2016 San Diego 100 and Dumb Luck

Before the damage was done.

If it weren't for dumb luck, I wouldn't have any luck at all. It is often said that luck is when preparation meets opportunity. That may be true for some, and certainly for successful people. For the rest of us idiots, the only luck we're going to get is the aptly named dumb luck.

Like the idiot that I am, I was easily talked into signing up for the San Diego 100 mile run. With some dumb luck, I was quickly moved off the wait list and onto the registered runner list. Game on.

SD100 is like the gateway drug to AC, or Angeles Crest 100. Easy to swallow, the idea of running San Diego seemed like a good idea during a heavily intoxicated cold winter night. Everyone rightly associates San Diego with beaches and beautiful girls. Unfortunately, the race borders the desert, albeit at 5000 ft elevation, and you're surrounded by sweaty, smelly men. AC, that I'll be doing later this year, is more of the same - more desert, more heat, more elevation and sweatier and smellier men. Let’s not forget the women - they are equally sweaty and smelly, like Shrek and Fiona.

Heat preparation this spring turned into a futile effort. With dumb luck, both the Marin Ultra 50M and Canyons 100k were held in freezing rain and wind. NorCal didn't encounter a hot day until the last week before SD. Too little, too late.

With dumb luck, all of California was to be hit with a 2-day heat wave, 20F warmer than the days before and after, timed perfectly with SD 100. High temp hit 100F for race day Friday only. Perfect heat training for when I go meet Beelzebub at the Hot-as-Hades-Because-You're-In-Hell Ultra.

My brother, Sonny, picked me up from the airport and drove me to the race briefing on Thursday. I'll be forever grateful to him and his family for the weekend support, that not even my two bottles of Pliny the Elder could compensate. That was probably part of his evil plan. We spent the night before the race at a casino resort. Not pressing my dumb luck, we went to sleep right after dinner and got nearly 8 hours sleep before our 4 AM wakeup.

By Friday morning, the festive atmosphere of the previous afternoon gave way to a cool, serious calm. We started with celebratory jubilation on a single track trail through the meadows that would prove to be a preview of the rest of the day. What seems attractive and easy on the surface was hiding the danger underneath. The pretty, green grasses of the meadows were hiding rocks and ruts. This trail is full of surprises. It offers sweeping vistas of the desert, lonely trails through tranquil meadows, meandering paths through pine forests and an unexpected creek crossing at the most fortuitous moment. But beneath this beauty and a modest 13,000 ft gain, lies a course with teeth. Teeth in the form of rocks, boulders and hard packed dirt that would bite my feet, grab and tear at my ankles and top it all off with a roasting sun accompanied by flies and mosquitoes.

“Ice, ice, baby” - Vanilla Ice.

By 8 AM, the rising sun started to bake the desert floor to the east and the bedrock all around us. Yabba dabba doo. The sign indicating our entry to Anza Borrego Desert was foreboding. I was on a serious ice regimen. Ice in my water. Ice in my backpack. Ice in my sleeves. Ice in my bandana. Ice in my hat. Ice down my shorts. The only thing that kept me from repeating Vanilla Ice or Frozen in my head was Meghan Trainor. The Sunrise aid station was blasting music and “All About That Bass” got stuck in my head for hours.

After a recuperating breakfast and warm apple pie, my brother started his crewing duties late in the morning, not needing to see me until 11 AM. Wanting to get a taste of the volcanic trail, he ran a few short miles on the PCT. Not enough of an idiot to run 100 miles in this sh*t, but an idiot, nonetheless. As good crew, Sonny helped me with ice and forced food onto me. He would see me again at the next aid station at 12:50 PM, but my wife, Martha, flew in but did not get to the mountain in time for that stop. It would be three more aid stations and 8 hours before I would see crew and Martha for the first time. Leaving an idiot to his own devices for the next 8 hours, things would start to slowly unravel.

The next downhill section to Pine Creek felt like being in the middle of a fireplace. The quartzite had all day to warm up and unleash its fury on the runners who dared to disturb its peace. I’d planned on bombing down the hills with my famous twinkle toes, but the loose rocks gave me purple toes and tossed me to the ground more than once.

“What’s before me is the comforting fact that death is a fine long sleep, and I’m damn tired, and it can’t come too soon for me.” - Larry Slade, The Iceman Cometh.

Pine Creek rests at the bottom of Noble Canyon, with its 108F heat index. With trail brain, I got 200 yards out of the aid station before realizing I’d forgotten my water bottle. The climb wasn’t steep, but it was sure long. I passed at least a dozen zombie runners who could only respond to my trail greetings with monosyllabic grunts. Scotty Mills warned us about this section, but with dumb luck, I power climbed and ran a great section. My luck would not last, per ultrarunning law, “If you’re feeling great, don’t worry. You’ll get over it.”

Shortly after leaving mile 48 at Penny Pines, my stomach was no longer cooperating. Even though the scorching sun was below the horizon, radiating on the blue Pacific instead of on us, I hit a wall. The short, 5 mile section to the Meadows aid station would take me two hours. I was looking forward to seeing my wife for the first time and that carried me for a while, albeit slowly. I paused off the trail for my first nature call #2 of the day, not wanting to greet my wife with “hi honey, hold my stuff while I use the port-a-potty”. To brighten her first idiot sighting, I ran the final few hundred yards in.

“What’s right is what’s left if you do everything else wrong” - Robin Williams.

I spent thirty minutes at Meadows trying to recuperate my stomach and get some nutrition back in. At this point, that mainly consisted of broth. At 8:30 PM, I began the next 6.2 mile section with some vigor but all gastrological signs pointed to STOP. I enjoyed the dark night alone, alternating between dry heaving and lying flat on my back contemplating my role in the universe. Passing runners checked for signs of life and offered aid, as they always do, and tons of encouragement. In my trail stupor, I rambled and stumbled 6.2 miles at a drunken snail’s pace, arriving at Red Tail Roost by 11:08 PM, now just 22 minutes ahead of cutoff.

The next aid station was just an easy 1.3 miles away with a midnight cutoff. You miss that, and your race turns into a pumpkin. Martha “paced” me for this section, in a manner similar to the way that you’d lead a drunken donkey. She led me by a virtual rope, cup of broth in hand. I only just made it into the aid station by midnight but would not exit before my glass slipper fell off.

With my race over, I slept a few hours and woke to cheer on the remaining runners. About half the runners had dropped, so at least I was in good company. We stayed to cheer our friends, Maggie and Chihping and then left, resigned in my partial success. I wouldn’t take off my trail clothes and shoes until late Saturday afternoon – the same as if I’d finished at the 32 hour cutoff. I hadn’t fully succeeded but I at least started and suffered over the toughest 58 miles I’d ever conquered. No dumb luck for me this day.

Martha and I planned an extra day in San Diego, knowing that I be in no shape to immediately fly home. We had a very pleasant weekend in our former home town, seeing old friends and old sights. And at least I got lucky one night this weekend.

Epilogue. I could not have gotten as far as I did or even to the starting line without the support of my beautiful wife, Martha, my brother, Sonny, or my friends, Ramiro and Tina who watched our kids all weekend. Congratulations to all runners who gave it all and conquered the record heat and the trail, or gave it all but left wanting more. Thanks to the fellow sufferees who gave me encouragement and Tums, to Scott Mills and all the fantastic volunteers. To my wife's chagrin and grudging acceptance, you all know that I'm dumb enough to come back again, with dumb luck or without.

View of the lake

A brief runnable section

One of many meadows

Anza Borrego Desert below