Canyons 50k

Part 1

Canyons Endurance Runs is a massive event organized by your friendly corporate overlords at UTMB. Luckily, it retains its original pre-acquisition race director Chaz Sheya, who makes the event community-driven and full of soul. The combination results in a good time with lots of high-caliber competition, and because it takes place really close to Reno I knew I couldn’t miss out on it this year. I really like to race a lot, to my benefit and detriment; staying engaged with knowing how to compete, frequent motivation and connection to the community, but also habitual mediocre results.

The past year+ or training and racing has been good, but quite frustrating at times. I’ve stayed mostly healthy and been able to compete frequently, but random small injuries and flareups of existing ones have resulted in mostly half-ass training. The buildup to Canyons was no different. While it wasn’t a big goal race and was pretty last-minute, I wanted to throw myself into the competition and get a good result. Since my last race at Big Alta 28k, which went very well considering the…random injuries and flareups of existing ones…I put together some decent running until 1 week before the event when my left hip started hurting out of the blue. I got dry needled, took some days off, and was assured that it was just a psoas tightness or hip flexor strain. Even if it feels fine, it’s not nice to your confidence heading into a race second guessing your body.

Saturday April 26th: I woke up at 4 am, ate some breakfast, fed my dog, and drove over the hill to Auburn. It’s only an hour and a half, but the journey turned quite harrowing when it started dumping snow over the pass. Luckily, us 50k runners ran a course in the low foothills of Auburn, whereas the 100k runners were beginning their journey in a blizzard. I got to the start, picked up my bib, peed in someone’s yard because the bathroom line was a mile long, and got to the start just in time. Familiar faces, fist bumps, etc.

Happy to be at another start line

The race starts on a screaming fast downhill for 5 miles, during which I fell behind almost immediately. I spent some miles with Nick Handel, and we both looked at our watches incredulously at No Hands Bridge. 4 miles in, in only 22 minutes, and already a minute behind the lead. The course then went on a flat road mile before a 2.5 mile road climb. I made the decision to hammer pretty hard up the climb, and by the top was in a really solid position with Drew Holmen, Johnny Luna-Lima, and some French guy. There were a few others right in front of us, and I was confident about reeling in maybe everybody the second half. Mile 7 began a very long and rolling singletrack section, winding through rain-speckled damp woods. Green of every variety exploded around us, punctuated by wildflowers and streams. Poison oak spread across every hillside. This section was interesting; it required me to just put my head down and keep up. I couldn’t see anyone ahead of me unless they were less than 10 meters in front, due to the windiness and thick woods. Every uphill I caught up to Johnny, every downhill he bounded away. Drew was with me, and his positivity was nice.

We reached the aid station at halfway, which I foolishly skipped. I carried two bottles and it was cold outside, but I definitely should have been more on top of hydration. At this point we started catching some poor souls that had started with the front group. Eli Hemming, Jeshurun Small, some other guy. Each pass gave me confidence that we would work our way up the field. We continued up and down rolling little hills, and at mile 20 I started pushing a little harder. At mile 21 my hamstrings and hip flexors suddenly cramped ferociously, spoiling the party that we had. Uphills, which had been my strength the previous 2 hours, were reduced to a lame hobble. Flats slowed, downhills slowed dramatically. Every few minutes my hamstrings revolted. I watched as Drew, Johnny, and Jesh faded away through the woods and down the canyon. Nick caught back up to me. More people caught back up to me, and I became the carnage that I moments before had envisioned eating up.

Finishing

The rest of the race was survival mode in the cold rain, wandering to the finish line sadly. Another try, another very mediocre run. Should I give up on competing? Should I refocus and try harder at the next one and the next one and the next one? These thoughts always come and go during the waning hours of an unimpressive ultra. But then I finish, and see all my friends, and recount the tales of glory and death to them, and eat food, and realize that none of it mattered except that there was racing and the first 22 miles were those of chase and camaraderie and endorphins, and Seth Ruhling beat us all and gets the jewels from the kingdom of UTMB and we can all do it again soon.

A 100 mile finisher sandwiched between two 50k finishers

Part 2

After the reverie and eating and fun, I got in the car and drove to Mount Shasta through the rainy farm towns. I had hatched the despicable idea of climbing Mount Shasta with some friends the next day, because…because. I ate several burritos on the way, swam in the freezing and beautiful Shasta Lake, and arrived at Bunny Flat trailhead at 6 pm. A couple buddies from Portland and one from Reno converged from different directions an hour later, and my mind shifted from lamenting the race to another exciting goal of climbing and skiing Mount Shasta the next morning. I knew my body hated the idea, but maybe the burritos would heal it in time for a 4 am start.

I had summitted Shasta twice before, in 2022 and 2023: it is an amazing mountain. There’s something about solitary and massive volcanoes, standing above all surrounds like guardians, dwarfing even the large peaks scattered around their bases. They provide eternal water sources to the woods and valleys around them, they create their own weather systems. In short, they are irresistible. I want to climb more in the Cascades; so far all I’ve done is Shasta and Mount Hood. Anyways, Shasta is awesome. So that’s why we found ourselves skinning through the trees in the mist at 4:30 am, broken body be damned. We soon burst out of the trees and above the fog, the stars twinkling even higher than the massive cone rearing above us. The wind started here.

Every foot we climbed, the wind increased in rage. We slogged to Helen Lake at 10,500 feet, where the real climb begins. The vengeful wind poured down the steep slopes above us, carrying fine and cold snow into us. It increased in ferocity, then gave us false hope for a few moments of calm before barraging us again. It was still so early, but we could not stand and freeze, so we continued climbing up the steep slopes below Red Banks. The sun had peeked over the immense ridges above us, highlighting the plume of snow pouring off of Shasta’s summit. It seemed as if the mountain was saying to turn around. We continued up, to 12,000 feet, until listening to Shasta’s commands.

Bailing is always a hard thing. It sucks to drive so far and wake up so early and ignore an aching body and not have a peak to celebrate. However, my trip partner Evan explained succinctly, “when you get older, you start saying things like: 1. It’s all about the process and the experience, 2. You need to listen to conditions and your body, 3. I just needed to get out of the house.” Maybe he’s right, but maybe I’ll never learn.

Anyways, we skied back to the car, a glorious 5,000 foot descent into perfect and warm weather tempting us to turn around and just go back up. The plume of snow was still streaming off of the summit, the deed was done, and we would come back later. As after Canyons 50k, we celebrated the struggle and the heartbreak, the lack of victory, the resolution for future victory. We ate burritos. We made stupid jokes. We parted ways and drove to our respective homes to return to normal life unencumbered by ferocious inclement weather, screaming bodies in the midst of racing.

I am tired.

But soon I won’t be, and the next plans will be hatched. And on and on.