Pike's Peak Ascent (August 20, 2005)

It’s always a cool drive on the way to the Pikes Peak Ascent. The race starts early, and the drive from my home in Denver takes more than an hour, so that means we always leave when it’s still pitch black outside. Today there is a full moon – or just past a full moon – and it’s still out when we head south. Although I’m not much of a morning person at all, I love watching the sky turn light on this drive.

My friend Joann is running this race today, too, so I’m looking forward to meeting up with her at the start. In fact, it was Joann who alerted me to the fact that this year is the 50th annual running of the Pikes Peak races; if not for her early warnings/emails, I might not have registered in time. We’ve emailed frequently in the last couple of weeks, both excited about this race, so it seems weird that I can’t find her at the start. I’m looking forward to seeing her husband Jay, too. Jay was my original marathon mentor – we used to work together – and it was through Jay that I first knew about the Pikes Peak races, when he ran the full marathon several years back.

But there is no sign of either Jay or Joann at the start area, so after Mick heads up the road to stake out a place somewhere past the start line, I’m on my own waiting for the race to start. This is always a weird time – lining up and waiting for the race to start. It seems weird to be so alone in such a large crowd. As always at the start of the Pikes Peak Ascent, I lift my eyes to the brown-gray rocks in the distance, and think how very far away they look. We actually run all that way? In just a few hours? It seems incredible.

And then moments before the start as a woman with a beautiful voice offers up a lovely version of “America the Beautiful”, Joann is tapping my shoulder. “WE OVERSLEPT!” She looks panicked, and no wonder. There are only a few minutes until the race start, and she just arrived – Jay dropped her at registration to pick up her bib, but she’s lost him. She is carrying the souvenir backpack that the organizers have given to runners today, with nowhere to stash it until later. It’s clearly not something you want to carry up the mountain. With Mick up the road already and Jay off parking the car, Joann is short on choices. She looks wildly around, and then decides to stash it somewhere near the start line, and she darts away. She’s barely gotten back to where I’m standing when the race start is signaled.

Joann and I have not talked about running together today, but we start out next to each other, very ad hoc. This race is all uphill, even the first mile or so that winds through the town of Manitou Springs on paved roads before reaching the trail that we’ll follow to the mountain summit. In just a few steps, I’ve lost Joann – she’s taken off in front of me. But then the pitch of the road changes, and I’m passing her. This happens a few times through the streets of Manitou Springs until I’ve totally lost her, and don’t know if she’s ahead of or behind me.

The weather is cool and cloudy at the start, and I’m dressed for cool conditions all the way up the mountain, with shorts and gloves and a long sleeved shirt over my singlet. But almost at the exact moment that we start to move, the sun somehow breaks through the clouds, and I’m already too warm before we leave Manitou Springs. I’m taking off my long sleeved shirt on the run when I spot Mick on the side of the road. “Zhay tem voo!” he yells at me. This is his bastardized version of the French “je t’aime”, and I know what he means and smile and blow a kiss in his direction.

All of this route is familiar to me, at least a little bit, since this is my fourth running of the Ascent. As the road narrows in anticipation of becoming a single track trail, I think about the first time I ran this race a few years back, with my friend Melissa. When we reached this part of the course, Melissa said, “okay, we can walk now”. It was a sensible thing to do – almost everyone around us was walking – because the path gets extremely steep right here. That year, I did not stop to walk. I thought I was on a pretty good pace until I died around mile 8 and Melissa power walked her way around me and beat me to the summit by a good half hour. I’ve only done marginally better in the race since then, so today I’m wearing a heart rate monitor (HRM) to try to keep myself in check. The HRM shows me that Melissa was (as I’ve long known) right to walk this section – it’s just too much effort to run here. So I listen to Melissa (belatedly) and the HRM and slow down a bit. It feels weird, but I know it’s the right thing to do.

Because the path narrows quickly and dramatically, it’s an area where people are changing positions constantly. I see a guy standing on the side of the path, and I recognize him. In one of those instances where the words leave your mouth before you even know you’ve formed them, I’m looking at him and saying “hey! You’re the bike path guy!” I’m relieved that he recognizes me, too, and says in return, “and you’re the bike path lady!”

Pat – the name that the Bike Path Guy gives me as we introduce ourselves – is a guy I see almost every day on my runs on the Cherry Creek bike path in Denver. No matter when I’m running – morning, noon, late afternoon – Bike Path Guy is out there, too. But we always seem to be running in opposite directions, and just greet each other with a wave or a “hi” as we pass. For several years, I have had this semi-anonymous relationship with Bike Path Guy. It’s just very weird – and kind of cool – to see him here today.

Pat falls into step next to me and we talk about our bike path acquaintanceship. He works in the IT field, like me, which probably explains his odd hours on the bike path. Today he is running the Ascent for the first time, and he had pulled off the path to wait for his wife. They got separated when the road narrowed, and now, after chatting and running together for a few minutes, he pulls off again to find her.

