Finding Leadville Chapter 6: The 4 AM Shotgun

The blur of the Leadville 100 starting line

I slipped from one dream world to the next. 

In the black of night, up at 10,000 feet altitude, I slept on the edge of waking. A cliffside into the unknown of tomorrow. 

A thick quilt cocooned me, more cotton than my hot-blooded body needed. I rubbed my feet together, grasshopper soothing I picked up from my mother. A swirl of runners melted together around me, a kaleidoscope Nike and Brooks and Solomon shoes, running. What were they doing, where were they going, why wasn’t I moving, too? Looking down, I realized: No shoes of my own.  I was stuck in mud, the black sucking me in place. What was happening? I needed to go, it was time to go, I couldn’t move, I was stuck in the mud…

The alarm on my phone tinkled. It was 2:30 AM. 

My eyes slit open, consciousness registering the sound. Shapes of the motel room slowly formed and slits of streetlight stabbed sharp corners and soft edges.

Race day. 

Chris groaned softly next to me, rolling to the opposite side, his head of curls bouncing as they settled. 

It was the early morning hours of the Leadville 100. My gear was laid out on a table that I could not see in the darkness. The bottles I’d drink from within hours sitting plump in the mini fridge. 

I blinked, prompting the film to shift from my eyes. Five months of training and living at altitude. The mountain storms I got caught in, the people I met, the trails I ventured through, and the meaning – oh, the meaning! – I had made of this whole thing. 

I rose and shuffled toward the  lamp across the room to switch it on. 

Plink. A soft glow. The day had started. 

I began to boil a pot of water for coffee and slipped over to Chris and kissed him on the cheek as he labored to breath. A Midwestern boy, this bout at altitude was already a slight strain for him. My heart surged. On the bedside table, the stack of cards and notes from my family. I took time to hold each paper and reread the Good Lucks and We Love Yous.

The water clicked off, ready. I poured a steaming mugful of instant coffee. 2:50 AM. 

The clothing I laid out the night before somehow found its way onto my body and I filled my race pack with everything I needed: 2 water bottles with liquid fuel. Gels and Glukose packets. Cold water with hydration powder pre-mixed and in the bladder. A small baggie with toilet paper and disposable wipes. Salt chews. My phone and headphones. Rain jacket. The pack fattened with every addition, adding weight, but I’d practiced this. I’d run all summer with a stuffed pack, having what I needed on me miles upon miles on the Colorado trail system. 

Once I’d eaten (a carb and protein packed breakfast bar and a coconut yogurt) and moved through a series of stretching while sipping electrolytes, I hustled out the door with my just-waking, sleepy partner by my side.  We were off to the starting line. 3:35 AM. 

The sky was clear. The air, electric. My skin seemed to shimmer.

“It’s here!” Giddy, I squeezed Chris’s hand as we walked toward the corner of 6th and Harrison, past darkened shops and homes resting before the dawn.

The start line corral was packed with people. Headlamps darted back and forth as their owners swept their heads to see: tie this shoelace, high five or hug that person, tighten up the hydration pack and move the nutrition from this pocket to that one. I kept my light off to save its battery life and lifted my chin upwards. 

The sky was aglitter. It was 3:56 AM. 

Words spoken into a mic from the race director and founders. The encouragement of guts, grit, and determination. A haze of speech. Then, the national anthem. Hats pulled off heads and hands pressed against chests. Keeping my eyes on the sky, I gasped: a shooting star streaked the night, along with “and the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air.” I turned to a man next to me and he silently nodded with a smile. A good omen, I thought. I was going to finish this thing. There was no other answer, no other way, no other outcome. 

Then: a shotgun rose  to the satin sky. In seconds, it charged, bellowing into the wispy morning. It was finally 4:00 AM. 

We began to move. 

I turned to see Chris and my friend Trapper (who would pace me later in the race) beaming at me from the sidelines, "Go get 'em, Barbara!" I swallowed the moment whole. I was on my way. 

