by Michael Strzelecki

The Events

To Grand Slam is to run the following four 100-mile trail races in one summer: Old Dominion, Western States, Leadville and Wasatch. Each is considered progressively more difficult, and each offers its own tricks and treats. Old Dominion is run in early June through the rolling and verdant mountains of antebellum Virginia. Runners contend with thick humidity, and spend much of the day swatting at horseflies and relieving their legs of bloodthirsty ticks and briars. Cobble strewn across the trail sections continually tear at ankle ligaments. Spectacular views of historic Fort Valley assuage the torment. As an alternative to Old Dominion, Slammers may run the Vermont 100-Mile, which loops through the undulant Green Mountain foothills during the heat of July.

Western States is run in late June, and traverses the Sierra Mountains of northern California. The race is known for its extremes: Runners may stumble through 20 miles of snow and sub-freezing temperatures in the morning, and then descend the scorching tinderbox canyons in the afternoon, where temperatures can reach 100 and shade is nowhere to be found. The trails on Western States are dusty and desolate, and the ubiquitous downhills are enough to jar fillings loose. Western States is the Boston Marathon of trail running, complete with media helicopters, masseurs and 1,300 volunteers.

The third leg of the Slam is Leadville, an out-and-back across Colorado’s Rocky Mountains held in late July. Aptly monikered “Race Across the Sky,” Leadville is run entirely above 9,000 feet of elevation, where oxygen is a rare commodity. Mere mention of the race’s name sends runners’ chests heaving in Pavlovian anticipation. Its crucible climb, and possibly the most merciless of the Grand Slam, is over the 12,600-foot Hope Pass, where runners ascend 3,500 vertical feet in a matter of miles. Participants navigate it not once, but twice. Because of the altitude, Leadville’s finishing rate hovers around 45%, the lowest among the Slam events.

The final event is considered the toughest of the four. Wasatch sends runners through remote mountains of northern Utah in early September. It gleans the most tortuous elements of the other three races and packages them into one haymaking gut-punch. The climbs are taxing, the trails brutal and the weather raw and tempestuous. Runners climb 26,000 vertical feet over the 100 miles, like scaling the Empire State building 21 times. Wasatch is frequently mentioned as the most beautiful of the Slam events, with much of the course crossing high alpine meadows strewn with wildflowers and glacial ponds.

The History of the Slam

The origin of the 100-mile trail run can be traced to Gordy Ansleigh, a gritty woodsman-cum-chiropractor. Ansleigh regularly participated in a 100-mile endurance horse race in northern California known as the Tevis Cup. Just before the 1979 event, Ansleigh’s horse became lame. In what can be called either a stroke of genius or a lapse of common sense, Ansleigh covered the course on foot. He finished just shy of 24 hours, keeping pace with the equine competitors. The Western States 100-mile footrace was born. (Ansleigh continues to run Western States regularly, and Grand Slammed in 1995.)

Soon after, other 100-mile trail races appeared, the next three being the other Slam events. Ultrarunning editor Fred Pilon in 1985 contrived the concept of running all four 100-milers in one summer, and offered the name “Grand Slam” to the task. Pilon’s own Slam attempt proved unsuccessful. Tom Green, a house painter and seasoned ultramarathoner from Columbia, MD, took a fancy to Pilon’s idea, and in 1986 become the first person ever to complete the Grand Slam. “I did it as redemption,” the venerable Green recently ruminated. “In 1985, I ran poorly, dropping out of two of my three 100-milers. I thought I would feel much better if I could come back the next year and Slam.” According to Stan Jensen, the Grand Slam’s unofficial historian, 97 runners (14 of them women) have completed the Grand Slam a combined 113 times. Jensen himself Grand Slammed in 1999; his Web site (www.run100s.com) is the repository for Grand Slam data and information. 

Meet the Grand Slammers

Twenty-one runners (three of them women) Grand Slammed in 1998, the most ever in one year. The oldest, at age 66, was Richard Opsahl, a retired consultant from New York; the youngest, Robert Youngren, a 24-year-old student from California (and the youngest American Slammer ever). The group represents a mish-mash of abilities and personalities, each with his or her own story.

Dan Barger and the inimitable Ann Trason were clearly the class of the 1998 Grand Slammers. Barger finished all four 100s with a combined running time of 78 hours, 46 minutes, the fastest ever (average time: about 19:41). He won Old Dominion outright, a rare accomplishment because Slammers tend to run conservatively. Trason is unquestionably the finest female runner in the sport. She runs with the silken stride of a fleeing doe, her feet barely touching the trail. Trason won all four Slam events that year, and holds the course record for each. Her combined Slam time was 79 hours, 23 minutes (average time: 19:50), just minutes behind Barger’s record.

