2013: The Year of the Speedgoat

I haven't been in the running world for long, so it's probably not a surprise that I hadn't heard of the Speedgoat 50k race until early last year. In fact, it was soon after I completed my first 50k race, the San Tan Scramble, when I first heard about this spectacular race in the Wasatch mountains of Utah. It was also the same time I decided I was going to run this race.

Looking back on that decision now, I am glad it didn't happen. Call it divine intervention, or just plain luck (probably good), but right before I clicked the signup button on Ultrasignup.com, I found out my niece was going to be married that same day. So, I ended up attending a wedding in Canada instead of running Speedgoat in 2012.

The circumstances in 2012 made me all that much more determined to get it done in 2013. I didn't wait long after the race signup opened before I added my name to the list. Now, I had heard about the difficulty of the race. People told me things like, "it's a 50k that runs like a 50 miler," or, "That's the hardest 50k in the nation." Of course, not having done it, or actually seeing the course, I had no way to put that into context. Months of studying the elevation profile and the Google Earth flyover Karl Meltzer provided on the race page helped quite a bit in understanding what I was going to be up against. However, all the data in the world couldn't have helped me come anywhere close to truly understanding the difficulty that is Speedgoat.

At the top of Hidden Peak the day before the race.

I spent the week prior to the race based at my aunt's and uncle's house in Springville. I would wake up, drive my rental car to the top of Nebo Loop Road (9345 ft. at the summit) and either hike or just relax and read. It was incredibly peaceful and scenic on that mountain road, and I am sure it helped me acclimate to the elevation. The day before the race, my friend Greg (who also ran) and I took the tram to the top of Hidden Peak to survey what we could of the course before we actually had to make the climb up the mountain. It was then that the sheer magnitude of the climb first struck me. The butterflies had officially started aerobatic maneuvers in my stomach.

Photo by Matt Trappe Photography

The day of the race started off like a lot of other races. Runners at the start made their way from the waiver table (where you officially declare yourself insane) the registration table, and the swag table. The morning temperatures were barely on the cool side, and I wore a jacket to relieve the shivering I had as a result of the temperatures and the nerves. The elite runners, including favorites such as Sage Canaday, Anton Krupicka, Ruby Muir, Max King, and a whole host of others mingled in the crowds and slowly made their way to the front of the group for easy access to the start line.

At 6:20, Karl Meltzer began his pre-race instructions and made sure everyone knew that we needed to stay out of the creek -- honestly, that and some basics on navigating the course were about all I got out of his announcements. I was too excited. By the time he was about wrapped up, it was 6:30 and he nonchalantly announced that the race would start in "...about four minutes".

It wasn't long before we were all pushing the start buttons on our GPS devices and heading on down the maintenance road. It also wasn't long before we were climbing. Weaving our way through some gorgeous forest trails and some maintenance roads. The course alternated between trail and road a few times, but thankfully never dwelt too much on the roads. The climb quickly became steep, but had enough variety to keep me entertained as I made my way to the top of Hidden Peak. It covered everything from dirt road to dirt packed single track, to rock hopping along switchbacks. It wasn't long before I found myself on the last ascent up to the spot where, just the day before, I had stood looking down in awe.

Photo by Matt Trappe Photography

A quick stop at Hidden Peak and I was on my way down to Larry's Hole. This section of the race is probably one of the most memorable pleasant sections where there are a few switchbacks through slopes of yellow and purple flowers. This is where I remembered seeing pictures of Anna Frost running last year and thinking how beautiful that section would be to run myself. But it wasn't long before arriving at Larry's Hole to refill my bottles and eat some food. Up to this point, all systems were firing -- no stomach issues, no energy issues, but I was just a little over 10 miles in.

From Larry's Hole, I decided to push myself a little harder since I could see the elevation profile with each stop in my head, and I thought it would be a good spot to get some good running in. It wasn't long before I hit the road out to Pacific Mine and was slowed considerably. To say this road is rocky would be an understatement. It was then that I remembered James Bonnett describing the difficult nature of this road and I second guessed my decision to push it. After rolling my ankle twice in a half mile, I decided to slow it down a little; the last thing I wanted was to injure myself out of a race like this. The road soon became runnable again and I was able to maintain a decent run into Pacific Mine, passing Jay Danek on his way out of that aid station on the out-and-back portion.

Pacific Mine was probably my favorite aid station. It had been sprinkling rain for the past hour and I briefly contemplated putting on my rain gear. But the warm temperatures and memories of running The North Face Endurance Challenge in the rain and fog in San Francisco convinced me that I didn't need it yet in Utah. I took far too long at this aid station, messing with my pack, eating a popsicle and some watermelon, and refilling my bottle. I am glad I took the time though, as it allowed me to refresh and refocus on what lay ahead.

The run out of Pacific Mine started out gently enough, but soon became a hike. This is one of my strong points, so I capitalized here and slowly passed a number of others who seemed to be moving very slowly up the sustained forest service road climbs. Once we hit the single track, the climb became much more difficult and my power hiking slowed to a regular hiking pace. I was still passing some runners and realized that some of them were people who I had seen leaving Pacific Mine before I even got there. I took that as a sign that I was making good time. Now, those who know me well know that I never listen to music when I'm out on the trail, but in this case I'm glad I did. The beat of the songs helped keep me "in the groove" and I was able to push ahead all the way back to Larry's Hole still feeling strong.

Again at Larry's Hole, I had somehow confused the elevation profile in my head and thought I had one final climb to Hidden Peak before heading to the finish. This combined with the fact that I had managed to almost completely avoid looking at my Garmin the entire race put me completely into the frame of mind of running from aid station to aid station without too much concern about what lay ahead. One of the aid station volunteers mentioned that it was only 2.5 miles to the next aid station, so I quickly mixed my Tailwind in the bottle and headed on my way.

