through a mental wall after Dusty Corners and was now in an up zone.

  It was surprising to find that I was the only runner at the Last Chance checkpoint. There were at least a hundred runners somewhere in front of me, and probably twice that number behind me. Over the stretch of forty-three miles, though, we had become really spread out along the trail. I grabbed a handful of peanuts as one of the volunteers filled my water bottles. He was a young kid, probably no older than seventeen. His name was Nate—at least that’s what his tattoo said.

  “How ya doing?” I asked.

  “Okay. It’s pretty warm,” he said, putting the cap back on my water bottle. “You’d better load up on water, there ain’t much between here and Devil’s Thumb.”

  Devil’s Thumb was the crest on the other side of the canyon I was about to traverse, five miles away.

  “Any reports on what it’s like down there?”

  “It’s nasty: real hot and not much air movement. Wanna soak your shirt before leaving?”

  I took off my shirt and tossed it into the water bucket. “You look pretty good,” he said. “Some of the people coming through here are trashed. No way they’re going to make it to Auburn.”

  I nodded, fully aware that soon enough I could be just as bad off.

  “Good luck, man,” he said, as I pulled my dripping wet shirt over my head and headed back out to the long and dusty trail.

  The plunge into Deadwood Canyon was horrendously steep, with frequent curves and sharp corners to contend with; and it was roasting hot, even going downhill. The abrupt descent was followed, inevitably, by another uphill climb—an agonizing, hour-long struggle in the stifling heat. Rounding a particularly steep corner, I caught up with a runner who was obviously in serious trouble—hunched over, barely shuffling his feet in the dust. His side covered in dirt, clearly he had fallen. I pulled up beside him.

  “How’s it going?”

  He didn’t have the strength to raise his head. He just sort of turned his chin to make contact with one eye. There was a pale white froth around his mouth, and when he first tried to speak the words were nearly inaudible.

  “I’ve felt better,” he croaked.

  We shuffled along together for a minute or so in the suffocating heat.

  “Listen,” I finally said, “I’m going to push on up to the aid station. Do you want me to send someone back for you?”

  After a long pause he mumbled, “For me? Naw, don’t send anybody back for me. Let them save their efforts for someone who really needs help.”

  A wild grin spread across his face. The guy was tough as nails. He knew he didn’t have a chance to make it another 53 miles. Still, his spirit wasn’t broken. He’d probably keep going until they carried him out on a gurney.

  Devil’s Thumb to Foresthill Miles 47.8 to 62

  It was 101 degrees when I reached the Devil’s Thumb checkpoint. There was hardly a breath of air, and the heat radiated from the red clay soil in lazy, undulating ripples. Motionless runners lay strewn about the place like a scene from an old war movie—one in which the enemy was winning.

  A volunteer waved me over to a scale. I’d now lost nearly three pounds, about 2 percent of my body weight. Other runners had lost more and were trying to rehydrate.

  Maintaining proper hydration in such extreme conditions is tricky. It’s essential to drink lots of water but also imperative to monitor your sodium intake. If you consume too much water and not enough sodium, or vice versa, you can easily throw your electrolytes out of balance; it’s a d
ownward spiral from that point.

  I washed down a handful of pretzels with some Cytomax, an electrolyte replacement and lactic-acid-buffering solution popular with endurance athletes. Next to the pretzels sat a bowl of chopped potatoes, a dish of water, and a tub of salt. The idea was to dip the potato in water and then in salt. It tasted nasty, but it was an effective way to stomach a large quantity of sodium.

  The next checkpoint beyond Devil’s Thumb would be Michigan Bluff at mile 55.7. Unfortunately, between the two points was a 2,600-foot drop, followed by a merciless 2,000-foot climb.

  Departing Devil’s Thumb at 3:31 P.M., I was now just one minute behind my dream pace of a sub-twenty-four-hour finish. Still, after ten hours of continuous running, I hadn’t yet even reached the halfway point. There was plenty of trail left to either make me or break me. It made little sense to be preoccupied with my time when there were no assurances that I’d ever reach the finish line.

