Finding Leadville Chapter 15: Crushing It

Running outbound into Twin Lakes; Trapper, the pacer, in the background cheering the author on

Twin Lakes Aid Station Outbound

Approx 9200 ft altitude

I was crying, “You guys are amazing, I am so happy to see you!”

Chris knelt in front me, my right foot in one hand and a pocket knife in the other, gently stabbing at a blister on my toe. My eyes filled. I was overwhelmed. Next to him stood Cindi, guiding me to choose between the sugary, savory, or hydrating options on the table beside us. Hallie was all smiles behind them, taking a photo with an intense I’m-so-proud-of-you smile. Trapper stood at attention at the front of the tent, already gearing up for his pacing duties in many an hour and Don, in his element, was cross armed beside him. I was at mile 38, about to head into my climb up Hope Pass to over 12,000 feet, and I was in a pink cloud of achy ultrarunning joy. 

Moments ago, I was zigzagging my way down mini Mt Elbert. The gravel and stones and dirt of the Jeep road made it a potentially treacherous downhill. My quads were beginning to sing and I could tell my feet were beginning to get beat up. The water bladder in my pack was near empty and the two bottles of Skratch in the front were clogged and impossible for me to drink. I was hot – the sun danced up into the sky and without any cloud or rain reprieve, the ultrarunners marched on beneath her. 

As I got to the bottom of the road, about to make the turn up into the trees that would spit me into the tiny town of Twin Lakes, Trapper appeared. A hug smile hung above his recognizable purple shirt and playfully strong running stride. I teared up immediately when I noticed him. 

“There you are champ!” He called out to me in my elation, “Just up and over this hill, we’re all waiting for you on the other side!”

This hill happens to be a short steep climb into an even steeper drop into the Twin Lakes aid station. The last several miles, running above the area, I could see cars and tiny humans preparing for all us runners.  I knew this moment was arriving but nothing could prepare me for the outpouring of love I was about to receive. 

Dropping down the craggy hill, poles in hand and taking tender, careful steps, I didn’t dare yet look up. But a huge smile was already making it’s way across my face and my body began to experience a new lightness. I heard my name. I looked up and out toward the blow up arches of the aid station and into the roar of joyful humanity. And there were my people: Hallie, who had flown in from Minnesota for a mere 24 hours just to watch me at this aid station, and Cindi, who had dedicated her Leadville experience to crewing me after she pulled her name out of the race due to an injury.

Cindi held a piece of paper with my name on it. As we jogged through the town toward the tent my crew set up, I was met with cheers and shouts. Don, my ultrarunning buddy from Fairplay, showed up in a bright Hawaiian button down and as he fell into stride beside me, exclaimed, “You’re doing amazing!”

Twin Lakes aid station. I was inside of the experience after witnessing it the year before. Support in the form of rally cries and cheerful shouts, colorful flags and camping chairs of every shape and shade for the bottoms of humans there for each runner passing through. It is the place I want to go to inside of myself when I want to remind my body: this is joy. You are worthy. It’s all been here, waiting for you. 

And there is Little Barbara, laughing and laughing, rowdy and wild, shirt off and running through the yard with her siblings, with all the freedom and autonomy in the universe.

This is how healing can happen. In those incredible and real moments of our adulthood, we invite our younger selves to come along to play, with all the unconditional love we can offer. And when we can do that, I think we can heal those wounded younger parts of ourselves. 

When it was time, I got up from the camping chair. 

I strapped on my hydration vest and with fresh socks on my blistered feet, I grabbed my trekking poles and looked up and out toward Hope Pass, the ascent and descent that would take me to the 50 mile turnaround. One of the most challenging sections was upon me. Up to 12,000 feet and over to the halfway point turnaround at Winfield. Then back up and over, once again, to this very place.  

There were five smiling, proud faces all beaming my way, mightier than any sun beam on that mountain running day. They were sending me on my way, knowingly hopeful that I would crest the pass and return to them, ready to take on the night miles with my pacer, Trapper. 

“Do your thing! Crush it,” Don called out and I raised my poles high into the air with one hand and trotted off with an avocado wrap ready to go in the other. I had done this section as a training run twice over the summer. I thought I knew what to expect.

Cindi assisting the author at Twin Lakes

Once I left the cheer and support of Twin Lakes at Mile 38, it was time for the Creek Crossing and then up to the top of Hope Pass. Cindi had slapped an avocado and mayo wrap in my hand, my request at the day’s start for that moment. As my power walk turned into a run, I attempted to nibble the food. My mouth and mind and body all hated that idea. Instead of shoving the calories in, I dropped the wrap to the ground. I remember thinking I was going to regret that. (Spoiler: I did.)

Arriving at the creek, my hands gripped onto the rope as icy water lapped at my calves. With wet shoes, it was time to trudge up a mountain. Poles in hand and hope in my belly, I climbed. The sun sweltered with no reprieve from the heat. As I moved closer to the sun, my legs quivered, and I realized that the heat and rising altitude was getting to me. I focused on increasing my electrolyte consumption and eating what I could from my pack. 

This trek to what is called Hopelessness Aid Station at the top of the Pass was, in my mind, one I could tackle. I had done double Hope Pass training runs this summer. I felt ready for all 20 plus miles. But the distance already under my legs mixed with the lack of calories in me meant it was slow going. Very slow, molasses kind of going. I didn’t have to go fast. I just had to go.

I remembered for a moment the llamas. In order to get the aid station set up ahead of the runners, volunteers lug up all the necessary supplies using the foot power of these animals. I smiled for a moment as I leaned against my poles, taking a quick breather as my legs quaked from the climb. 

Llamas. I get to see llamas. 

