Dopey, dithering, and demented

By Renne Gardner

It was my first time. Like other unforgettable firsts, I anxiously wondered if I really knew what I was doing. Unlike those adolescent firsts, however, during this experience I had the benefit of a guide, one who had passed this way before.

My first time at the Western States 100, I was part of a crew to assist a running club friend in his effort to get to the finish line at Placer High School in Auburn. I thought it would be a great opportunity to see what the race was all about before I entertained any thoughts about running it.

We spent Friday morning of Western States weekend in 1993 in Squaw Valley where a skier in the parking lot asked me if there was a marathon going on. I said yes--from there to Auburn. She gave me a puzzled look until I pointed to the Western States banner hanging nearby. Then she looked at me as if I were crazy, so I had to set her straight. "Hey," I told her, "I'm not running it!"

But over 400 finely tuned and some not-so-finely tuned endurance athletes were. And after my experience as part of a Western States crew, I decided that I wanted to give it a shot myself. So, on June 25, 1994, I found myself at the starting line.

A little later in the day I realized that it was too late to do anything about Kenyan marathoner Juma Ikangaa's keen observation: "The will to win is nothing without the will to train," except wish that I had trained more. I did, however, discover the corollary to his insight for us "non-winners," i.e.: "The will to finish is nothing without the ability to deal with the unexpected, cuz stuff happens."

So, despite a reservation snafu, a midnight fire alarm, an anxious scramble to find a ride to the start, the missing drink, the missing food, the blisters on feet that rarely get blisters, I was doing surprisingly well when I arrived in Foresthill. But mile 63 scared me silly.

I had done several 100-kilometer training runs and knew that I should be able to make it to Foresthill. But beyond Foresthill was One Step Beyond, the Outer Limits, and the Twilight Zone all rolled into one, a realm beyond imagination known for glycogen depletion, sleep deprivation, joint deterioration, and dehydration. The four Ds. A few more Ds could surely apply: dopey, dithering, demented, dim-witted ... feel free to stop me anytime.

My wife Lydia was in Foresthill to give me a big hug and moral support, and to pace me the rest of the way in. A couple of hours of light left and I was feeling and moving pretty well. But then I heard that familiar theme music; was that Rod Serling up ahead?

I wanted to walk more than run. No, I think I wanted to sit more than walk. Rather, I wanted to lie down more than sit. Make that sleep, not lie down. My wife kept me moving, however. "Are you drinking?" she'd ask. I'd mumble something unintelligible in reply. "Good," she'd say. I tried to follow closely behind her. However, the steep downhills and darkness kept slowing me down. Two more Ds.

I found myself continually stepping off the trail to let other runners pass.

Soup at the aid stations provided me with only brief revival and then 10 minutes later my voice would again diminish to a whisper and my pace to a crawl. But we plowed on, passing only the injured and infirm. Some more Ds come to mind: deranged, damaged, drained, doldrums, drowsy.

Despite my weakened state, I was looking forward to the river crossing at mile 78. I thought that a freezing, wet shock was what I needed to get me moving again. My wife, unfortunately, was looking forward to dropping; she had injured her foot earlier in the day and now, after 15 miles of downhill, was really hurting. More stuff was happening. Lydia claims that I was babbling incoherently about dropping out myself; I will only admit to not looking forward to the last 20 miles on my own. Dragging, demoralized, doubt, dropping ? No way!

The ice water seemed to revive me. And though Lydia was no longer with me, I hooked up with a friend and his pacer and had company on the two-mile uphill to Green Gate. Earlier, we had passed word to the Green Gate aid station about the need for a substitute pacer. As we approached the festively decorated aid station I searched the faces of those greeting me for an indication that one of them might like to join me for a midnight run. A wonderful woman emerged from the night; Linda Elam was her name, an experienced trail runner, cheerful running companion, and excellent pacer.

When she asked me what time I was shooting for, I responded that I just wanted to finish. And finish we did. Pulled along by her pace, stories of her experiences on the trail, and magic coffee candies, I was able to do a surprising amount of running. And at the aid stations, just when I was getting comfortable by the fire or the soup pot, relishing a successful struggle between aid stations, Linda pulled me outta there and kept me going.

We got to the finish line in less than 28 hours. Some final Ds: delirious, dreamlike, deep soreness, damn great leg massage, deep hunger, deep sleep.

And a final corollary: The will to deal with stuff that can happen during a 100-miler is nothing without a lot of good people to share it with.