I’ve been chasing a 50-miler since 2016 and it felt great to finally slay this dragon at the Crested Butte Ultra on October 1, 2022.
I finished the 50 miles, which featured 8,300 ft of elevation gain, in 13:51:07 and placed 51st out of the 61 runners who finished the race. By my count there were about 111 runners registered for the 50-miler, which means about 50 runners did not finish.
It was a long, brutal, beautiful day – highlighted by a nasty storm that ripped through the course in the early afternoon – and the craziest race I’ve done to date. I was just thankful to finish the race in one piece before the cutoff time at 9pm; I finished at about 7:50pm.
Undertrain
I’ve been trail running pretty consistently since moving to Colorado in August 2020, and I had a good foundation when I signed up for this race at the start of 2022.
My training plan featured three core components: (1) strength training three to five times a week, primarily Simple and Sinister kettlebell workouts: 10×10 of single-arm swings followed by 10 Turkish Get Ups; (2) one slow, light run during the week; and (3) one long trail run on the weekends.
On top of that, I sprinkled in daily mobility work (Five Tibetans in the morning, foam rolling at night), pushups, hiking, volleyball, and the occasional primal rage Kettlebell Mile.
I followed the general training plan pretty loosely over the course of the year, and never felt bashful or guilty about skipping a day (or two, or a week, or a couple weeks) when working out just wasn’t in the cards (i.e., pizza, beers and ice cream took priority).
Most of my training runs fell in the range of about 8 to 15 miles. I completed my longest training run in September, cranking out an amazing 35 miles in 13 hours along the Pawnee-Buchanan Loop in the Indian Peaks Wilderness. My pace lagged a bit because (1) it was self-supported, so I spent a lot of time stopping to filter and refill my water bottles; (2) I wasted at least an hour scrambling off trail to avoid a moose and calf; and (3) I’m a slow runner and usually not in a hurry on these adventures.
Overperform (or just perform)
I felt excited, strong, and healthy heading into race day. It was prime leaf-peeping season in Crested Butte that weekend and the mountains were painted with beautiful streaks and patches of yellows, golds, and greens. The weather was a bit of a mess, though, with heavy storms in the forecast all weekend, but that’s par for the course in these parts.
We started the 50-mile race in the dark at 6am. About an hour later I took in a lovely sunrise from the trail climbing up the side of the mountain, with Maroon Bells covered in snow off in the distance.
The storm from the previous day left the trails slippery and muddy most of the way. I fell a couple times, but nothing too bad or dramatic. When those spills happened I slowed down and took a couple minutes to gather my composure. Like other setbacks (such as back blow-outs from weak kettlebell swing form) these tumbles were mini wake up calls, the trail reminding you to rein in your wandering mind and come back to focus on the path ahead.
The course snaked through dense aspen forests that submerged us in bright yellows and golds. I spent a good amount of time on this run shaking my head, smiling, and saying “Oh man” to myself in response to the ridiculous beauty and sensory overload.
Here for the misery
It started raining in the early afternoon while I was running through a section of forest around mile 27, a little over halfway through the race. I put on my rain jacket and kept going, no problem. A short while later, when I emerged from the forested section onto a meadow, it started hailing. I looked around, thought, “This is kinda cool,” and laughed nervously with a few other runners nearby.
The scene got nasty a few minutes later when the wind picked up and sent hail sideways, cutting in sharp, icy sheets against my legs and face. Meanwhile dense storm clouds had gathered quickly, and soon enough lightning and thunder started cracking and rumbling directly overhead. A small group of us came to a creek crossing, where we all stopped before proceeding, stunned by the mess we found ourselves in.
A girl up ahead near the creek turned around and asked, “Are we gonna get electrocuted?” Nobody responded. We looked around briefly, and then trudged through the creek’s shin-high water. On the other side of the creek our group agreed we were in a bad spot. We were about two miles away from the next aid station, and most of that stretch ran along an exposed service road on the side of the mountain. We decided to wait the storm out for a bit and found a tree under which to hunker down.
We made the right call to stop and wait out the storm, but we chose a poor method of hunkering down. You’re supposed to stay away from tall trees (the one we were under was tall, but at least it wasn’t the tallest). You’re supposed to keep a good distance between you and other people (about five of us huddled together under the same tree). You’re supposed to squat down with your feet together to minimize contact with the ground (I, for one, was plopped down on the ground, seated on my butt). Thankfully everyone made it through the ordeal fine; lessons learned.
