2023 Whiterock Ultra 50-miler

Whiterock Ultra 50-miler

As the Whiterock Ultra 50-miler neared, I found myself shrouded in uncertainty. Our 15-year-old dog, Cali, has been battling congestive heart failure. Her recent struggles left us unsure whether we could, or even should, step away to participate in the race that held such significance for me. Ultimately, we had our friend Lisa and Denay’s Mom, Darla, check on the dogs a couple of times (and we checked in on her and Maggie remotely), and Cali did pretty well.

Whiterock Ultra occupies a special place in my heart, not just because I ran my first ultra-marathon there but also because I live less than two hours away from it.

My debut ultra at Whiterock in 2021 was a true test of endurance. Persistent rain had turned the trails into a muddy maze. I battled a lingering pain on the side of my foot, starting from mile 16. This, coupled with gastrointestinal issues that induced vomiting and an accidental detour that added an hour and a half to my time late in the race, amplified the difficulty of an already challenging course. Yet, I persevered to the end.

The second year was no less physically challenging, but I completed the race without any significant setbacks.

I entered this year with hopes for a smoother run, similar to the previous year. Despite logging nearly 800 miles since the start of the year, akin to the previous years, my long-run preparations fell short. My longest training run this year was a single 20-mile run at the Whiterock Conservancy about five weeks before the race, sprinkled with a half dozen or so 15-18 mile road runs. In contrast, the first year saw me completing a marathon, a 50K, and several 20-mile runs, bolstered by a series of solid back-to-back training sessions.

The race course is in the sprawling 5,500-acre Whiterock Conservancy, comprising two red, two white, and one blue loop. Each loop starts and finishes at a central aid station, with the red loop spanning about 8 miles, the white 11 miles, and the blue 12 miles. The Whiterock Conservancy is a beautiful place to run, even though half of the race is done in total darkness. On several occasions, I turned my headlamp off only to find complete darkness, given the cloud coverage of the previous day’s storms.

The race commenced at midnight, and given my relative under-preparation, I started at a slow pace dodging water-filled holes and adjusting my headlamp to see a little better. At mile 1, I glanced behind me and saw no headlamps in the distance, just total darkness. I was in last place. My plan to start slowly was working. The trail was fairly muddy and slick in a few spots, but the conditions improved as the day continued. As the race progressed, I started to gain some momentum. Finishing the two red loops, I changed my shoes to some with slightly deeper lugs in preparation for the somewhat more technical (and muddy) rolling single-track trails of the white loop.

I cautiously approached the first white loop, mindful of its steep initial climb. I kept my stride through the first half, feeling fresh. But by the second half of the first white loop, the cumulative mileage began to take its toll. At mile 20, I started feeling overwhelmed, doubting my ability to endure another 30 miles. The thought of bowing out crept in, questioning whether my training had been adequate.

At this low point, I remembered the “40% rule”, a concept borrowed from Navy SEALs. The idea suggests that when your mind concedes to exhaustion, you’re only about 40 percent of your actual capacity. This mental framework invigorated me, especially since my mind was signaling an imminent surrender. Why not put this to the test?

After completing the first white loop, I felt like I had just run a trail marathon. If that were the end of the race, it would have felt very tough and a significant accomplishment. The rising sun lifted my spirits, but my body felt sore and broken. How was I to run almost the same distance again? Without lingering on this question for too long, I decided to grab my unused poles from my bag and restock on energy gels, treating myself to a quesadilla, pickle, and watermelon at the aid station before I limped onto the white loop for a second round.

By this stage, maintaining a consistent effort was increasingly difficult. The constant rolling terrain and ensuing knee and hip pain further exacerbated my struggles. My pace dipped to 15 to 18-minute miles as I oscillated between fleeting moments of feeling OK and overwhelming exhaustion (literally just stopping on the trail and hanging my head between my poles).

Nevertheless, I completed the second white loop, leaving only the final blue loop. The prospect of running another 3ish hours appeared daunting, but I resolved to finish the race. I refueled with a 100 mg caffeine chew, a Tylenol, another quesadilla, and a watermelon slice, then staggered to the starting line of the blue loop.

My strategy was to walk the first hill, then capitalize on the flat crushed limestone paths and paved tracks through the city of Coon Rapids. This plan worked well, and aided by the caffeine kicking in, I maintained a steady pace for the next five or six miles. A brief encounter with Denay, who encouraged me to keep going, and a Diet Coke from a vending machine in Coon Rapids buoyed my spirits.

A pleasant surprise awaited me at the final aid station—my friend and former colleague, Mike Gorski, a seasoned ultra-runner, was volunteering there. Mike noticed I had signed up for Whiterock again and decided to volunteer. Mike was the first ultra-runner I had met in person, and his insights gave me the confidence to sign up for my first race. His presence was a timely morale booster. Thanks, Mike!

With only 5 miles left, I powered through the next few miles, then faced two more climbs and two descents. The ascents were all hiking, but I jogged the flatter parts and downhills as much as possible.

As the finish line became visible from the crest of the final hill, adrenaline surged through me. I sprinted across the bridge to the finish line with every ounce of remaining strength. To me, it felt like a sprint; Denay’s video, however, suggested otherwise.

Crossing the finish line of the Whiterock Ultra 50-miler for the third time, I was bathed in exhaustion and elation. This challenging journey had pushed my limits, taught me resilience, and deepened my love for ultra running. With these memories now a part of me, I eagerly await the next test of endurance. After all, pain is fleeting, but memories last forever.

I must extend my heartfelt thanks to Denay. She took time away from her busy schedule, missed a farmer’s market, and drove me home while I was delirious. She even got us food when we got home. Her actions reminded me how crucial having such a steadfast partner in life’s race is. Thank you, Denay.

My deepest appreciation goes to the race directors and volunteers for your critical contributions to the Whiterock Ultra’s success—furthermore, a special acknowledgment to the Whiterock Conservancy for offering us a wonderfully challenging course.