All photos by Steve Glass Copyright 2004 / Glass Photography

I sway with the aspen as my outstretched arm grasps the perfectly placed tree. Nausea overpowers my senses as the first thoughts of not finishing enter my mind. Disbelief fills my psyche when, suddenly, with the force of an industrial strength showerhead, puke flies from my mouth. My grip tightens as I lean forward and my gut flexes with multiple convulsions. Three more expulsions follow; my stomach is now empty, my head seems clearer, and best of all the nausea leaves me. Looking up at my wife who is "pacing" me for the last 10 miles of my first ultra race (50 miles in my case), I nod, implying that I feel better. Lets keep going and finish off the last eight or nine miles of this race, the San Juan Solstice 50 miler.

The idea to race the San Juan Solstice was not my own, but that of my running partner, Matt. Matt is a college grad student, extremely smart, relatively articulate, and compulsive. We met drinking beer and eating salty peanuts at a local bar in Fort Collins, CO and I instantly liked the guy. We hit it off well - he ran, I ran- thus we went running. Our first runs together were tests on both of our parts. I favored flat rolling courses; Matt conversely covered steep inclines with relative ease as I labored behind like an old car sputtering up a mountain pass. Originally our runs would be an enjoyable 7 to 12 miles, usually with 50% on the steep unfriendly terrain, and 50% on fast rolling terrain. This basically worked out that Matt would work me on the hills and then I would crank up the pace on the flats and listen to Matt in his pain- oh a wonderful sound! In short, it was and is, a beautiful running partner relationship. During these runs, feet flew over rocky ground hopping boulders and careening out of tight turns while our conversations followed a gamut of subjects from religion to running. Soon running an ultra became a common topic of delight.

This is my first ultra and I am nervous as I pace around the Town Armory of Lake City, a small mountain town nestled amongst the jagged mountains of south central Colorado. Nervous energy flows through me in waves of adrenaline as I impatiently wait for the 5 am start time to arrive. I am especially nervous about my camera rig. That is right, my camera rig. I have it set up so it sits on my chest for easy access. This way snapping numerous pictures with my digital SLR (SLR in this context means big and heavy) would be a reality. It seems balanced, my Camebak on my back and my SLR on my chest. But my true anxiety about this system is I have not tested it, unless jumping up and down in front of a full-length mirror constitutes gear testing. But what really gets me worrying is that everyone keeps asking me if I have tested it. Not wanting to draw unwanted attention I lie and say "yes, of course I have."

"All racers to the starting line," booms a loud voice. As lemmings to the cliffs the 150 participants file out the armory door and to the start line a few hundred feet away. The racers' paraphernalia vary as much as costumes for Halloween. Some are in shorts and t-shirts and have only one water bottle, while others have pants, backpacks, warm hats, water bottles, spare shoes, Gu Packet belts, and a host of other running related items. The second group resemble mountaineers more than runners. I fall somewhere in the middle of these variances in clothing options. I strip off my Puff Daddy down jacket, then kiss my wife good-bye and assure her that I will see her at mile 15.

The gun fires and we're off down 2.7 miles of dirt road. The pace seems fairly quick and I fiddle with my camera- dang it, at this speed the camera rig bounces. A quick fix is needed. I simply set my hand on the case and it remains motionless. I lose the cranking power of one arm, but run on undaunted. My mind slips back in time like the darkness prior to dawn.

December:
We slowed to a trot and stopped the car.
"I figure it was a twenty four miler," Matt conjectured.
"Sounds good to me. I think in a few weeks we should add another 10-15 onto this loop," I stated.
"Me too. Steve you should do the San Juan Solstice 50 miler with me. Shoot you basically ran half of it just now, and you know we both could do another 25 right now."
"I'll think about it."
"That means no. You never joined me last year for any of those trail marathons, I did three or four, you had plenty of opportunities but you kept saying maybe and never did one. But if you do change to a yes the sign up is in two weeks on January 1st. I'll be out of town but I hope you sign up. You know I will."

We veer off the gravel road and begin following a creek along an undulating trail. The gray light of morning is here and I begin snapping pictures of fellow runners as they negotiate the streams, some balancing across logs, others splashing through. After crisscrossing the creek numerous times the trail begins heading up. This is the first of two major climbs. I feel strong and powerful, this race will be good.