After about 15 minutes the storm rumbled quietly away to some other section of the mountain. It was still windy, cold and raining, but no more hail, lightning or thunder. We all agreed to saddle up and crank out the remaining two miles to the aid station. I was soaked, cold, rattled by the storm, and concerned the lightning would pick back up. I ran my ass off, stomping through puddles and mud, focusing on my breath, breathing deeply like a Wim Hof psycho, and riding a surge of energy to find shelter.
I got to the aid station feeling happy to be out of the mess and pretty goofy with all that storm-escape energy still coursing through me. I hung out at the aid station for a while, warmed up a bit, changed clothes, gorged on snacks, and refilled my water. The guys at the aid station said the next section of the course would be about a 12-mile loop, and claimed the weather would be messy for the rest of the day. They said I could call it a day, skip that loop, and run about nine miles straight back to the finish line from there.
After making it through that storm there’s no way I wasn’t finishing the race. A kind lady at the aid station gave me hand warmers to keep in my gloves. One of the dudes at the aid station gave me a Rice Krispies Treat for the road. “Trust me, dude. It’s got carbs, calories and sugar, everything you need out there.” Not my typical race-day nutrition but it sounded like a great idea.
As I left the aid station to hit the trail again, some guy asked, “Hey, man. You ok? You look cold.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I have layers underneath.”
“You’re climbing to 11,000 feet on this loop,” he prodded. “It’s gonna be cold up there. You sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I said, and gave him a thumbs up as I walked away.
I must have looked like a cold, shivering, blue-lipped wreck. But I honestly felt fine. I knew I’d warm up once I got moving. Besides, I’m here for the misery. These occasional jolts of discomfort, strain, and stress are good for you.
The 12-mile loop was indeed a cold, muddy, steep slog. I took it slow. Thankfully the weather calmed down, and by the time I got back to the aid station the sun was out, the clouds had gone away, the mountain was on fire with bright yellows and greens, and I was feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.
From there I only had about nine miles to go, and I covered them with a mix of light jogging, walking, and oohing and aahing over the sunset views as I descended the mountain. I walked the last few miles slowly because (1) I had mentally checked out, which caused my muscles and tendons to tighten; and (2) it got dark, and I convinced myself that I had left my headlamp in my drop bag back at the aid station. I didn’t even bother to look for it in my pack, and toward the end I couldn’t see the trail or the course markers. But it was pretty much a straight shot back to the finish line at that point, so I just enjoyed the quiet walk in the dark, and relived the day’s adventures. After I crossed the finish line and unloaded my pack, I realized I had the headlamp with me the whole time.
Gear list
- Altra Superior 5 trail running shoes
- Warm toe socks
- Running vest
- 1 full soft flask plain water
- 1 full soft flask UCAN sports drink mix
- Sweet potatoes
- Jerky
- Sun sleeves
- Buff
- Hat
- Sunscreen
- Gloves
- Rain jacket
- Fleece
- Sunglasses
- Watch
- Headlamp
- Drop Bags: Two empty soft flasks UCAN mix; sweet potatoes, Clif bar, jerky bar, puffer jacket, running pants, Suns beanie
- Finish Line Bag: sweatpants, heavy puffer jacket, dry shirt, towel, warm socks, shoes, sandals, water bottle
Lessons learned
I have three general takeaways for next time.
First, I’m going to toss the UCAN sports drink mix from my nutrition plan. I never find it appetizing, it’s always a messy hassle refilling bottles with the powder mix, and I usually end up preferring other food instead. On this run I felt great fueling up on bananas, orange slices, jerky, peanut butter sandwiches, Clif bar, trail mix bars, and other random items from aid stations.
I also may be on the outs with sweet potatoes, a staple on most of my long trail runs and hikes. They didn’t seem appetizing on this run. I typically try to keep my race-day nutrition to paleo, low-carb foods, but am now leaning more towards fueling up with whatever sounds tasty at aid stations instead.
Finally, if caught in a lightning storm: (1) stay away from tall trees; (2) keep a good distance between you and other people; (3) squat down with your feet together on your tip toes to minimize contact with the ground.