The plan was to stay relaxed and easy, settling into a pace I was almost uncomfortable with because of how slow it was. That should have meant about a 12-13 minute pace. But, the buildup of energy from a taper and the thrill of race day meant I started out under 10 minutes per mile for the first few. Every mile alert on my watch brought my coach, Greg, to mind: go easy, girl. Stick to the plan. Greg was a huge help getting me to the start, as were so many others.

Before race week, I met up with a local ultrarunner, Don, for coffee and insight on what to expect. He is an exceptional distance athlete. He lives full time in Fairplay and is the current holder of the 100-mile treadmill world record, as well as an American Champion in the 24-hour race. His demeanor is open and kind, with a natural joyfulness in his voice and body as he talks about running. In that meetup, Don gave me a piece of advice – “wear a buff or handkerchief over your nose and mouth for the first set of miles,” he told me, “You’ll be mid pack and there will be a ton of dirt kicked up on the road leading out of the start line and headed toward Turquoise Lake.” 

Buff pulled over my nose, I relaxed into my stride.

The crunch of footfall and shuffle of clothing layers offered a soft melody to run to. Conversations and laughter wove through the darkness. Another group of runners recognized me from the Life Time Foundation and we shared a brief, high-note exchange. But once the first few miles slipped away, I pulled away from the chatter and tapped into a solemn, steady rhythm. We entered the trail at Turquoise Lake, a singletrack. One bobbing head in front of the other. The moon splashed against the water and the alpine trees parted for our journey. With a careful eye, I watched the ground ahead and the heels of the runner there, side stepping roots and rocks. 

I was doing the thing.

Step at a Time

All I need to do

is take

a single step —

and it usually

turns into two;

before I know it

I’ve stepped into

a way of being

now

mighty

and true:

it no longer feels

scary,

it's just something

I do.

So I'll step 

again

as it turns

into two. 

And I'll be

many more

steps toward

another thing 

mighty

and new.

The author (right) with Chris (center) and Trapper (left) at the start line of the 2023 Leadville 100

"You don’t find Leadville, Leadville finds you."

The words of Ken Chlouber, founder of this race through the clouds. As I moved forward, I considered how this race found me.

I can't say for certain where I first heard about the Leadville 100. As a high school and college runner, I had a faint idea that there was a subculture of runners who'd go for long, unbelievable-at-the-time miles. For someone who was training for the 5k on the trails and the 800 meter on the track by running 25-30 miles per week, I couldn’t fathom 100 miles in a week, let alone over the course of 24+ hours. I'm sure I flipped my hand against the notion, claiming it “crazy,” and moved on. 

2020 changed my thoughts on it all. I was cooped up during lockdown and watching more Netflix than one could ever need. I was antsy and looking for a dream to dream. I spent hours trying to stay informed on the racial and societal injustices that were made glaringly apparent. We lived several blocks away from George Floyd Square and were doing what we could in our immediate neighborhood to feel both safe and actively involved. I fell into YouTube rabbit holes and went for long walks listening to podcasts and new music and audio books.

And in that throb of seeking and too-much-time on my hands, I discovered the ultrarunning universe over a glass of pinot noir.

Sally McRae. Harvey Lewis. Courtney Dauwalter. Hellah. Rich Roll. Dylan Bowman. Killian Jornet. Jim Walmsley. Camille Herron. Clare Gallager. Ann Trason. Devon Yanko. Andy Glaze. Tommy Rivers. I was unearthing name after name, extraordinary human after extraordinary human. So many women who were gritty and determined to run far. And I was smitten.

I made a conscious decision: I was going to become an ultrarunner.

Running has a way of opening doors for me. As a teen and young adult, I developed a sense of belonging and autonomy on my high school and college cross country and track teams. It was a place I could feel important, special, outside the walls of my home. In my twenties, I trained for the marathon distance in places like New York City and Austin and Chicago. Running was an essential part of me.