The first half mile or so out of Larry's Hole was completely runnable, but after that, the trail became steep -- SO STEEP. Karl decided that it would be a good idea to send us straight up a steep grassy
slope. No trail, just little blue Hoka pin flags to show the way. Not funny, Karl. Let's just say this was probably one of the hardest, most grueling portions of the race. At this elevation, each step seemed to cause my heart to rush and I soon relegated myself to operating at what seemed like 200 bpm, panting like a dog. I would hike 50 feet and stop to catch my breath, then repeat this until I reached the top. It seemed like it took hours, but really went much quicker than that. After climbing to the top of the ridge, my legs were heavy and I pushed along at what I thought was a decent pace, but realize now was quite a bit slower than I had imagined.

The Tunnel aid station was a welcomed sight after that last climb, and I stopped long enough to eat more melon, refill my bottle and grab a popsicle. I headed out again and ran through the tunnel while some 80's hair band rock filled the air, echoing through the passage. I left the tunnel and started running downhill. Now somewhere in my mind I realized something was off. The elevation profile I had saved in my brain told me I was on the way to the homestretch, but my Garmin didn't agree with that, and I hadn't seen Hidden Peak again yet. It wasn't making sense to me, but somehow I knew that I would have another big climb in my future. I came to a split in the road and almost instinctually started climbing uphill. I was a hundred yards from the split when I heard another runner below me yelling at me. "Wrong way! Runner! WRONG WAY!" I stopped a moment and looked around only to realize I had completely missed the orange flags where I had made a left instead of a right. It was here where I had a flashback to the briefing at the start when I turned to my friends and said something along the lines of, "You'd have to be blind to miss the markings." I couldn't figure out how I slipped into that category.

After running back down the road to the split, I followed the mountain road down some switchbacks, and started to really get into a good rhythm. Right when I thought I was golden, the runner who had saved me from the unnecessary climb back up to Hidden Peak stopped to let me pass on the single track section heading up the ridge to Hidden Peak. Who's cruel joke was this? Again, not funny Karl.

Photo by Jon Roig.

This climb also seemed to take forever. I tried hopelessly to run what I could of this, but again, my heart rate sky rocketed and I found myself with hands on knees struggling to eke out a 24 minute mile. Many of the hikers I passed said things like, "looking good!" or "way to power up the hill!" but I felt like I was barely moving. As in the grassy slope climb to the Tunnel AS, this climb seemed to last forever. The view from the lower portion of the ridge to the tram on Hidden Peak is burned into my brain. All I can say about this climb is that despite the snails pace I felt like I was moving, in retrospect, it was over quickly enough. The Hidden Peak aid station volunteers congratulated me on a hard hike to the top and I was very glad it was the last one.

"It's all downhill from here" was the last thing I heard when I left Hidden Peak. The elevation profile reset and corrected in my head, I knew that there would be some tough portions despite the overall elevation loss. It wasn't long before I found the switchbacks through the boulder fields that I had gone up at the start of the race. I scrambled over the rock as well as my tired legs would allow, but had to slow myself down a little in order to maintain control. It was a very welcomed site when the trail gave way to more runnable sections, including more dirt road and some really beautiful single track. I threw caution to the wind, knowing that this was my last chance to make up time lost on the ridiculous climbs.

At this point, I should mention that I had developed a nasty blister about 2 inches in diameter on my left heel and that each step on this downhill section sent a sting of realization that it wasn't going to get any better. I had subconsciously altered my gait when I let Hidden Peak to accommodate for the blister pain and had now started having lower back pain resulting in the old familiar sciatic pain in my right leg. Just about any ultra runner will tell you that at this point you have to assess the situation and decide if you are injured, or just hurt. I was hurting, and I wasn't about to quit this close to the end. I made the conscious decision to run right over the blister in order to spare my sciatic nerve, which was the greater of the two pains. For the next few miles, each step on my right foot stung, and I could almost imagine the nastiness that was going on in my sock. But I didn't care. In fact, it almost brought a smile to my face to think that I was going to conquer the pain.

The last couple of miles teased me with sights of the finish line and brief echoes of applause and cheering only to be hidden and silenced by another switchback taking me over and around another ridge. Then, before I knew it, I was on the final approach. I headed down the last section of road and turned toward the big blue Hoka arch where Karl was standing with my Speedgoat pint glass and my finisher's medal. In a way, I couldn't have cared less if I got either the glass or the medal. The experience was reward enough.

People often ask me why I put myself through these extreme races. Why would I pay good money to run up and down mountains through extremes in temperature and physically demanding terrain? The reward is in knowing what I can accomplish. Knowing that the barriers that I once placed on myself no longer exist. And, if I find one that is a little stubborn, I'll come back next year and obliterate it. Or, at least I'll try. And to me, that's a whole lot better than the alternative.

It is now two days after the race and I have asked myself many times since how I would summarize this experience. I think after all that is said and done, I would have to fall back on a word I heard someone use to describe the Grand Canyon Rim2Rim2Rim (double crossing): brutiful! This race was brutally hard for a 50k. The climbs were brutally intense. The descents were too. But, the scenery and the terrain was incredibly beautiful. It was truly brutiful!

Gear:

• Shoes: Inov-8 Roclite 295 (2013 model)
• Socks: Drymax lite trail
• Shorts: North Face
• Shirt: iRun USA shirt. Powered by iRun!
• Hat: Buff. ...yes, I ran in the buff. :)
• GPS: Garmin 910XT
• Pack: Salomon Advanced Skin S-Lab 5
• Fuel: Tailwind, a two popsicles, watermelon, and a couple of orange wedges.
• Sunglasses: Some cheap Target Perry Ellis Ironman sunglasses ($20, maybe?)