Though the speedsters garner the headlines, formidable tales are often 
cultivated from the other side of the pack. Bill Andrews is a medical researcher from California whose stocky and bearded physique seems more attuned to chopping wood than hammering miles. He runs in bohemian black and is rarely seen without his trademark straw hat. Andrews started running in 1997, and ran 13 50-milers that year. In 1998 he encored by running eight 100-milers, including the Grand Slam. He attributes his success to his profound love of the process of running. “I greatly enjoy being out there,” he says. “Reaching the finish line is not my goal. Being out there is.”

Andrews experienced a frightening episode in the final miles of the final Slam event. “I had already completed 98 miles of Wasatch, and was feeling like I could run it again,” he said. “The weakness hit me very suddenly. I immediately collapsed to the ground, convinced I was having a heart attack.” 

Paramedics revived Andrews, and performed an on-site EKG. His fears were allayed when paramedics determined the malady to be potassium deficiency. “They said my muscles wouldn’t function without potassium, and a potassium IV would have disqualified me from competition,” Andrews added. “So I drank some electrolyte solution, got up, and finished the race.” An ambulance escorted Andrews the final two miles.

Stephen Simmons is clean-cut and affable, a landscaper from rural West Virginia. Like Andrews, he took up running three years ago. Simmons, however, was a voracious hiker, which fostered a seamless transition to trail ultramarathoning. His passion for running is surpassed only by his religious zeal. Simmons sometimes carries a Bible during races, and at the finish often drops to his knees and reads Bible verses, which is often mistaken for a call for medical attention. On a bet, Simmons ran the entire 100 miles at Western States with his race number pinned directly to his chest skin.

Simmons’ exhaustive efforts to reach the starting lines make for better 
yarns than his efforts to reach the finish. He drives cross-country to most races, lives sometimes for weeks out of his truck (leaky truck, he reminds others), and subsists on the most basic of comestibles. A Grand Slam summer for Simmons goes like this: drive 30 hours, run 100 miles, and drive 30 hours home. Repeat three or four times. When driving becomes too tedious, he hops a Greyhound or hitchhikes. Simmons’ vagabond escapades dispel the belief that Slamming is merely a quixotic adventure of romance and intrigue; it can also be a grind.

Janine Duplessis flies 747s for United Airlines, and partakes in endurance events as time permits. She was suffering severe back pains in the spring of ’98, and doctors advised her to quit running. Janine responded by Grand Slamming.

Robert Youngren injected youthful exuberance into the Slam. When asked the most difficult aspect of Grand Slamming, he responded, “Being away from my girlfriend, Kathy, for so long. What I spent using my calling cards was crazy.” Youngren ran each race with his hair dyed a different Crayola color.

Kevin Sayers is tall and unassuming, with hair as gold as Leadville aspens. He works as a systems analyst for a government contractor. Sayers’ Grand Slam hopes were nearly derailed by foot problems. Repeated blistering over the course of the four races cost Sayers both foot pads and several layers of skin. Metatarsal ailments compounded his difficulties. But Sayers persevered and finished. Asked what impelled him to Grand Slam in the first place, Sayers offered, “It just sounded neat.”

The fraternity of Grand Slammers has interesting members from past years. Deaf runner King Jordan is president of Gallaudet University, in Washington, D.C., the country’s premier institution of higher education for the deaf; he Grand Slammed in 1996. Joe Schlereth is a two-time Slammer who relies on extraordinarily high training mileage; in 1997, he logged over 9,000 training miles, almost a marathon a day.

Grandmother Helen Klein waited until the age of 55 to begin running. She Grand Slammed in 1990, at age 67, and continues to shatter age-group records today.

Gary Wright completed what can only be called the Grandest Slam, when in 1993 he finished 10 100-mile trail races in one year. His attempt to complete all 11 available 100-milers was sullied only by a DNF at Hardrock, in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains, considered the toughest ultramarathon of all. In 1998, the prolific Burgess Harmer completed his sixth Grand Slam. “One for each grandchild,” he quips. 

What it Really Takes to Complete the Slam

In his book Beyond the Marathon: The Grand Slam or Trail Ultrarunning, Bob Boeder wrote: “To enter a 100-mile race, you have to have a dream, a want, or a void. It’s not for everyone.” I’d add to that list a rapacious appetite for adventure. The spiritual lineage of the Grand Slammer traces back to the great explorers—to Merriwether Lewis and Robert Byrd and even John Glenn. Grand Slammers are their modern-day equivalents, at once exploring remote geographical regions, absolute physical thresholds, deepest visceral emotions and the ability to mentally endure.