But, it also was a protective armor.

My favorite kind of run in my twenties was the kind that kept me alone, on fire, and plugged into my headphones as I welcomed the grind. My Strava and other social media pages were a shallow refuge of connection. Little likes from fellow runners was a temporary balm as my brain mistook the dopamine surge as community. But, my body was not safely communing. My body did not quite feel like mine.

The thing we love can become tangled and misshapen, misused and abused, because we actually need something greater, a deeper form of healing. I didn't need running to love me, it couldn't. I needed something more, something vast and deep and rich and visceral. I did not have the words for it at the time, but I felt it. There was a rock in the deepest part of my belly after every run that I got good at ignoring.

But, that rock was a message. My solar plexus, the ganglia of nerves in the pit of the stomach, was alerting the rest of my nervous system to please, pay attention.

That message just became a part of how I felt on the daily. It became my normal. And so, it became easy to ignore. It became easy for me to run: run hard, run fast, run without rest, run myself to the ground. 

In the 5th grade, we were given an assignment to draw our biggest dream for our Big Person Self. I had just watched an older sister finish the Boston Marathon. I had trekked out a few times for run-walks with my dad and I loved playing games like Red Light Green Light, Red Rover, and Capture the Flag. I loved being in motion. So, I drew myself at the finishline of the Boston Marathon, arms in the air, victorious. 

A decade later, I qualified for Boston at the New York City marathon, and then again in Chicago. I was as fast as ever, and fit. And every day, I slammed out workouts on the treadmill during the Minnesota winter.

By the time I toed the line for Boston, I was exhausted. The training burned me out. I was fatigued by the disconnect that I felt to the strong body which I had built over the months. Adult acne spread across my face. Insomnia bloomed. My arms and legs flared with the red splotches tinea, a stress-induced skin fungus. When I was intimate with a partner, all I felt was a hallowed sadness. Food barely interested me. I shut myself away from friendships, easily ignoring texts and calls. I ran a tough race, clocking a personal best time by a minute, but truthfully: I hated almost every step of that marathon. 

But, as I crossed the finish line, I managed to tap my heart for the little kid dreamer inside of me, and whispered, “We did it.” Even in the midst of deep exhaustion, I found an ounce of love toward myself.

When we go searching for a balm, it’s no surprise that it emerges from the woven fabric of several places: the research we do; the people and influences who emerge; the curiosity that builds; the excitement of possibility that buzzes.

In 2020, I was eager for a change, a balm to soothe me. I was looking for something purposeful, something bigger than myself, to hold onto during a time of great strife. I discovered those voices and livelihoods of people who were embodying a life I was curious about in the ultrarunning world. I followed that curiosity into the winding path of the unknown. 

When the mind is primed with curiosity, it’s a lot easier to notice an open door for what it is.

So, when I joined a virtual meeting in 2021 and heard the Life Time Foundation speak about the race and their athletes who raised money as they trained for it – I was ready. This was my way in, this is a nudge from the universe, a door to walk through. In my most recent history, I had survived a bad relationship and the whole of 2020; I'd broken patterns of choosing the wrong men; I had reclaimed my relationship with running as a more balanced one. Yes, I had overcome; but, I had not quite surpassed, healed, embodied the fullness of strength I knew I possessed. I was ready and it was time.

I immediately sent the speaker an email and within a few days we had a call setup to become a Foundation Athlete.

The mission of the Foundation was simple: getting healthy food and movement opportunities for kids across America. It was one of a few organizations that had a fundraising option to get into the race (the others include The Leadville Legacy Foundation and First Descents). Athletes hoping to get a bib entry otherwise went through a lottery system and waited to be selected. I was more than happy to fundraise to ensure my spot on the starting line. 

A plan developed – I set out to volunteer at the 2022 Leadville 100 with the Life Time Foundation and set my sights on running it the following year. Leadville had found me.

I boarded a plane that August, landing in Denver at midnight in the pouring rain.