Spot the Piggies. A snowy, winter run in Arizona at the 2024 Black Canyon 100k

It's time for another shitty race report after another shit race as I sit here writing this from the toilet. We will see what ends faster: the writing, the run, or my current task at hand.

The story begins before the beginning. My first attempt at Black Canyon was quite successful and remains my fastest 100k. Last year's attempt withered at 19 miles but I rambled through the desert until dropping at a convenient location just before sunset, mile 37. This year? Would it be like the first time or would I DNF at the same bat time and same bat place? In the lead up, my training was anything but consistent. A decent summer was interrupted when my bike collided with a car and my ribs collided with a windshield. My timing was impeccable - I would spend the next two days on the couch watching UTMB. Not the best way to start autumn, or “fall” as they call it in America because “leaves fall down”, or it is “bike fall down”?

New year, same old idiot. On New Year's Day, my name was drawn off the wait-list for BC. Only one question remained,

I got a solid 3 weeks of run training buildup and a two day bike adventure. If you think that was inadequate, I got a stomach virus the day after that bike ride, so instead of replenishing the 9000 calories from the ride, I fasted for another 3 days. I wanted to go fast on BC day, not the week before. In any case, at least I was down to race weight. Arizona, ready or not (mostly not), here I come!

A-shen snow capped mountains accompanied the drive to A-rizona. To be honest, I was feeling a-pathetic about this race in general, and got to the packet pickup feeling a-social as well. I got out of there quickly so I could check into the hotel and crawl into my a-hole.

The Econo Lodge is a great hotel if you wanna live out your film noir fantasies. There was a huge line of people waiting to check in as the clerks had a 30 minute shift change delay. It was effortless to imagine the other guests as drug dealers, prostitutes, and terrorists. Just to round out the colorful cast, the couple in front of me were an old retired veteran and his wife. A 9 yr old attendant intern brought towels to my room - towels you can almost see through and were barely big enough to cover Kate Moss during her peak cocaine chic years. An angry toilet violently drained every half hour. Somewhere between a hotel from Pulp Fiction and No Country for Old Men, this shitbox was my sanctuary to get ready to run 100 km.

5:30 AM race day, news started spreading that the race start was delayed by two hours due to the snow that came in exactly as forecasted for three days. To be fair, this was a decision by the bus company, not Aravaipa, but whatever. Now I had time to get a full breakfast at the Waffle House. By the time we arrived in Mayer for our 10 AM start, the snow was already starting to melt in the balmy 36F Arizona sunshine. 

The trail wasn’t the snow covered fairyland I had hoped for. Instead, it was ankle twisting, shoe sucking, poo gumbo mud. As I was on the third wave to start, the trail was well softened by a thousand hoofprints of our earlier hordes. We micro-glisaded on each step, often sideways, with an audibly moist squish like a French kissing hippo. A kilo of earth stuck to each shoe, occasionally and only briefly shaking off on rocks before a new layer reapplied on our shoes and calves. After the overnight snow and rain, a hundred kilometers of slop was going to be slow going.

As surprising as our two hour delay, the mud disappeared after our first aid station at mile 7. And I was only down a few minutes from last year, still averaging under 12 minutes per mile. How long could I keep up this pace? How long would my minimalist training carry me? How long until my broke ass aging body parts throw up the white flag? The answer to all three would converge in a few hours. Along the way, it was the most beautiful of scenes. The azure sky painted a stunning canvas of blue and white - the fluffy clouds formed a picturesque backdrop to the undulating hills of rocky terrain and towering cacti. Suffering in beautiful places, if that’s any clue.

I was feeling good coming into our mile 19 aid station. Getting to greet a pig gave me a boost. Last year, ankle, calf and knee niggles forced me to walk from here. This time, I felt some niggles on the inside of my right knee starting at 16. I found out recently that I had no lateral meniscus cartilage on that knee but the niggles were on the inside. No pain, no gain - plenty of time for things to get worse before they get better. 

I kept running and got to the aid station at mile 24. By now, the niggles were worse and a DNF was certain. But it was only 3 PM and what the eff was I going to do in Phoenix the rest of the day? I was once asked what my race strategy was. I know what those two words mean separately, but together? Anyway, I was just hoping to mostly run the first 20, mix of run and walk the next 20, and majority walk the last 20. Hoping, not expecting. With a bit of hope and no alternate Phoenician plans I kept going, and managed to still mostly run. Until I hit a wall.

I hit a wall at mile 27. I was 99% fine. Most of my body was open to the idea of running, but my knee felt like it hit a wall. I wasn’t walking. I was limping. Still managing to keep a 19 min/mi. pace. In the back of my mind, I thought about keeping this pace and finishing in 17 or 18 hours. The cutoff is 20 hours, so for the slowest runners, that’s 8 hours in daylight and 12 in the dark. They should call this Pitch Black Canyon. But the pain was becoming unbearable regardless of the heroic pace I was maintaining. It was demoralizing to be passed by all the runners that I’d been passing the last few miles. At least I got one river crossing; cleaned off my shoes and calves. Arrived at the mile 32 checkpoint just in time for a Sonoran sunset and a ride back. I never did see Sylvie this weekend. She blew up as well, but she's a faster runner than I am so she also imploded hours before I did. Live fast. Die faster.

I did the drive of shame back to the shangri-la. Say what you want about the Econo Lodge, but I got my money’s worth. It just wasn’t a lot of money - fittingly what a funemployed ultra-idiot deserves. But like I said, I was 99% ok. Much like America, the rest of me got screwed by the 1%. Shit.