Susan Donnelly

April 24, 2010, Pine to Payson, Arizona

Zane Grey is a wonderful, pure single-track race with plenty of rocks – exactly what I love – in one of my favorite parts of Arizona, but I might never have tried it if my parents didn’t live there.  As great as this race is, the best part about it is getting to see my parents.  Sharing this with them is the real reason I run it.

Mom and Dad were going to meet me at all the aid stations except the remote one at 23 miles, which was closed to crew.  Rob figured he’d be far behind me so they planned to see him at all the same aid stations except the last one, when they’d be waiting for me at the finish instead.

At registration yesterday evening, one of the volunteers mentioned that 1) the trail marking would be yellow and black Montrail tape, and 2) there would be two water crossings serious enough to warrant a guideline rope for us to use in crossing.  I’d run this race only once before, in record heat, and couldn’t recall seeing a drop of water but deep water this time made sense.  The area had seen record winter snowfall and the ongoing melt, combined with the rain they’d received the last several days (more than we got at home in Tennessee!), meant creeks would be high.

As it happens, when I ran this in 2007 was the only time it was run in the opposite direction.  Rob, who had DNFed in the regular direction back in 2006 when he was pulled from an aid station that decided to shut down early, insisted this direction (his direction) was tougher because it was uphill.  He had spent every possible opportunity in the past week pointing that I’d run the “easy” direction, downhill, even pointing out the trendline on the elevation profile (“which direction does it go?  Up?  That’s right, it’s UP-hill”).  This wasn’t his best type of course – tons of rocks and deep creek crossings – but his merciless campaign to psyche me out finally went too far when he discovered the elevation profile (in his supposed favor) on the back of the race shirt.  It was gloves off.  We’d just see who could run the “hard” direction.

Pine Trailhead to Camp Geronimo (0-8 miles)

That morning, it was dark and horribly cold, at least for Arizona.  The car said it was 28 degrees, though the day was somehow supposed to warm up to a perfect 66.  Right now, anyway, it felt brutal.

We waited in the warm, cozy car while the clock ticked down, and a few minutes before the (ugh) 5:00 a.m. start, Mom, Dad, Rob and I reluctantly left our sanctuary and joined the runners assembling in the dark, frozen parking lot.  We said goodbyes and good lucks and hugged, then the runners started toward the even darker woods pulling Rob and I with them.

I remembered plenty of the course from last time, but backwards.  That finish, which would now be the start, had a long, winding and steep descent, which meant to expect a long, winding, and steep climb.

Runners all through the line chattered animatedly and to one another about the usual early-race things – injuries and the other races they’d run – like they’d had too much Red Bull.  People crowded each other, eager to pass and speed up, and there was more than one adrenaline-fueled fall.  We ran and ran and the trail started to climb but didn’t get as steep as expected.  Maybe it was like visiting the place you grew up, when the everything large was now strangely small.

Thankfully though, it was enough of a climb to warm up and after twenty minutes of climbing and sweating, the long-sleeved sweater HAD to go.  The sky was light enough to see well without a headlamp so I could stow both headlamp and sweater in one efficient stop.  Runners were still jockeying for position as if it was a 5k and every split second counted when I, stepped off trail at a convenient scenic overlook with a nice sunrise view.  If you have to stop, why not enjoy it?

The train running along behind me oozed a pushy, frantic vibe but that was fine.  We had plenty of hours to go and my only goals were to share this with my parents, enjoy some fun single track, and see the beautiful Rim area again.  Besides, Rob and I were running Miwok 100k next weekend.

Gear stowed and obligatory sunrise photo taken, I merged back into the train.  I quickly started to catch runners and patiently passed a few until I found a nice cushion of space.  Now, time to focus.  The hip that seized up last week, problem knee, breathing, feet…everything was going well except that my feet were catching more often than normal on rocks, even easy rocks, as if I was slightly misjudging distance or my depth perception was a hair off.