Around another bend, I came across a runner flopped on the ground, his back pressed against a log, face pale. I stopped, asking him if he was okay. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

I asked if he was drinking water. When I learned he was cramping up, I pulled out a couple salt tabs from my pack, “Take these.” He looked at my palm for a few seconds, not bothering to reach out for my extended gift. A beat passed, no one saying anything. 

“Take one,” I urged, “It might help.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” he took them from my outstretched hand, “I’m good, really.”

I’ve been there, I thought. Just in need of a damn breather. I understood. Satisfied that he was going to be okay, I continued.  

Mere minutes later, without warning, The Urge struck. Runners know exactly what I mean here. 

I had to poop. 

And it had to happen right now. 

A soft whine escaped my lips as my eyes darted behind me first and then off into the woods. I had to find a spot and it needed to happen as soon as humanly possible. 

Fortunately, I was ready for this moment. When I first arrived in Colorado, I had been out on a 20-mile training run on a road, an out and back situation. On the way back, The Urge struck and struck hard. In my pack, along with my water, salt tabs, gels, and cell phone, was a little plastic baggie. That baggie was my Poo Bag. It held toilet paper, single packed wet wipes, and an extra plastic bag. I found that this was a must have in my pack at all times. That 20-mile run was the first time this mostly-city runner had to use a Poo Bag for The Urge. 

Meanwhile, at 11,500 feet in the sky, I pulled over behind a nearby tree several feet off the trail. It was the only passable place within reason I could squat comfortably. I found a stick and dug a quick hole, got my Poo Bag ready. As soon as I began to relieve myself, the very runner I helped moments ago came trekking up the trail. I was mid-release. We locked eyes. Whatever he might have felt during our exchange before was no match for this. I burned red, my eyes flying away from his. He scuttled away quickly without uttering a word (thank god) and somehow found the energy to quicken his pace even more up the inclined path.  

“Oh well,” I murmured to myself, “Gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

I did my thing and scraped loose dirt to bury my handiwork. I picked up my poles, looked up at the treetops, and laughed at the absurdity. We can become such animals in ultra running, returning to our most basic form of nature. I don’t have a whole lot of experience with that as many of my ultra running friends do. I loved it. I felt a million times better than when I first pulled off the trail and had renewed energy to take on the last half mile or so, “Let’s go, B!” I whispered into the alpine breeze. 

I arrived at Hopelessness with a mighty thirst for Coca Cola. The entire climb, red cans had consumed much of my thoughts. Sweet, black, cold soda. Dopamine released with every thought of it. I was shaking with desire to get my drug. I slumped into one of the empty chairs and a volunteer swooped over.

“What do you need? We have mashed potatoes and water and watermelon…”

I interrupted him, “Coke,” I gasped, “Just coke.”

He scrunched his nose, “No coke up here, love. Can I get you some gatorade? Mashed potatoes?”

I wanted to cry. My mind had created a glorious story that once I got to Hopelessness, once I was surrounded by the llamas, I could drink the magical elixir. 

“Potatoes, please,” I managed to squeak. 

He nodded kindly and headed toward the tent. “And something cold,” I added with a pitiful gasp.

Believe it or not, a person can feel dejected at the top of a mountain on a beautiful day surrounded by happy people, a fire crackling, and llamas munching grass nearby. 

Leaving this aid station, the runner is not done climbing. One can see the summit but there is a whole section of switchbacks to navigate upwards before arriving. The prayer poles beckoned up there, the flags whipping in the wind, taunting me of the push I had no choice but to make. 

When I finally crested Hope Pass, I first thought, Wow. Although I had climbed up here a few times over the summer, this felt different. I was more alive. But I was also much more tired. I was amazed at my journey thus far and I took in the rapture of Twin Lakes and the wild mountainsides surrounding me. In a few seconds though, another thought hit: I have no idea how I’m going to turn around at 50 miles and do this all again. I just can’t even think of that. 

But, I didn’t have to know. All I had to do was just move. Move forward and keep my body in motion. It was useless to feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t want to get lost in the weeds of my junked up mind. Just. Move. Forward.

I velcro-ed onto my favorite mantra: “Little by little — a little becomes a lot.” The steepest part of the mountain was just ahead of me. I had to trek down it as best I could knowing that I must go up it again. And soon. “Little by little, a little becomes a lot,” I repeated to myself.

That meant nutrition - bites. Hydration— sips. Movement —steps. Mindset — thoughts.

It is one thing to reach the summit of Hope Pass the first time. It is a whole other thing to power down it to the 50 mile turnaround, then deliberately turn to charge back up and over it again. It was the task at hand. A few runners passed me. I passed a few more. Exchanging few words, we encouraged each other. We were doing the thing. We were on our way. 

“Let’s just keep going,” someone laughed at me as we fell into step together, “It’s really all we can do. It’s what we came here for, ain’t it?”

Yes, it is, I thought. We just have to keep moving forward.

Before the creek crossing on the way to Hope Pass

The view from the top of Hope Pass

The author at the top of Hope Pass during a summer training run

Note from the Trail

My feet carried me here:

a long, loping trail

snaking its way upward

heartbeat of a mountain.

My feet hear the cyclist

long before my eyes spot him.

Together we breath heat

as his wheels scrape and slide by,

me leaping the to the trail's edge

to steady myself on an aspen. 

Leaves dance with alpine wind,

the shake of schoolyard games.

I am flung through time

to my ten year old body:

Clink of ice in sweet lemonade

on a splintered wood deck

cloudless sky, sunburned back,

living to play outside. 

In the church of forest

a steady hum of sound now:

swarms of bug music

gasps of whispered wind in bramble 

kettle corn pops of insects. 

I begin to move with Earth

our breathing chests

and steady heartbeats in

the ribcage of a mountain trail.

My feet carried me here. 

I know:

I'll get to where I’m going.