Facing down a 50

The Following article was published in the Alaska Star newspaper:

By AMY SCHENCK
Alaska Star

Working at a newspaper, I interact with dozens of people everyday - whether it's a quick two-sentence e-mail or a multi-day, in-depth interview. Almost always the interactions are pleasant, and often I walk away equipped with new knowledge and perspective; but rarely do the exchanges leave me thinking, "Wow, wouldn't it be cool to run 50 miles?"

Last January I had the opportunity to interview Evan Hone, an ultra-runner from Eagle River, who had just taken third in the 100-mile H.U.R.T. race in Hawaii. Sometime during the course of our conversation the Resurrection Pass 50 mile race came up, and my imagination took off sprinting.
A few weeks after the interview, Hone put me in touch with a group of local mountain runners - many of whom have decades of experience out on the trails - and so I set out on the track to an ultra-marathon.

The first time I showed up to run with the "crew" the thermometer read about 10 degrees, headlamps lit the way and we glaciated off the steep, compacted snow on top Bear Mountain.

I was hooked. The winter night brought a deeps sense of serenity, while the brisk climb and descent provided a fun - and rewarding - physical challenge.

Trail training

I began to join in on weekly excursions through the Chugach Mountains - learning the names and voices of my fellow runners, but never quite getting a good glimpse of their faces, because we always ran after work, in the dark.

While I credit this group - who eventually, with spring sunlight became more than faceless voices - with teaching me a great deal about mountain running, my "training plan" came from an altogether different source. In January an energetic 5-month-old husky-mix puppy entered my life, and with him came accountability.

It's amazing how motivating it can be when you know you have two choices: sleep in the same room with a tired, peaceful, quiet, content puppy, or sleep in the same room with a restless, noisy, bored and playful puppy. I found myself routinely choosing the former.

By the time May's endlessly sunny skies rolled around, I'd found a daily running groove. I'd also learned quite a bit about how to excel at endurance sports. Fellow runners gave me the scoop on everything from nutrition to technique:

-Keep electrolytes replaced.

-Remember to relax shoulders and drop arms.

-Eat before you get hungry and drink before you get thirsty.

As my first major goal, the Crow Pass Crossing race, approached in July, my weekends increasingly became devoted to 20- or 30-mile mountain runs. As I embraced these hours on the trail, I discovered running is just as much, if not more, mental as physical. The minute I allowed my enthusiasm to lapse, fatigue set in. Conversely, if I stayed engaged with the environment, my thoughts and the people around me, the energy seemed to flow.

Crow Pass race

A cloudy morning greeted me when I woke up - at 4 a.m. - to drive to the start of the Crow Pass Crossing race in Girdwood.

At the trailhead runners jogged around, checked in with the race director and waited in a long, twisting line for the "facilities." Then, as 7 a.m. neared, we huddled together on a bridge that was used as the starting line. A short countdown and we were off.

The trail choked as dozens of runners filed up the switchbacks. We all had the same goal - arrive to Crow Pass in under an hour to avoid being disqualified.

I got to the glacier-clad pass in 45 minutes, feeling strong. I careened down the other side, soon arriving to high brush. I swam through cow parsnip, devils club, alders and raspberry bushes, eyeing the rocks and roots precariously scattered throughout the trail.

Several miles later, Eagle River came into view and I began to form my game plan for fording the waist-high water - namely stay with the group in front of me so that we could cross the river together.

This worked. Six of us arrived to the banks of the river at the exact same time, took one look at each other and then linked arms. We plowed through the water quickly - but my feet still felt like numb stumps by the time we reached the other side.

Running seemed like the best way to get blood flowing again, so I charged off. For the next several miles I ran alone - eating and drinking as much as possible, and letting short staccato thoughts pass in and out of my mind.

It seemed with each passing mile I gained momentum. As I closed in on the perch, located four miles from the finish line, spectators began to line the trail.

"There's a big group up ahead. You can catch them," they'd shout as I flew by.

One-by-one, I began to pass people. The landmarks came and went in a blur: Echo Bend, Rapids Camp, Four Corners. Before I knew it I was climbing the last long arduous hill.

I finished with a time of four hours and 11 minutes, placing fourth among women.

I felt flush with happiness - floating on cloud nine. I relished and reveled in the experience - but only for a day or two, because I soon had to focus on the Resurrection Pass 50 only two weeks away.

Resurrection Pass

The night before the Resurrection Pass race I lay awake restless in my tent at the trailhead. My puppy, who would accompany me on the run, had no way to know the meaning of "tapering" and couldn't understand why it had been two days since we'd gone for a good long jog.

When - at 2 a.m. - I finally fell asleep, I dreamed the start of the race got moved and I missed it completely.

Groggy describes the way I felt at 5 a.m. as my alarm was going off, and I knew I had to take down my tent and be ready within the hour. I managed to fumble through everything, and contrary to my subconscious fears make it to the start of the race.

When the clock stuck 6 a.m. we set off. The first couple of miles passed in chaotic fashion. I was still trying to wake up and Zippy, my pup, tugged at his leash, wanting to lead the pack rather than be stuck in between.

As soon as people spread out, I took Zippy off leash, leaving me to find a rhythm and Zippy the chance to romp along the side of the trail.

I fell in line with a group of three people. We used each other to keep pace as we wound through fields of fireweed and passed beaver damn terraces. Resurrection Pass greeted us with a nice breeze, offsetting the bright sun. We kept cruising, and dropped back into the shade of birch, spruce and alders. The descent off the pass is seemingly never-ending, but having already run it once this season, I mentally prepared.

Before too long, signs of civilization started to come into view: a camper parked across a river, interpretative signs and people walking in flip-flops.

An audible cheer left my mouth when I spied the mile-38 aid station, signifying the start of the gravel-road portion of the race.

We kept our break to less than 10 minutes, refilling water bottles, snacking, changing socks and giving Zippy a bowl of dog food.

And then it was out to the open road. We faced four miles of flat, followed by four miles of uphill switchbacks and then four miles back down those same switchbacks - to the finish line at the high school in Hope.

We shuffled along the flat. When the uphill hit, my legs met it with surprising umph. As fellow runners slowed to a walk, I kept up a jog. I closed in on and passed another racer.

At the turnaround point, I opened my stride and let loose on the downhill. For the first time, Zippy showed signs of tiredness - trailing 10 feet to 15 feet and looking at me like, "What happened to our nice slow pace?"

But with only a few miles left to go, I knew he could make it.

Zippy and I crossed the finish line to the cheers of a handful of bystanders. We clocked 9 hours and four minutes. I placed third overall and was the first female finisher, and Zippy set the record as the first dog to ever run all 50 miles of the race.

Minutes later, as I sat in a nearby creek, letting icy water rush over my tired legs, a few tears of joy squeezed out from my eyes and a smile extended so far across my face I simply couldn't contain it. Not only did I run 50 miles - I had a hell of a fun time doing it and finished in a time that far exceeded my expectations.

Outside the Ordinary is a periodic outdoor adventure column written by managing editor Amy Schenck. Suggestions for activities to try and write about are always welcome. E-mail your ideas to amy.schenck.@alaskastar.com.