That had to be fixed.  I picked my feet up an extra fraction.  It felt unnatural and took concentration but it worked, and after a quarter mile I could relax and look around.  The trail was winding through some nice, tight left-right curves along the side of the ridge, really fun running.  Around one curve, a few yards of flat stretched ahead with perfect foot placements among some low, unchallenging rocks spaced nicely in the dirt.  It was so perfect.  The feet intuitively knew their script and I was already looking ahead to the next curve when my toe caught and I went down.  Hard.

I lay for a moment before standing up.  The problem knee hurt like it had been smashed with a hammer (why do you always fall on your bad side?).  I rolled over and a mild wave of nausea came and thankfully went before anyone else appeared.  I leaned up against the bank, trying to put weight on that leg but couldn’t.  “Give it a minute,” I thought.

A couple of runners passed by while I tried to get it together and I flagged them on with a fake smile.  When no one else came, I tried to walk (not well), then run (even worse), lurching along like Quasimodo (at least there were no witnesses).  Surely the knee it would loosen up, maybe just after longer than normal.  I walked and forced everything to move as normally as possible, then started shuffling, and eventually running became somewhat natural and after a while, fairly comfortable.

To give you a picture of this course, you first have to know that the the trail runs west to east along the sloping side of the Mogollon Rim that separates the snowy, northern Flagstaff area from the hot, mid-state Phoenix area.  It stays around a slightly noticeable 5000’ altitude the entire way (I live at only 900’).  This steady layout gives you some nice views of the tan cliffs falling from the Rim above to your left and the green foothills tumbling far away below to your right.  It also means that in this direction, the sun rises directly in front of you at eye level, so when the brilliant Arizona sun finally rose over the hillside ahead, seeing the trail got tough.  To make matters worse, the trail ran into and out of early morning tree shadows and the strobe effect was a blinding reminder to pick up sunglasses before the exposed, fire-burned sections later in the day.

I was so focused on spotting the rocks in my way that the faint but unmistakable sound of tires on gravel ahead came as a surprise.  An early hour, a remote area…it didn’t seem like time for an aid station but it almost couldn’t be anything else.  Sure enough, voices came from below and metal car roofs glinted between the tall pines trunks.

That section ran short but no matter, Mom and Dad would be here!  Having them here was a treat and I was ready to look up and see them but there was something unexpected in the way – a short but deep creek.  No obvious, dry crossings leapt out at me, up or down the bank, and a fast scuffling from several sets of feet came down the bank behind me.  Ok, my feet would get wet sooner or later today – I plunged across.

Camp Geronimo to Washington Park (8-17 miles)

Yes!  Mom and Dad were waiting – I wanted to show them what I’d seen – the sunrise, the trail – but I didn’t know where to even start.  Instead, I only stuttered out what seemed important for a crew to know, that I’d fallen.  Mom looked at my knee and gasped and I was surprised to see blood down to my ankle.  Oh, that’s why my knee felt so cool in the morning breeze!

It wasn’t worth cleaning at this point, just let it bleed out the grit and then clot.  I grabbed some potato chips and a few more GU, drank extra, refilled my bottle, hugged Mom and shared goodbyes with them both until the next aid station.

The trail at this point was dirt road, heading uphill and I locked into climb mode, trying to thaw my plantar and other tendons from the cold creek water.  This would be good training for Massanutten 100.  I was just getting into a rhythm when I noticed a runner heading off the side of the road.  Must be a bathroom break…but then why was he running?  I veered over to the side to check it out and yikes, it was the trail.  The trail sign was well off the dirt road and blended into the woods, and a few yards in, a measly 6 inches or so of yellow/black flagging tape lay in the trail like a dead animal.  People were definitely going to miss that but there was nothing obvious to do about it.  I willed Rob to see it.  After all, I could beat him fair and square without him getting lost and he’d probably just want a rematch.

The rest of the section rolled along the shoulder of the escarpment, through pines and open grassy areas, between manzanita and some other sticker-y shrub.  I encountered a runner or two, both with headphones, who were pleasant but didn’t want to chat much.