I soon arrive at the first aid station. Pausing momentarily, I move on. Within minutes I peak out of tree line and the views are breathtaking. The sky is brilliant blue with hardly a cloud to be seen. While climbing above 13,000 feet, the views and thoughts of amazing photos keep me inspired. Even though we are climbing through much of this section there are areas of relief as long flat sections follow the contour of the mountains. I squat at a switch back and look back and see runners coming towards me like ants in their perfect lines. Ahead of me the people stretch out as they too mechanically work their way up the hillside. I fire off numerous shots, then stand and begin trekking up the steep rise. Soon the climb ends and I look back and see myself as one in the line of the multitudes. I begin running down the undulating trail. I feel strong and it is easy to keep the pace. Then with five miles to the next aid station the trail begins a brutal decent. During the descent I begin to feel my legs.

January: 5 1/2 months until the race.
Clicking the "submit" button on the internet I had successfully registered for the San Juan Solstice 50 miler. I shoot an email off to Matt notifying him how excited I am about the 6 months of training leading up to the race. I imagine the days of training ahead on our local trails, each session making us stronger more prepared.

I hear my name shouted as I approach the second aid station. Saying goodbye to the competitor I had run with for the entire descent I stop within the crowd of people surrounding the aid station. My wife takes my Camelbak and fills it with water. I stuff food into my mouth, rinse water on my crouch to prevent chaffing, load up with food and set off on my way up an easy 2 miles of a gravel road. Originally I had planned on running this section of race, but now I am not feeling well; my stomach is upset. The aspens lining the treed road make for a beautiful setting. I snap a few pictures of a passing racer. He notes my camera and comments, "that is a lot of extra weight to be carrying on one of these races." I reply with a noncommittal answer, but know that I am happy that I have brought it this far, even if it does make me a bit slower.

February: 4 1/2 months until race
January passed and I did not run anything longer than 7 or 8 miles. I still had time to train, but my workload became unrelenting, and it was next to impossible to run longer than an hour. The trails called to Matt and I, and we wanted to run this race fast - not just finish. The training had to begin.

The course soon parts from the gravel road and up we go on a jeep trail that is exceedingly steep. I keep walking. I am alone for this first part of the climb and enjoy walking. As the trail climbs higher my body starts fading and fills with a dull discomfort. My legs are beginning to load up with acid, and my stomach progressively becomes more upset. Slowly people catch me and pass by, always giving words of encouragement. Finally I come to the third aid station. I see all the people who have passed me. Not wanting to stop I grab a sandwich and proceed, not having rested for more than 30 seconds.

The climb continues and I feel horrid. My spirits sink, my legs are heavy and my stomach is completely ill; upset but not to the point of puking. After 45 minutes of only eating 1/2 a sandwich, I stuff the remaining sandwich into my pocket and keep my focus on forward movement. Shortly, a lady comes up by my side. We chat for a little bit as I try to keep up, but my stomach is being twisted in painful knots and it is too much of a strain to stay with her. She asks, "So, what are you training for?" In my life, I usually have a response to everything, not always a good response, but at least a response. But this comment, as I am laboring up close to the 13,000 ft mark, is more than my mind and body can accept. After numerous tongue ties and attempts at saying something, I finally blurt out, "Training?! I am just looking to finish this thing." She says, "Oh, I am training for the Leadville 100 mile race." With that my head hangs down. I wish her good luck while my pace halves and her agile frame leaves me. This single act defeats me. Men and women competitors seem to pass me like water over a rock in a steam. I feel motionless.

Late February: 3 1/2 months until race.
Sometime in February Matt became injured and stated he was no longer going to do the San Juan Solstice. In fact, he was going to stop running.
"What?!" I could not believe it, my training partner was done and now I had to do this silly race on my own. I told myself I have to start training. I thought about trying to talk him into still doing the run, but I knew his stubborn compulsive personality would not allow him to change his mind. What could I do? I needed to start really training. As of now I had been at most running 5 miles per pop and only 4 or 5 times per week. I had to begin, I had to train, I wanted to manhandle this race.

People continue to pass me as the climb seems to go on endlessly. I feel terrible; altitude has walloped me in the stomach. My legs are heavy and I can see the trail stretching forever in front of me. My mind will not let go of the simple phrase, "what are you training for." In fact it becomes my mantra. I ask myself, "what am I training for." I answer, "To finish this race." What am I training for . . . to finish this race . . . over and over it plays.