Completing the Grand Slam can be reduced to training; time and money; logistics; and lots of luck. Running the 400 miles could be considered the easiest part of Grand Slamming. Those who toe the line tend to be adequately trained for the distance and are well-versed in the attendant physical and medical issues. All Slammers, however, possess one physical attribute that warrants mention—an almost inhuman ability to recover from body trauma. Conventional wisdom is that total recovery from an ultramarathon is one day for each mile raced, more than three months for a 100-miler. Slammers must come back strong in a matter of weeks.

Slamming is time-demanding, and not only from a training perspective. 
Sea-level-dwelling runners may need to arrive at the high-altitude races weeks in advance to properly acclimate. And Slamming comes with a hefty price tag—about $1,000 per race, more if you pay travel expenses for your pacer and crew, as protocol dictates. Jason Hodde, a 1997 Grand Slammer from Indiana, ran six 100-milers in the summer. He tabulated his expenses (including entry fees, travel, car rentals, lodging and food) to be about $4,300. East coasters relying on air travel can expect to pay even more.

When asked to identify the greatest challenge of Slamming, veterans often dwell on the logistics. Juggling the time and travel demands, arranging for crew and pacers, and organizing gear and drop bags can be far more exhausting than actually running the 400 miles. “More than anything, we’re strategists,” notes Sayers. “We have to be analytical and disciplined.” Perhaps that’s why a disproportionate number of Grand Slammers work in analytical professions such as engineering, accounting, research and computer science.

It’s difficult to overemphasize the role luck plays in successfully Grand 
Slamming. The most critical stumbling block to completing the Grand Slam happens on paper and not on the trails. Each year about 2,000 runners apply to run Western States, and 400 are accepted through a lottery system. No preference is given potential Grand Slammers; with one clean slice, perhaps 80% of potential Slammers are TKOd before the shoes are even laced. Those lucky enough to make the cut at Western States still hinge their success on life’s vagaries: planes arriving on time, drop bags making it to the aid stations, car tires not going flat, ankles surviving pothole twists, alarm clocks sounding, nausea fending off until after the race and the body successfully holding off all those upper-respiratory infections so common to ultrarunners. Even with impeccable training and preparation, the runner remains at the mercy of life’s daily rhythms.

Finally, Grand Slamming is not without its risks. Several recent trail 
running incidents served a sobering reminder as to the inherent dangers of the sport. Seasoned ultramarathoner Joel Zucker died in 1998 shortly after completing Hardrock. Doctors attributed his death to “brain bleed,” likely the result of a lethal combination of high blood pressure, high altitude and overexertion. A few years prior, ultrarunner Barbara Schoener was mauled to death by a cougar while training on the Western States course. It’s not uncommon for ultrarunners to suffer renal problems, the result of perpetual jarring of the kidneys. There are rattlesnakes and lightening strikes and hypothermia and severe wind gusts. Trail running is said to be kid’s play, but Grand Slamming is surely not. 

Michael Strzelecki is a veteran of more than 50 ultramarathons, and writes from his home in Baltimore, MD.

So You Want to Give the Slam a Go?

Training for the Slam demands more than just high-mileage training runs. You need to tailor your runs to the specific conditions you'll encounter during the races by running on similar terrain and in similar weather and climactic conditions. Back-to-back long runs are advisable to accustom your body to running while fatigued. Partake in occasional nighttime training runs to acclimate yourself to running in the dark on trails, with a flashlight. During your training runs, experiment with food and liquid intake because you'll need to replenish the approximately 15,000 calories you'll burn during each race, and the five gallons of liquid you'll perspire or pass.

Pay attention to race day coordination. Decide beforehand whether you'll need a crew and/or pacer, and where you'll meet them throughout the race. Pacers are typically allowed later in the race for safety reasons. Calculate how often and when you'll change clothes and shoes. Find out where water and food are available on the course, and figure how much nourishment you'll need to carry between aid stations. Do you want to carry such amenities as Vaseline, spare batteries, electrolyte tabs, medications, bug spray, toilet paper and perhaps a coat? 

Develop a running strategy. The ultrarunner's credo "start out slow and taper" cannot be overemphasized. Eat early and often; drink early and often. Monitor your urine for blood (an indication of dehydration and possible kidney problems). And be mindful that most 100-mile races require participants to be weighed occasionally to check for possible dehydration. Develop a comfortable run/walk cadence; on trails, most runners walk the uphills and run the downhills and flats. And during the race, seek the company of other runners, as 30 hours of continuous trail running can lose its novelty.

Resources

Leadville Trail 100
Old Dominion 100 Mile One Day Endurance Run
Wasatch Front 100 Mile Endurance Race
Western States Endurance Run 100 Miles

(This article originally appeared in the May 2000 Running Times)