  The descent from Devil’s Thumb was so steep at points that I had to turn sideways and sidestep downward. My shoes quickly filled with dirt and gravel, adding to the miserable soreness of my feet. Somewhere along this descent I passed the halfway point in the race. The milestone went unnoticed. It has been said of the Western States Endurance Run that you run the first 50 miles with your legs, and the last 50 miles with your mind. My mental toughness would now be tested like never before.

  El Dorado Creek, at mile 52.9, marks the bottom of the gorge. The climb from El Dorado Creek up to Michigan Bluff was the harshest yet. At times I was crawling up the rocks on all fours, drenched in sweat, my legs so heavy and burdensome I could barely clear the natural debris that littered the trail. Periodically I would stumble on a rock or a branch. The hill just kept going on, and on, and on. The climb took an hour and a half.

  Finally I could hear the distant voices of the pit crew at Michigan Bluff. As I came around one final twist in the trail, the checkpoint emerged through the brush. The last few steps took all my remaining energy. People were whirling around me, asking questions and offering kudos, but it all sounded like gibberish. My head was spinning, the words not registering as they should. It took tremendous effort just to remain standing. Everything appeared fuzzy and gyrating, and it felt as though I were chewing on a mouthful of lemon peels.

  A volunteer poured ice water over my head. The frigid liquid shocked me. I shivered spastically, unable to control my twitching muscles.

  Eventually I was able to regain my senses, and they brought me over to the scales. I was down over four pounds—probably even more, since my soaked clothes added some weight to the reading. This wasn’t good.

  It took me a while to regroup at Michigan Bluff. People brought me food and cold water, which helped—though I declined to take a seat that was offered, fearing I wouldn’t be able to get back up. The food allowed me to regain some of my strength, and the camaraderie of so many supportive volunteers was a powerful tonic. When I checked out of the Michigan Bluff aid station, the crowd cheered, whistled, and clapped. It was an uplifting send-off.

  Within minutes of departing the checkpoint, however, I found myself alone again on the trail. It was just after 5:20 P.M., and the next checkpoint, at Foresthill, was six short but tough miles away. Just one 10K, I thought to myself. When I reach Foresthill, I’ll have covered 62 miles. From that point, all I would have left is a marathon and two back-to-back 10Ks. When exhaustion sets in, the mind often rationalizes the irrational.

  The trail began a twisting descent into Volcano Canyon, another steep downhill with tight cornering and tricky footing. It required heightened attention to detail to prevent stumbling. Every step needed to be executed with precision and forethought. After descending a good thousand feet in two miles, I reached the pit of Volcano Canyon. It was utterly stifling down there, the hot air thick as stew. The water in my bottles was warm and tasted like plastic. As much as I needed water, it was difficult to stomach more than a sip or two of the now-foul liquid. Stumbling on the stones of an almost-dry creekbed, I put my hand down to catch my fall and nearly burned myself on a rock. Water leaked from my bottle, sizzling when it hit the ground and forming a little sauna-like puff of steam.

  From the dry riverbed, it was an agonizing 4-mile climb up to the next checkpoint at Foresthill. Somewhere along this climb, maybe when the clump of dirt-encrusted sweat entered my eye, it grimly occurred to me again that I might not be able to complete the event. DNF kept flashing in my mind: DID NOT FINISH. If I allowed my spirit to weaken, I was sunk. A positive outlook was my greatest asset at this point. Despite being in the best shape of my life, no amount of brawn could carry me through another 40 miles. The real battle was inside my head.

  Covering the last bit of distance into Foresthill, I found myself in a defensive, survival-like mode, stressing about my cramping thighs and dehydration, worrying about what the trail might throw at me next. The elements were beating me into submission. How was I possibly going to hold it together for the last 38 miles?

  Fear, I thought to myself, just another four-letter word; but now as great an adversary as any mountain left before me. From here on in, the battle would be within.

  Chapter 9

  Into Darkness

  What counts in battle is what you do

  when the pain sets in.

