For my 1995 summer vacation, I went to Colorado to run the race up 14,110 foot Pike's Peak. Well, at least I made it to the top of the mountain.
Having read about this race for years, it had always intrigued me. When I got an email asking if I would like to run, I responded yes without even thinking about it. The August 19 date of the 13.4 mile climb of the 14,110 foot mountain meant hard hill training throughout the Washington summer. I don't do hill work, so I did most of my training for the 8,000 foot altitude gain by running on the totally-flat, twenty feet above sea level, C&O Canal Towpath. Not a wise move, but this is me we're talking about.
Flying into Denver, I began my quest for adventure in the backwoods of Colorado. I try to fit in as much as humanly possible during my infrequent vacations, so this was not to be a restful trip. I had planned a long driving route through the wilds of the state. There was also a 'Blue Highways' element to my tour of Colorado. A goal was to stay off the highways, unless necessary. This lead me to buy a topographic map of the entire state, showing all the small, back roads that don't make it into Rand McNally level maps. These roads are supposed to lead you to meet more interesting people along to way. In my case, the blue highways lead away from all people and into wilderness.
By noon of my first day in Colorado, I had run nearly 18 miles, climbed a 14,000 foot mountain, and had breakfast, twice. Over my second pancake session of the day, I began to realize that with the Pike's Peak race less than a week away, I was going to be less than rested. I decided, "Screw the race! I'm here to have a good time. I'm going to do whatever I feel like doing, without thinking how it was going to affect my race." I went through the week, blasting up any mountain, paddling any river, eating anything I felt like and just generally having a good time. If I saw an interesting road, I pointed my rental car down it. Lots of fun, but not much of a taper.
The nearest I can figure, I did four 14,000+ mountains and 8-10 13,000 footers, two hours of whitewater canoeing, mountain biking over the Continental Divide, many hours of four-wheel driving (in a rental Chevy Cavalier), two gold mine visits, lost money in five different casinos, chased deer, mountain goats, elk, big horn sheep, and marmots, endured weather from snow, arctic cold, hail, sand storms, desert heat, all before even getting to the race site.
Arriving in Manitou Springs, the race headquarters, I began to get a bit nervous about being able to even finish the race. My legs were totally trashed, my back hurt, there were numerous holes in my legs (caused by rocks, trees, and cactus), I hadn't slept more than five hours in a night since Virginia, and my week's food could generously be described as unhealthy. Looking up the mountain toward the far-away finish area, I began to question my level of common sense.
Meeting up with groups of other runners, and getting advice from the veterans of the race, I began to get psyched. I had been alone all week, and was going through talking withdraw. The race up the 8,000 foot climb might take a bit longer than hoped, but I could make it. I woke up early for the dawn start, only to find a cold, windy rain had started during the night. The course was a trail run, so mud was adding another obstacle, just what I needed!
The gun went off and the pack shot down the road. There is about 300 yards of flat roadway before turning up a steep road leading to the trailhead. As the road narrowed, I knew that I had gone out too fast and was going to pay later. The first 2.4 miles of the climb consists of non-stop climbing on switchbacks rising almost 3,000 feet. Fading badly in the first two miles was not part of the original race plan, but then that plan always was flexible.
Somewhere in the early miles of the race, I lost one of my contacts. The rain washing down my face flushed it from my eye, and I was just too tired to go crawling around on the ground looking for it. Without a lens, I can kind of see, but have little depth perception. Not good when you are constantly trying to step over rocks.
I was too much in a blur to notice many of the course's landmarks, but Pike's Peak is really beautiful. The heavy forests slowly give way to shorter trees. Occasionally, the trees open enough to allow a vista of the valley below. As the trees got shorter, so did the supply of oxygen. The air at the race finish (14,110 feet) has 40% less oxygen than sea level air. Once above the tree line, I paused and tried to find the mountaintop. Several thousand feet above me somewhere in a cloud bank, was the finishline.
Trying to keep moving in my state of extreme tiredness, I failed. Never in my racing years have I been too tired to stand up. The race began a constant search for a good "sitting rock." As I would vacate a rock, another runner would take my spot. The mantra for the pack became, "Just make forward progress!". I found that forward progress doesn't get you to the top very quickly. Tired, half blind, I waddled forward, picking my way along the rocky trail, stumbling over rocks and other assorted obstacles.
The last half mile of the climb consists of something called the Sixteen Golden Steps. These are switchbacks across the face of the final cliff of Pike's Peak. You can hear the booming race announcements for a long time down the hill, but it is always farther than you think. I am proud to say that I did run during the last mile of the race. There were several flatter areas during the final section where I broke into a trot. I did the last mile of the race in a quick 30 minutes. The time/distance continuum has little to do with running on Pike's Peak.
My time? Oh, who cares about my time! I had a great experience during the whole week. I'm planning to go back next year to tackle the round-trip. Any takers?
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