Last year this was a miserable race for me; I just worked and worked at hitting a faster time than my two previous attempts, and the whole thing just seemed to hurt. Worst of all, I was so intent on getting up the hill quickly that I was annoyed with pretty much anyone who got in my way – which is to say, almost every one in the race. When I signed up to do the race again this year, I vowed that I would adjust my attitude on race day, and the only thing I would really work at was finding a way to enjoy the experience. And so that is what I work on today.

My HRM is a great ally in this quest. By using it to regulate my effort, I find that I have to take it much easier on the lower portion of the race than I’ve done in the past. The first thing that this does is force me to slow down and walk on the steeper grades. That means that I’m not constantly trying to pass people; I’m more or less just going with the flow. This is a great attitude adjuster. When gung-ho runners yell “on your left” and struggle to pass the long line of traffic that is now the Barr Trail population, I don’t exactly think “yo sucker”, but it’s something akin to that.

At a slower pace on the lower elevations, I find that I have the energy and the opportunity to chat with people along the way. This has not been the case in my previous runs up Pikes Peak. Once we have cleared the initial steep portions of the trail, I fall into step with a woman named Ellen. She tells me that she now lives in Arizona, but earlier in her life she lived in Colorado Springs, and that she was a regular at the Pikes Peak Marathon (tomorrow’s race, where the runners not only get to the top of the mountain on foot, but they also descend on the same trail). She tells me “I have the dubious distinction of having the slowest ever women’s winning time in the marathon.” That seems like quite a claim to me – even the slowest winning time in the marathon here is faster than I could imagine running it. And today Ellen is jogging along at roughly the same pace as I. Later, after the race, I search the archives of Pikes Peak Marathon information, and sure enough, I find her: Ellen O’Connor, winner of the 1977 race.

A couple of guys running in the same general group as Ellen and me are talking about targeting a 4 hour ascent, and that perks up my attention. A 4 hour race here is always my goal, so I’m always on the lookout for someone to pace me. The guys tell us that they are running the Ascent for the first time, and that they are from Monument (between Denver and Colorado Springs). Somewhere in this middle stretch of the race, Pat, the Bike Path Guy, passes me. “My wife told me to go ahead and enjoy the race,” he explains as he jogs around me. Pat, a tall, lanky guy, just chugs along and is soon out of sight.

I’ve fallen into a rhythm with these friendly folks – Ellen and the Monument guys and some others - and it’s an entirely different race today for that reason alone. The weather is just about perfect: sunny and warm enough to be comfortable, but not to be too warm. As we run through some of the more gentle parts of the race course – smack dab in the middle of the way up the mountain – we all start to talk about truly crazy races. Somebody brings up the Badwater Ultra, and somebody else talks about Ironman competitions. I mention that I actually know someone who has run the Marathon des Sables (an epic weeklong race through the desert in north Africa). Somehow, talking about all of these really crazy races makes our little run today seem almost trivial. Somebody mentions this and we all laugh. And then the course turns steep and rocky again, and the race doesn’t seem trivial at all.

An odd thing is going on with my watch today. It seems to stop and start at random, and somewhere in the first few miles I figured out that it was not recording my time properly. At first I thought that maybe I hit the “stop” button instead of hitting the “split” button, but gradually figure out that this is not the case. Out of sheer habit, I keep hitting the “split” button whenever we pass a mile marker, but I truly have no idea how much time has elapsed since the starter’s gun sounded. (Later I will figure out that somehow, I set the watch for auto-stop today, and that each time I have to slow down to a crawl in heavy foot traffic, the watch turns itself off.)

As we hit the mid-points of the course, I see people with watches, and ask them for the time. It amazes me that, although so many people wear watches, almost none of them are really timing the race. Somebody gives me the approximate time of day (“I think it’s about ten thirty”), and others tell me they just don’t know. I’m surprised by the number of people without watches. At Barr Camp, two people simultaneously give me times that are two minutes apart. Did nobody actually start a watch at the start of the race? All this means that I truly have no idea how much time as elapsed, and I just get used to the idea that today the only number that matters is my heart rate.

We run along, and I think of Mick’s advice for the day, “just take it easy and enjoy the run”, and I think that for once I’m actually doing that. By keeping my heart rate in control, I’m feeling stronger in the second half of the race than ever before, but it’s still work, to be sure. I look around, notice people, and still chat with people occasionally.

We pass the A-Frame and emerge above tree-line, and I still have no idea how much time has elapsed. Above tree-line, the course opens up, and you can see the trail winding above you. The racers in front of me make a long, highly colorful ant-line all the way up the mountain. The trail gets steeper here, and there are frequent switchbacks, which means that the trail becomes a serpentine of back and forth. Somebody calls my name – or at least I think they do – and that seems really weird to me. I look around wildly until I see Pat up above, waving at me. “Hey Judy”, he yells, “aren’t you supposed to pass me about now?”