  —John Short

  Foresthill, California 6:22 P.M., June 25, 1994

  Running into Foresthill was like stepping out of a train wreck and into a raging party. The path was lined with people, many in costumes, beer steins in hand, cheering and dancing on every side of me as I hobbled down the approach.

  Foresthill is the biggest checkpoint along the course. It’s easily accessible by car, and people come from all of the small outposts around the area to join the festivities. There was country music blaring, high-octane libations flowing, and samples of PowerBars being handed out. It was a weird mix of superathletic types and boisterous locals. Everyone seemed lit, for one reason or another.

  A volunteer led me over to the scales. “How you doing?” she asked.

  “I’ve felt better,” I said, “but overall, things still seem to be working.”

  She chuckled. “You look great. Let’s just record your weight and we’ll send you on your way.”

  I stepped up on the scale.

  “You’re down almost five pounds,” she observed, without much concern. “You’re really going to have to maintain your fluid intake to prevent further dehydration. Try to take in a good amount of cold liquid before leaving this checkpoint. It’s gonna be real hot along the next section of trail.”

  Like I’ve been running across Iceland, I thought, as I walked back onto the course. People were shouting encouragements and trying to give me high fives . . . only I couldn’t lift my hand beyond shoulder level.

  Many of the athletes have pacers who run the last 38 miles with them, beginning here at Foresthill. Pacers are not allowed to offer physical assistance, but they can give a lot of psychological encouragement. I didn’t know anyone capable, let alone willing, to run with me for such a distance.

  A race official asked if I had a pacer that would be joining me.

  “I’m going it alone, brother,” I said to him. “Unless you want to join me.”

  “What, and leave this party?” he grinned.

  My parents were waiting for me at Foresthill. They guided me toward a little chair they had set up. I plopped in it, arms falling over the sides, and let out a groan. It was only the second time I had sat down in thirteen hours.

  “How’s it going, son?”

  “Oh,” I said, “it’s going . . . it’s going.”

  They opened the family Igloo cooler to reveal a treasure . . . sandwiches, fruit, crackers, and jelly beans, all of which I mashed by the handful into my mouth.

  It was approaching 6:30 P.M., yet the sun still shone brightly. I sat there wolfing down food and taking a mental inventory of my condition. Luckily, my guts were relatively stable—other runners had reportedly
dropped out from heat-related nausea. My feet, on the other hand, were toast. They were battered beyond repair; I’d just have to deal with the discomfort for the rest of the race. Not a lot of options there. My neck and shoulder muscles were tight, though not to the point of grave concern. My thighs were a different story. The juncture where my quadriceps connected to my hip was extremely tender on both sides of my body. The simple act of sitting down in a chair was excruciating. I rubbed the area in hopes of getting some relief, but the slightest pressure increased the pain. When it was time to move on, my folks had to help me out of the chair. My mom stuffed a sandwich and the rest of the jelly beans into my pack, and my dad topped off my water bottles.

  “I’ll see you kids on down the road,” I said, trying to remain optimistic, and began the painful transition from standing still to once again running.

  “We love you, son,” my mom said as I staggered off into the distance. “Good luck.”

  My steps were short and choppy at first, but slowly I eased into a moderate jog. It took a good half-mile for my body to acclimate to the pain. Initially there was an uncomfortable tingling sensation in my feet and legs, but eventually it all just went numb.

  The trail leaving Foresthill would drop 2,500 feet to a river crossing in the valley. Worried that my quadriceps would crumble under this downhill pressure, I slowed considerably. Maybe I was capable of pushing harder, but the prospect of a complete breakdown was of utmost concern. After running 65 miles, you begin to lose touch with your body. The normal systems that monitor and transmit critical data to the brain begin to disintegrate and malfunction. The body starts playing tricks on the mind. Important physiological information is often communicated in sporadic pulses of pain that show up unannounced. Under normal circumstances, you would have at least some hint of the mounting tension, but after running 65 miles straight, your early warning signals become useless. One minute you’re running along feeling satisfactory; the very next you’re abruptly delivered a life-altering muscle cramp without warning.