The next thing I knew, there were voices and the unmistakably loud “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

Washington Park to Hell’s Gate Canyon (17 – 23 miles)

With his signature yell, it would be hard to lose Bob “Howdy” Bachani among the crowd waiting at the aid station.  In fact, Bob was so distracting I almost didn’t spot Mom bundled up in her fleece.

Mom and Dad said yes, Rob had gotten lost.  Great, I bet I knew where.  They said he was 35 minutes behind me and pushing for time.  Double-great.

I didn’t know what the cutoffs were but if Rob was pushing, it meant they were close and he was in danger of DNFing here again.  I started to feel guilty for dragging him here.  Rob’s way faster than I am on road, but this was single-track and the course was littered with truck loads more rocks than I remembered, which Rob doesn’t do well, and he dreads big water crossings, of which there were at least two (three if you count the one at the last aid station).  If there was any course less Rob-like, I couldn’t think of it and this was one of only 5 DNFs in his 565 ultras (no, that’s not a typo).

The only thing that could make it worse for him would be freezing cold temperatures the entire time and ugly scenery, so at least it wasn’t a total nightmare.  And anyway, there was nothing to do now but to will him to keep going strong.

Ok, mind on task.  I was running the race with one bottle.  I couldn’t remember what I’d done last time but I’ve run hot years at Massanutten 100 like this and thought it would be do-able as long as I paid attention to hydrating at the aid stations and rationing out my bottle in between.  Today was 30 degrees cooler my than last time here in record heat but there was no margin for error.

I drank a bottle’s worth of fluid at the aid station table while Mom filled mine.  That ought to carry me to the next station.  A couple more GU for in between, the all-important sunglasses, a hug from Dad, and I was off.  Crew weren’t allowed at the next aid station, so I wouldn’t see them for awhile.

As soon as the aid station was out of earshot, I checked the time.  The next aid station was supposed to be at 25 miles, so this was an 8-mile section.  If I managed a reasonable 4 mph it would take 2 hours, so I could drink half my bottle in the first hour and half in the second.  I memorized the expected halfway and aid station arrival times.  That chore done, I could look around.

The going was getting tough because the tall, shady pines started to give way stiff, dense manzanita bushes and an an evil little shrub I later learned is unimaginatively called “thornbush.”  They leaned into the trail, grabbing and pulling and sometimes blocking the way altogether.  I narrowed myself sideways through the manzanita, arms sometimes high overhead, and started dodging thornbush when it was clear there was plenty more in store.  After a couple of miles, the novelty of obstacle evasion disappeared and I bull-dozed through it all, sidestepping only the easy stuff.  Leaves brushed my bloody knee and I wondered idly if a wolf or coyote pack would catch the scent like sharks do in the water, and come hunt me down.  It might be a mercy killing.

At the same time the shrubbery was becoming an adversary, the markings became harder to find.  Junctions would arise and the trail would peter out with no obvious flagging to show the way.  Then I or another runner, most often Mike Dahn who was running near me, would cast around and spot a little bowtie of yellow in a tree unusually far off to the left or half-covered in dirt in the middle of the trail.  I was used to big streamers of ribbon dangling from a branch next to the trail, practically yelling the way, and couldn’t seem to spot these tidbits hiding here and there.

The aid station showed up through the pines earlier than calculated.  My bottle wasn’t even empty yet, which meant I was a little less hydrated than I could be.  Not great, but maybe it wouldn’t catch up with me.

Hell’s Gate Canyon to Fish Hatchery (23 – 33 miles)

The aid station sat in an open area off a dirt road in full sun.  It was manned by a couple of guys I didn’t know and Duane Arter, former RD of the excellent Old Pueblo 50 Mile race.  Duane mentioned we were really at 23 miles instead of the advertised 25.  That explained why my bottle calculation was so far off but that also meant the next section was two miles longer – 10 miles on one bottle in the full midday sun instead of 8.  Not a difference to be ignored.

So I drank a bottle plus – as much as I could comfortably stand.  One of the guys working the station noticed my bottle and offered to fill up my other one.  When I said that was all I had, he didn’t want to let me go and offered to get me a regular bottle of water to carry.

“No thanks”  This is what I started with and this is what I’d finish with.