I laugh and wave back. It’s incredible that I have run past this guy on a daily basis for nearly four years without exchanging more than a “Hi”, and that today we have become fast friends on the way up this mountain.

Today I’m wearing my camelback and have been taking care of my own nutrition with gels, although the aid stations along the way are well stocked with food. But now that we’re getting into serious elevation, my stomach is feeling a bit rocky, and I skip my next scheduled gel. I know that this is dangerous, since it’s now that I need the extra energy, but my stomach just feels too dodgy right now.

But my energy level is actually the best it has ever been on this part of the trail, and I’m passing people, gradually gaining some places in the race. The weather is starting to turn, and the sun is gone. Clouds are creeping up from below. I’m in a singlet and shorts, and people around me are all wearing long sleeved shirts or jackets. I think about putting on my long-sleeved shirt again – it’s still tied around my waist – but I’m actually comfortable and I don’t want to waste the energy or time. So on I go.

Eventually, I catch up to Pat and pass him. I find the Monument guys again up ahead, and they greet me like a long lost pal. One of them tells me that he thinks we’re still on a 4 hour pace, and that energizes me like nothing else could. I’m with these guys – who have watches! – as we go past the “2 miles to go sign”. 3:20 has elapsed in the race. I know that it is slow going from here, but I also think there is a sliver of a chance that I can make the 4 hour goal. So I force down a gel – figuring that the upside of getting extra calories and caffeine right now outweighs the downside of making my stomach feel worse – and I break into a run/walk pattern, passing people and counting the “roadkill” as I go.

It’s tedious, painful upward motion. At the “1 mile to go” sign, the clouds have completely engulfed the mountaintop, and it’s getting cold. I keep hammering on. When I reach the Golden Stairs, it has just started to rain, and the rocks are slippery in addition to their steepness. But I’m wearing my gloves, and I use all four limbs to safely negotiate this obstacle. I’m just looking a few feet head, and I know the end is near.

I round a switchback somewhere very near the finish – I still can’t see it, but I can hear the cheers – and I hear someone yell “Hey Judy!” What now??? I glance quickly in the direction of the sound, and see my old marathon mentor Jay just before he snaps my picture. My brain is still working enough in this oxygen-deprived world to allow me to surmise that Joann is still somewhere behind me. I think that I’ll come back to talk to Jay after I finish the race.

But now I’m almost at the finish, and the rain is turning to sleet and snow. I see the finish line and hear the announcer say, “and now crossing the line is Roger Henderson…..” and I wonder how in the world they got my first name so wrong. Later I will figure this out by looking at the results – the person finishing immediately in front of me is, indeed, Roger Henderson. Small world. But I have scarce time to wonder about this before I stumble across the finish line and receive my finisher’s medal.

The weather is continuing to deteriorate, and the snow is now falling in BB-sized pellets, so I hurry to get my checked clothes and put on many warm layers. I have never been so happy that I have a tendency to over pack when creating my race finish bag; today I put on all the clothes that I’ve packed. I look around for Mick, but can’t find him. I’m already thinking about my finishing time – 4:07:40 - as I make myself into the line for the fleece jackets that are being awarded to race finishers in honor of the 50th anniversary of this race. Mick finds me as I wait in this line, and I give him my time. “Maybe I’m just not capable of a faster time”, I tell him. This is my fastest time for the Ascent, but the nearly eight minutes on this side of four hours seems insurmountable to me.

With a full-fledged blizzard raging around us, we head for the nearest shuttle to take us down the mountain, and quickly pile into a van. This will be among the luckiest of our moves for the day. No sooner are we tucked safely into the back seat of this van with about 10 other folks than the forest service closes the road. The snow has come in too quickly; the road is now covered in a foot or so of the white fluffy stuff, and it has brought the traffic to a standstill. It will take the forest service two hours to get the road clear enough so that we can get off the mountain. Lucky for us that we are in the van with a strong heater and (for me, at least) a bottle of water.

I am tired and hungry, and the warmth of the heater in the van lulls me to sleep. The van occupants are about half runners, half spectators. We runners are all dead to the world while the spectators talk and tell jokes and find amusing ways to pass the time. When I finally come out of my heavy sleep, it seems that everyone is getting along like old friends – kind of like the camaraderie that my fellow racers and I shared in getting up this mountain today. I wonder how everyone else has done, but not enough so that I even consider going back out into the snow. (Later I will find that Pat finished in 4:07:59, just a few seconds behind me, and that Ellen and Joann both finished some distance back, in the full raging storm.)

Eventually, the road is open again, and we start the long, slow drive back down the mountain. Our van driver feathers the brakes as we snake down this steep road, passing people who gave up on transportation and are actually walking down through the snow and mud. By the time we reach the car in the mid-mountain parking lot, I’m already thinking about how I might train differently next year. After all, maybe eight minutes isn’t such a huge amount of time to improve.