April: 2 1/2 months until race
March passed no runs longer than an hour. I still have time. . . . I kept telling myself. I was a Division I collegiate runner. Sure, it was over 4 years ago and I had not been at the top of the college heap, but I had held my own. Maybe, I would be ok without the training. No. Who was I fooling? I had to begin training . . . I still have time.

Finally we surmount the climb and before me stretches miles of beautiful high country. It is breathtaking. It is no longer a climb but rolling trail. My fatigue seems to lift, my spirit soars, my legs find new energy and running seems possible again. Taking photos through this terrain is as beautiful and rewarding as the vistas that surround me. This jaw dropping landscape will continue until mile 31, at the fourth aid station. During this section of the race I run on and off with numerous competitors visiting a little as we go. Holding the majority of my ground, I try photographing everyone that passes me, or those that I pass. Luckily, the weather remains clear with huge fluffy clouds drifting by and a gentle breeze to cool my hot body.

Mid April: 2 months until race.
I ran a 1/2 marathon. I did okay . . . but I needed to get some long runs in. After the race I thought about the upcoming 50 miler. Well I did this and ran better then I had a year before, and I had hardly been running. Maybe I will be ok, maybe this training stuff is overrated. I am tough. I can do this with my mind. My thoughts continued to form and soon I thought that just maybe I could do this race without training . . . just maybe.

My Camelbak goes dry. Trying to conserve water, I am more apt to walk, than run. My legs are heavy but my motivation is high. The beautiful scenery continues, and as the trail begins to descend, through a heavily pined set of woods. It opens into a meadow and then, viola, the 31 mile mark has been reached. I'm at the fourth aid station.

The volunteers are awesome. They fill my water and give me a Cup-O-Noodles. I rip down Gu Shots and continue on. In 9 miles I will be at mile 40. From there my wife will pace me for the last 10 miles.

The next 9 miles are grueling. Mentally I feel great, but my legs are beginning to feel like large stumps that are somehow loosing feeling, yet becoming extremely painful at the same time. But, time encourages me on. I calculate that if I make it to the fifth aid station by the 11 hour mark, it will give me 5 hours to finish the remaining 10 miles in the sub 16 hour class, aka "Survivor" category. Before starting this race I thought I would easily be able to make the survivor category and perhaps even a higher category, who was I fooling? Now I am not even sure if I will make the survivor category. One thing I know for certain - the survivor category is all I deserve.

At mile 37 the trail drops steeply and down I go. It is jarring and my legs scream with pain and fatigue. This is the longest 3 miles that I have ever run. A few other racers pass me. They seem effortless as if they are trotting without pain. Envy grows within, wishing I had trained my body for this. If only I had trained. If I had trained this might be fully possible and I could be racing now instead of just surviving.

June: 1/2 month until race
May came and went. I hung my head outwardly as June came in, but inside I thought that I might just be fine. It was just 50 miles, how hard could it be? Plus, now it was time to taper. Training now? It was way too late. My last long run (over 13.1 miles) had been in December. Since then my training consisted of four to five days a week of four to seven miles. It would have to sustain me; I saw no other choice. "O well", I thought, " it would definitely be an experience. And with all honesty, I knew deep inside I could complete this race. Not only complete but finish strong."

At mile 40 my wife, Marcie, joins me. She is my pacer. The term "Pacer" is hilarious because I have only one pace. Forward. My legs throb. It is hard to pick them up. But in spirit and mind I am motivated and feeling good . . . until the last and final climb begins. I instantly feel sick and for the first time in the entire race I think I might not be able to finish. My wife's face is concerned as I stop and grab the aspen tree. My mind whorls, and my body sways and pain fills my entire body. I cannot move. The 4 pukes catch me completely off guard, but they rid me of my nausea. I feel better then I had and once again focus on moving forward.

The last climb up past 11,000 feet is excruciating. It brings us through beautiful meadows and aspens groves. It is the slowest climb I think I have ever done, making the beauty hard to appreciate, as each step now seems significant in its own. I know now my thoughts on training were beyond flawed but downright ridiculous. How could I have ever considered doing this race with such little preparation? I want to chastise myself, but the deed was done, and now all I can do is focus on moving forward. I feel fortunate though because the nausea has disappeared. Now, finishing the race still seems within my grasp. I have to just keep moving.

