Subject: Pacing at Western (SUC) From: "John Morelock" Date: Wed, 3 Jul 2002 17:41:11 -0700 It had started with such a simple question, "John, would you pace me at Western?" Linda Samet, a friend I know here in Corvallis, was entered in the Western States Endurance Run, her first attempt at a 100-mile trail run. It was early May when she asked. I was flattered and puzzled at being asked. Pacing someone in those last miles (at Western your pacer can join you somewhere at or after the 55-mile point) of a 100 can be the make or break part of the run. In our case, Linda would pick me up at Foresthill, 38 miles from the finish line at Placer High School in Auburn, California. Just what a pacer is or is not is a subject of many threads, heated and not so heated. I'll not go into that too much other than by the story that takes place starting at 7:36 PM, Saturday, 29 June 2002, in Foresthill. Sixty-two point two miles down, thirty-eight miles to go. We are from Oregon. The heat and dust of the California trails is always a challenge for trail runners going south. We don't get heat to train in. The afternoon temps were in the low 80s on the ridges, 95 and up down in the lower elevations. I had told Linda to hang on during the day and I would push the pace as dark and the coolness of night came in. She, of course, didn't listen and was just a few minutes over the coveted 24-hour pace as she approached Foresthill. That's good. She was somewhat dried out, somewhat hungry, not eating enough, and gaining a little weight --- thassa bad. The long day of waiting (we had seen her off at Squaw Valley ski area at 5:00 AM) was over for me. I had tried to nap, tried to eat, mostly did a lot of meeting old friends, other pacers, cheering for the lead runners, bbbyyy. Time to run -- Linda came in to Foresthill. Western has aid stations every four or five miles. You could run it with just a two-bottle fanny pack. I was wearing a 100-ounce CamelBak. A bit excessive, but ya just never know. We tried to stuff some food in her as she changed from CamelBak to fanny pack. I was worried about how much energy she had used, how much the three canyons had taken out of her, how dehydrated (she was gaining weight ==> another story), and a lot of other things. I did know she was a tough kid. We left Foresthill. Sixteen, mostly downhill, miles before we would see our crew again. We left the pavement of Foresthill and entered the manzanita thickets surrounding the horse trail (the Tevis Cup Western States Trail) heading for Auburn. As we wound down the gentle slopes, I started pestering Linda to eat the potato chunks. She was having trouble eating. A hint of trouble. I continued to pester her to eat. We had a nice pace and kept going down. The aid stations would appear out there in the middle of nowhere, islands of colored lights, volunteers refilling your packs, giving you food, and always offering encouragement. We refilled, grabbed some food, and continued into the approaching dark. Another runner passed by, moving well, "'scuse me, trying to get as far as I can before dark." We all were, for with the dark comes a slower pace. The three-dimensions of running becomes the two-dimensions of light and shadows. Shadows have no depth. Shadows hide holes, ankle-turners, and roots. Dark came as we continued the ups and downs, hearing creeks, the American River, watching the stars come out. We had the whole night in front of us. Another aid station pops up. Some are hidden just around a bend and the movie "Apocalypse Now" comes to mind time after time. Lights, people moving, aid tables, food, drink, caring hands and smiles. Linda turning, "You ready, John?" "Yup." Time to run. Off we go into the dark again. The long grind to Rucky Chucky -- the river crossing at Western, a phrase known to most ultrarunners. "Rucky Chucky", surreal, lightsticks in the water so we could see our footing, waist deep water, the American River, 150 feet wide, volunteers to grab if needed. We laughed more nervously than I liked and crossed to Kathy (for me) and John (for Linda) on the other side. Rucky Chucky was behind us. We had waded the river, Green Gate was next. We smiled at our crew, how do people do the sitting and waiting for the runners. We each got a hug and headed off again, another climb on the trail. A bad stretch passed, Linda started waking up -- "I'll lead on the next leg." The runner always has that option. Good. She seemed to be coming out of the doldrums from the past few miles. Those low periods come and go several times in 100s, the trick is to control them. I had told stories, talked about the stars, geology, cooking, lied about mileage, and we continued to run. Run, by golly, we were running, not shuffling, we were running. Linda was coming back around. We were still under 25-hour pace, but quite tired. The earlier problems of not eating enough, not taking enough salt while not drinking enough, had built up, but (as I was to say more and more often) "Thassa a tuff little kid up there" and we ran. Ten-minute pace at two o'clock in the morning. We am be moving on. The eternity of the uphill climb on an ugly rocky stretch got us to the Highway 49 crossing just before dawn. We tried to get in and out of the aid station, such a mixed thing. You want to stay because there are friends there. You have to leave because you are not in Auburn yet. Daylight is coming. We leave. 6.5 miles to go. A 10k away. The sun. A horrible blister stops us. Tears and laughter. We are in the middle of nowhere. Linda asks, "What can we do?" I cheerfully point out, "Nothing." We try something, redo the sock (ugly, dirty sock) -- nope. Take out the insole. Ohkeigh? No, but bearable. Be better uphill. Moving. Time is slipping by. "No Hands Bridge" awaits, more cantalope, a cup of coke -- 3.1 miles of gentle grade. Go. Push. Hard walking, houses of Auburn, cars, trail ending. Robie Point -- 1.2 miles to go, pavement, arrows to follow, really sick of yellow ribbons, football stadium, Placer High School, the backstretch of the track -- 300 yards (or meters). The PA blaring "Linda Samet of..." and it's over. 25 hours 48 minutes 42 seconds. A great time for a tough course on a hot day. Thassa a tuff little kid.