On May 2nd, I traveled to Wendover, Utah with my close friend Greg for a 100-mile footrace called The Salt Flats Endurance Run. In one weekend, we drove 20+ hours, camped for 2 nights, and ran 18+ hours.
Arriving in Wendover Utah, it felt like a very alien place. The salt flats themselves feel like something out of a 1990s sci-fi film and the town has nothing but small casinos. The town is also right on the border of Nevada and Utah and therefore creates a confusing time-zone switch that can easily make you an hour early (or late) for just about anything.
We arrived in time for the pre-race meeting and then drove into town to find some pizza. Afterward, we found a small spot to set up our tents and to try and get some rest before an early morning start for race day.
It turns out the salt flats can get pretty windy, and most of the night was spent hoping our rainflies wouldn’t fly away and our tent poles wouldn’t snap in half. I may have gotten 3 solid hours of sleep between the whipping winds and the pre-race anxiety that is inevitable for something like this.
At 6 AM, Greg and I both awoke, uncertain of what to expect from the next 24 hours.
At the starting line, I looked around. I felt calm. I felt ready. A man got up and said a prayer. He mentioned angels, protection, and strength. At the time, I thought nothing of it, but there was a moment during the race when I thought about my grandmother. What if she could send me strength? What if I acted as if I believed she could?
The race starts, and a small pack of runners pushes ahead. I was very tempted to get pulled into that race.
What if I never catch up to them?
What if they make the distance gap too large?
Running these types of races that can last over 24 hours and span 100 miles, small decisions get amplified, and the big decisions get muted.
In my last race, a 70-miler in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, I decided not to wear socks (a small detail), which turned out to be very significant. In that same race, I made a wrong turn and got lost (big detail), but I was ultimately able to catch up over the course of the race.
So, picking up your speed early in the race, even by 30 seconds per mile, can either make or break you over the course of 100 miles.
I decided to keep my composure and run at my own pace, slightly above 9:00 minutes per mile.
While I watched a small pack of runners pull away from me into the distance, I couldn’t know who was running the 100 miler, the 50 miler, or the 50k. With three different distances going at the same time, if I tried to keep pace with runners from another distance, I could have to confront what is most feared in ultra…
The death march.
A slow, painful march to a finish line that could be 20 miles away.
The first 10 miles went smoothly. I was trying to maintain a 9:10 – 9:20 pace and get ahead on my calories. I was starting to put back a few energy blocks and Huma packets along with the tailwind in my flasks. After a terrible cramping episode at the end of my first ever ultra, Infinitus in Vermont, I decided I would be more disciplined about eating and drinking even when I felt like I didn’t need it.
At 13.2 miles in I felt good. I felt like I could do this for a long time.
I arrived at aid station #2 at the same time as a female runner named Sierra (I’d learn that later). We asked the staff how far ahead the other 100-mile runners were.
“You guys are the first”.
I felt both a sense of excitement and panic.
What did everyone else know that I didn’t know? Did I go out of the gate too hard? Was I going to be dead on the side of the trail in a few hours?
Sierra took off, I went to the bathroom, and then I kept going as well. As I went over the road down towards the next stretch, I could see other runners coming into the aid station.
Eventually, Sierra stopped to pee. She didn’t hide or find a bush. Without hesitation and in full view of me she squatted down managed to pee out of her shorts.
I thought… ultras are sorta grunge.
As I was passing and she was finishing, she took her headphones and suggested we chat for a while.
I learned that she is a seasoned ultramarathon runner. She has won races, she’s completed Badwater, she’s done Leadville, and she knows some of the big names in ultra.
She told me that she was looking to break the course record today, which for females is 19:10.
I didn’t really think of it at the time, but it reminds me of a man I met during my first ultra, the Infinitus 88k race in Vermont. When we met, we were the 1st and 2nd place males and we had a chance to chat briefly.
He was talking about how his next race was going to help him qualify for the Western States 100.
He also said that this was his second ultra and that he had DNF’ed his first one.
He ended up DNF’ing again on this day and I was reminded of an important lesson I learned mostly with fighting.
You never look past your next opponent.
While Sierra was thinking about a course record, I was just thinking about finishing this race with pride.
She was a major talker. I was starting to get worn down mainly with the exercise of talking with a stranger.
At one point, I turned around and saw that another man was right behind us. He would eventually pass us and scurry off into the distance. We managed to keep him in our sights until we hit mile 30 and aid station 5.
This was the first crew stop and it was clear that Greg and I were both figuring out how to do this effectively.
By the end of the race, Greg would know that I needed tailwind refuels at each stop, maybe some meds/antiacids, a report of the other runner’s positions, and the gear I would need for the next section.
But at this point, we were both just sorta bumbling around, unsure of what to do.
At this first crew stop, I hit the porta-potty, ate a few bites of undercooked ramen and cold pizza, and refilled some water.
I watched two men depart the aid station along with Sierra and her pacer.
Again, my fear of losing ground got me panicked. I needed to get out of here.
Another lesson I learned was that, in the long run, it pays big dividends to take some extra time to transition properly at aid stations.
I told myself it was okay. I could let these guys go, refuel, and be confident that I’d be able to catch them during the race.
Sierra checked with me to see if I was ready. I told her to go ahead. Honestly, I just needed some time to myself.