“This is a tough section,” he protested.

“I’ll be alright.  I just drank a lot,” I smiled more confidently than I felt.

One of the workers joked to another runner that he’d trimmed the next few yards just for the runner.  I started into it, and the trimming was indeed a huge relief.  I’d forgotten what clear trail was like.  Too bad it only lasted a few yards to the top of the short rise.

This, I started to remember, was the section that burned a few years ago leaving it open and exposed to the sun.  I was going to have to nurse that bottle carefully.  Ten miles would take about 3 hours, especially if the shrubbery kept slowing me down.  Three hours.  It would be dicey.  That extra bottle might have been a good idea.

The sunglasses that had been useless in the alternating sun and shade of the pines were now lifesavers.  Tall, charred stumps of trees stood here and there like skeletons in the long, tan grass below the dramatic escarpment but I didn’t get to look around much.  The manzanita and thornbush returned with a vengeance, determined bar approaching runners.  They thrived in the absence of shading pine trees and trail maintenance.  Leaves brushed my still-unclotted knee, thorns scraped my legs like razors and stubs of manzanita branch tried to impale me with some painful success.

The guy was right, this was a tough section but not because of the terrain.  A headache even began to grow, a sure sign of heat and/or dehydration, but it stayed manageable.  I sipped enough to keep it at bay yet leave enough to last the rest of the section.

Still, I started to catch runners and ended up sticking with Mike Dahn for the next while.  We would occasionally make a comment or joke but spent most of the time running in quiet, amiable company, more like an impromptu team than competitors.  To find someone you can comfortably with like this for miles is a rare luxury.  After all, it’s hard to concentrate on rocky trail when you’re trying to make intelligent conversation!

Then, a couple of hours into it, I saw a runner wearing a shirt with an elevation profile on the back.  It turned out to be a Hardrock shirt.  “Who would be wearing one of those here,”  I wondered.  It turned out to be Jeff Heasley, who I hadn’t seen in years and had been hoping to.  We talked for a while.  He was running with one bottle too and I was sure he could make it but he didn’t seem to be in a good frame of mind.  My head started to pound a little more, and I needed to make better time to the aid station.  One thing I really, really did NOT want to do was trash myself so I’d be unable to enjoy Mom and Dad’s company.  That included not getting dehydrated.  It was time to make some time toward the next aid station so I moved off..

I caught Jay Donosky in his bright yellow shirt and not much further, we met a runner who’d got lost at the powerline cut.  Our little neighborhood of runners was growing.

Fish Hatchery to See Canyon (33 – 44 miles)

Yay!  It was great to see Mom and Dad again.  We compared notes.  Rob was flying through the aid stations, which meant he was still worried about cutoff and hadn’t gained enough time.  Bad.

Ok, aid.  I walked toward the table and three women swooped in on me like hawks.  What did I need, they asked.  Water? Sunscreen? Food? Water?  Inevitably, they spotted my bottle. “Only one bottle?  This section is brutal,” they warned me, checking my eyes for comprehension.

“But I made the last section on one bottle,” I replied hopefully.

That must have made more sense than it I thought.  They grudgingly relented.

On the fun side, one of the roped creek crossings lay just past the aid station in some tall, shady pines so Mom and Dad volunteered to walk down with me to watch me cross.    It was chilly in the shade.  Dad, ever the photographer, said, “turn around and smile when you get to the middle!”  The water looked cold and fast.

We waved goodbye from opposite sides of the creek.  I hated to leave but now got to look forward to seeing them at the next aid station.

I spent the next bit re-thawing my plantar and other tendons from the cold creek crossing, digesting all the fluids I’d quaffed, and climbing the hills that were, indeed, a surprising challenge.

Mike stepped aside.  It was a tough section and we were probably pushing each other a little faster than necessary.

Too much water at the aid station or not enough – it was hard to tell but my stomach wasn’t happy.  Soon after, the foot cramps appeared.  I never get foot cramps.  The solution was obvious.  One electrolyte cap and both symptoms disappeared.  I could run on in peace.