June: Day before the race.
The rain pelted the car as the windshield wipers threw off large sheets of water. We were leaving Fort Collins and were on our way to the Race. I was confident that it would go well. Sure, I had not trained much and only averaged an optimistic base of 30 miles, but how hard could this thing be? The rain continued to pour. As long as it was not raining when I raced I thought everything would be fine.

I don't allow thoughts of the finish line or post race meal to enter my mind. Focus on the now, one step at a time. Finally after almost two hours the climb flattens. Excitement fills my mind but I don't allow it to grow, just in case the trail decided to continue going up.

Besides a few undulations, which feel like hills as my legs barely work, the trail stays "level" or trends down. Soon music can be heard floating through the trees - the last aid station. The exact songs I will never remember, but that music filled my heart with hope, knowing that then the finish was within my grasp.

Loud encouraging volunteers cheer us on. I drink 3 Dixie size cups of Coca Cola. From here, only four miles left and it is mostly downhill.

When the trail finally and unequivocally makes up its mind to go down, it goes down fast. It is steep. I worry more about staying on my feet than running. While hobbling down the trail, each step is sending pain through my legs, the elevation numbers slowly drop on my altimeter watch. Soon the town is in sight. The descent continues and continues and continues, then suddenly out we pop on a gravel road, which turns to pavement. We are soon on the main street.

I want to run in the last mile, but can't. My legs don't work, and are only propelled forward by the last 14 hours of repetition. How pathetic. I can't even run one mile on flat surface. Oh how I wish I had trained. I can see the cones marking the final 200 meters. Turning the corner, I see the finish chute. I want to run but walking is the best I can do. A smile fills my face as I walk the last 50 meters. The smile is so big, and I could not have frowned if I tried. The small crowd cheers and claps.

I have finished. I made it. Never in my life have I been so happy to have finished a foot race. As I limp towards my wife, strangers congratulate me, and I can not believe it is done. Finally, I am done.

The days following the race were filled with deep muscle and tendon soreness. While walking on a local trail, my mind drifted back to the race as the wind ruffled my hair and touched my face. The race had been an incredible experience. Never in my life had I ever completed something that took such mental prowess. My lack of training had increased my mental toughness, and only positive thoughts were allowed. Otherwise, it would have been too easy to stop, rest and quit. Oh, to rest. I sat down in the dirt and lay against a large rock.

The rock was warm from the summer sun. The breeze was cool and it felt good to be outside. A few runners strolled by. I reflected that in the race there were so many body types - skinny, tall, stocky, plump and everything in between. And many of these body types had crushed me in the race. I thought how if someone trains and has the right mindset anyone could complete an ultra. I thought of the men in their 50's and 60's that passed me while giving words of encouragement. Then there were the ladies I tried keeping up with early on in the race and they too destroyed me. It was awesome the shape that the other participants were in.

Looking further up the trail at our local mountain my memory gave me flashes of where I had been. The meadows, the snowfields, the flowers, streams and awe-inspiring vistas, pushed through my mind like crowds onto a subway. Wow, and to think I had seen all of that terrain in one day. That could easily have been a weeklong backpacking trip. Now sitting in the dirt, contemplating the feat that had been accomplished, the significance of 50 miles set in. Before the race I felt that 50 miles was not that great of a distance. I had hiked 40+ miles in a day back in college. But, now 4 years post college with a desk job, my fitness level had dropped and 50 miles was indeed a feat. I had pondered doing a 100 miler, but I know the day I completed the San Juan Solstice 50 miler I gave everything I had. I remember that when I finished the 50 miles, there was no way I could have done another 50 miles that same day. The significance of the mileage sank in as I sat in the dirt massaging my legs.

Knowing I needed to get home and back to a pile of work, I slowly stood up and used the rock as balance as I mounted my still tender legs. The trail headed down and I headed back to the start. The downhill still sent small shots of pain through my legs. I thought that when I did my next ultra I would train, just to ensure less pain after the race.

I began trotting, and my legs seemed to loosen up. Arriving at the beginning of the trail, I thought of my work waiting for me at home. What the heck, my work can wait. I will do another out and back right now. I might as well start the training for my next ultra . . . I guess I am hooked.