As I started on my way out of the aid station, I decided I would need to pass her and get ahead to pursue the other males.
After passing Sierra, I passed the second-place male running with his dog, Rocky. Greg informed me that he had the FKT on a 72-mile stretch of the AT in Tennessee.
I kept that in mind.
The next 10 miles would go up and through a section of mountains. I was smart, power hiking the steep ascents and running the flats and downs. After 10 miles of this, I reached aid station 6. They were serving virgin pina coladas (that almost made me puke) and the Elovators.
I asked about the 1st place male.
“He came through 2 minutes ago” I was told. This was good news. I could catch this guy.
I continued my pursuit.
Eventually, the trail leaves the island of mountains and returns to the floor of the vast salt flat. Far off in the distance, a massive snow-capped mountain ridge floats in the distance—a mirage-like effect that this race is well known for.
It was at this time that I decided to start playing some music. I had always been reluctant to do this. I felt like it was cheating. Or that I was robbing myself of the suffering I came here to experience.
But then I thought…there is already plenty of suffering going on.
So I shuffled my playlist.
I also saw the first-place male less than a mile ahead on the flat expanse. I picked up the pace and started running 8:50-minute miles. I was closing the gap.
I could see him turn around. He knew he was being stalked.
First place is a difficult place to be during these races. You are both setting the pace and serving as the target for all of the other runners.
Sometimes, it’s smart to fall back into second place. This way you can let your competition push themselves to a pace they can’t sustain.
You have to be calculating.
Eventually, I passed him. I was shocked. It’s mile 40, and I am in the lead while feeling pretty good.
Then I remembered something Sierra said and that I’d heard before…
The race doesn’t start until mile 70.
So I have 30 miles to go until things even really start. I also knew she was lurking out there. She knows these distances. She must be buying her time, getting ready to attack.
I did start to believe that I could win. This is a rare thing for me. My humility usually tampers any visions I have of grandeur. I’ve come in second more times than I can count during races and fights.
Sure, I am a podium guy. But not a 1st place guy.
But this belief was coupled with a solid pace and a good headspace.
On my approach to aid station 7 (the same location as 5) I saw a figure running towards me. It looked like Greg’s running style. It was Greg.
“First place looks good on you,” he said.
I had just climbed up from the salt flats faster than I needed to and was feeling pretty winded so I didn’t feel as I might have looked.
I appreciated seeing him. I knew he was keeping my family updated, and I imagined they’d be pretty excited to see me leading the race at 50 miles.
I was also coming to terms with the fact that I was .5 of the way through. Sure, it’s nice that I’m halfway through, but wow, that is still a lot of ground to cover.
I tried eating some small potatoes dipped in day-old ranch which induced a vomiting episode that would result in all of my liquids and electrolytes winding up soaking into the parched dirt.
I could taste my fuel on the way out.
Fuck.
Others at the aid station just watched me. I’m sure they thought I had gone too fast too early.
That I was doomed to that terrible fate.
The death march.
I crushed a ginger ale, which hit the spot. I also had some coconut milk, which hit me right. It felt like I had recovered well and that this would be okay.
Greg got me some Tums; I crushed them and left the aid station.
I left aid station 7 at mile 50 in the lead.
I kept up a pace of around 9:00 – 9:30 minute miles through the next several hours of the course. I would continue to turn around and expect to see a fresher, more strategic runner beginning his advance.
I was sure it was impossible for me to retain this lead for the rest of the race.
I continued my pace through stations 8, 9, and 10. Then the night came, and the psychology of the race amped up.
When you’ve been running since 7 AM, your brain gets weird at night. You start seeing things that aren’t there. You start getting paranoid and maybe a bit schizophrenic.
Is that a headlamp, or is that a car?
Is that a tree stump, or is that a person?
How far are those mountains?
How far is that aid station?
The night make everything more uncertain.
I continued my pace until I left aid station 13 and began my descent from the mountains to reach aid station 14, the final stop about 4 miles from the finish.
The race directors mentioned that the last few miles of this race were challenging psychologically. Although the distance is relatively short, the vast flat expanse can create an effect on the eyes that makes it feel as though you are never getting closer.
That is exactly what that felt like.
I had the lead and I could see the finish line from almost 5 miles out, but I could never get any closer.
After what felt like an eternity, the finish line still wouldn’t get any fucking closer.
Greg jumped in to run with me for the last couple of miles. We both wanted this race to be over.
At some point, my schizophrenia kicked in. I thought someone was behind me.
I crossed the finish line just after 1 AM.
There was no fanfare, no crowd, no cheering, not even any medals. There was a race director who shook my hand, took my bib number, and sent me on my way.
Greg and I then hopped back into the car and decided to see what kind of drive we could piece together in our exhausted state. Sure, I had just run 18 hours, but Greg had been awake the entire time and had spent it driving from one aid station to another.
Plus we slept like shit the night before.
We made it about an hour before Greg parked us under a gas station LED light, where we slept for a little while.
After that, Greg drove us to a campsite outside of Provo. We threw a tent down at 4 AM and slept for a few more hours before the final drive home.
It was a stressful, exhausting, novel, and exhilarating weekend that definitely has given me something to chew on mentally for a little while.
Thanks to Greg for showing up and helping me navigate the experience as best as possible. I am thankful for the quality time we were able to share and the new memories we put into the old hard drive.
I owe you one my friend.