The trail started to encounter broad sections of solid rock, where the trail was marked with cairns or occasional bits of yellow tape.  Jay and I yo-yo ed through this section which was nice because it often took two of us to decipher the route.  The stop-start pace became frustrating because this would have been fun to fly through.

Around a corner and down a bank and we had arrived at the last aid station.  Unbelievable.  Where had the day gone?

See Canyon to 260 Trailhead (44 – 51 miles)

Dad had already done some reconnaisance and relayed the results “They say it’s a couple of tough climbs, then the rest is a piece of cake.”  Good!  We talked and enjoyed a brief chat.  The race, as far as I was concerned, was in the bag.  I’d get to savor and play around on the last section, then join Mom and Dad for a relaxing break at the finish, all in good shape.

I was tired of the sports drink.  Since my feet were cramping, the drink obviously wasn’t keeping my electrolytes up and because it might be partly responsible for my queasy stomach, I switched to water and electrolyte caps instead.

Like the last aid station, this one was followed immediately by the second creek crossing with a rope.  This crossing was in full, deep shade and I braced for the cold. It was wider than than last, and I was happy to get out of the trees and into the sun.

The sun, for it’s part, was heading toward the western horizon.  It was late afternoon, and another quick calculation suggested I might be able to finish before sunset, excellent incentive to keep moving.  Rob, though, wouldn’t.  I hadn’t seen any glow sticks yet and with all the navigational difficulties I was having, I couldn’t imagine him making it in the night, trying to alternate his headlamp up and down, from rocky trail to trees that might possibly have some flagging.  He wouldn’t get far that way.  Hurry!

True to Dad’s report, there was a respectable climb or two.  Even though the tendons  had to thaw from the water crossing, I worked the hills for Massanutten training and they were worthy stand-ins.  At the top of the last one, I felt drained, but a GU later, and things felt perky.  This was one hard race to judge.

The climbs now settled down to mildly rolling – this must be the piece of cake part – and I heard voices ahead.  It was way too soon for an aid station and sure enough, the voices belonged to a couple hiking the other direction…and hanging glow sticks.  Thank goodness.  Rob, go at your own speed.

In spite of this being cake, I was still getting foot cramps.  Another electrolyte cap and almost immediately, they were gone, hopefully for good.

This was a fun section, back into some tighter curves, and knowing I’d get done in the light gave me full permission to play.  My arms and legs were shredded from the shrubs but the muscles still felt good.  My heart was working a little harder than necessary – a sure sign of dehydration -  but it wasn’t bad and the race would soon be over.  I’d arrive in good shape to wait for Rob and hang out with Mom and Dad.  I’d even be in tolerable shape for the plane ride home tomorrow.  Heck, I might even end up running the “hard” direction faster than the “easy” direction.  Hmm…

That did it.  I ramped up the pace a bit but well within non-trashing limits.  Nothing like a little self-challenge.  It felt great to speed up.

All too soon, I heard a car and then another and another.  A highway.  I could picture the  2007 start, just off a highway, and knew I was close to the finish.  In one respect, it was a sad thought.  It had been a fun day.

The trail widened, obviously well-used, another sign that you’re getting close to a trailhead and ta-da, there was the finish line, complete with “that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”  I crossed the line 10 minutes faster than my previous time on the “easy” course.  Yeah.

260 Trailhead (The Finish)

Mom and Dad were there to greet me.  Workers presented me with a nice jacket and even a photo of me taken on the trail and matted.  Pretty impressive.

We heard Rob had cleared the last aid station and settled in to wait.  He’d finish for sure.  In the meantime, we talked and I assessed the damage.  My legs were laughably bruised and scratched.  Maybe one of those weak spots on the trail had been from blood loss!

Dark descended and runners now came in wearing headlamps.  One after another, sometimes in pairs, but no Rob…yet.  He did eventually arrive, though, smiling as always.

We piled in the car for the drive back to Mom and Dad’s.  Where had the weekend gone?

Posted: Friday, May 21, 2010, 2:10 pm | Tags: Blog | Respond | Trackback