2015 Run on the Sly 50k

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I am familiar with the area around Run on the Sly. I frequented the lake as a child. I camped, hiked, sledded, fished, jibbed, wakeboarded, biked, and drank plenty within its vicinity. When I first heard Fleet Feet set up a race in its region, I shuddered. The August heat? The dust? The rolling hills? I avoided it, even if it held some nostalgic promise.

I did my first 50k, in Oregon, last year, and last year’s run on the Sly was supposed to serve as a bounce-back run. I'd go half marathon or twenty miles, two of the other distances offered.  But the early arrival of my son quashed those plans.

Here's a rundown of my experience this year.

Pre-race:

I just wanted Sly to serve as my annual 50k and help justify a big, eventful summer of training.  I didn’t have any particular goals in mind.  I spoke to Cody (Lemons) at the start line and he seemed confident. I never saw him after the BSB start a few weeks back, so I assumed he had big intentions after a pretty good go at Way Too Cool. I also saw Ian Torrence in the parking lot (thanks to Jon Onate for pointing him out). It was confirmed at the drop bag truck (all Adidas gear, "TORRENCE" on the bag), so I felt a certain contentment that I wouldn't be in some awkward front pack--even if Torrence was running to condition.

I essentially went in with very low expectations, and hoped no hype from fellow runners or noise from my marathon history would invade a nice, long, eventful day on the trails.

First Third (Start - mile 8ish):

No one seemed to push to the front of the line. In fact, when Chad (Worthen) blew the air horn I was immediately out behind Chris Knorzer (whom I didn't know of or about at the time) and Cody in third. I was, as a friend told me I would be, rightly insulted by the uphill start. We crested a right hand turn onto a gravel road, then bent left and onto a fire road along the flume. I'd spent time as a child along the canal, so as I ran I played with the idea of striding by a version of my former self. Chris was already out of sight; no handhelds, no fuel, and doing work.

Cody and I maintained what he called "cruising" past the aid station at Overlook (3.82). I waved to Steven (Shenck) and took a small sip of water, not afraid to briefly stop and not afraid From there, we dropped onto Kurt (Mellick) and Mike (Shubert) and a host of others at Tank Stop. No stopping for any of us who were packing fuel, but I took it as a chance to access my first hour's calories, a Clif Shot of banana, mango, and coconut. I'd never trained with this particular product, but I wanted real food that I could trust as digestible. I knew I would spend the next few hours sipping on Tail Wind (high calorie liquid with electrolyte), then eventually close with some caffeine in the form of a Gu. I thought it worthwhile to begin with something akin to baby food, and the Clif Shot fit the bill. It was the right call. I would certainly advocate for this kind of fuel if you've struggled with some of the other compounds in the past. I didn't even worry about the fact I hadn't trained with it. It felt right, and pace was steady throughout the rollers.

I spent the next chunk of time enjoying the cool shade around the back of the lake. Small pockets remained astonishingly chilly. I felt refreshed, and ran with a bit of intention. My thoughts were determined. I knew the pace could bite me, but I started to push my justification into a motto that would sustain me throughout the morning. It ended up being, "If you can do, and if you can't try." I figured there was no worth in delaying the good running since the end could fall to pieces for any number of reasons beyond a push when I could justify it.

Second Third (mile 8 or so - 19):

I was warmed up. The running felt good and the pace held, and I relished in the fun of what my mind called the "middle miles." We'd also reached some familiar territory for me, and I felt pretty comfortable winding through the back end of the lake. We crossed the footbridge toward the waterfall and swung through the back campground. The distance between Cody and Ian and I grew. The more we twisted around the lower side of the lake, the less I heard and saw them. Before long I passed two spectators who told me that Chris was about 2 minutes ahead.

I didn't see him at the Mormon Emigrant aid station, but then again I wasn't looking for him. I was happy to find familiar FOO faces volunteering their time. Theresa (Lewis) and Mark (Oamek) topped off my bottles and I moved on to find more shade and fire road leading me into the endless turns toward the Evergreen Island aid station (mile 15.41). Nearly there, I caught a glimpse of Chris's red tank moving up the hill ahead of me. I topped off my bottles at the aid station, slugged some electrolyte, and doused my neck. Then I headed off toward Chris, excited to redirect back toward the road and the section of the course that would bring me home.

The trail, climbed gradually, but continued to surprise me. I still moved through a surprising amount of canopy, but the temperature was increasing far quicker now, and the single track, with my new proximity to Chris, was an unsettled cloud of dust.

I worried that the calorie intake--by now ingesting purely liquid fuel in the form of Tail Wind (mandarin) that I hoped would sustain the next two hours--would be compromised by the increased desire to hydrate. The handheld containing water had already become a supplement to cool my head and neck. I knew with Gu on tap and an aid station ahead, though, I probably wouldn't be in a deficit for fuel.

After a final climb I started the downward push back to where Loop 8 trail began and I worked my way back toward the Mormon Emigrant aid station (19.3) and saw the some speedier splits again. This time, the station was bustling with more volunteers and a massive stack of runners competing in races of varying distances. I received a whoop of support and all the fluid stock I needed, and Mark reassured me that Chris had only taken out a minute or so before me. At that point I still didn't care; I just wanted to continue feeling capable.

Final Third: 20-31

More switchbacks greeted me as I climbed from the spillway up to the road and the main entrance to the reservoir campground.

Pushing up from the lakeside to cross the campground road, "cruise mode" became "crash mode," and I mindlessly tripped on a root and went air born into the brush. The hands were mostly shielded by the bottles and straps, but my thigh took a sharp set of scrapes. A 20-mile runner checked on me, and I resumed my climb only slightly embarrassed.

More walking ensued. At 10:45 AM I took my last fuel supplement, a blueberry Gu Roctane with caffeine. I don't favor a particular flavor of Gu, but I have, by chance, used the blueberry in a few good races at later stages. This race stands as the only time I almost vomited at smelling the open package (though tasting it didn't seem to bother me).

I climbed up and down the perpetually winding trail along the campground road. I'd shuffle past a walker or two only to stop and hike while intermittently dousing my head and neck or drinking water and what was left of my electrolyte-diluted calories. At this point I was sure I'd hear Torrence or Cody charging up behind me. I'd given up on Chris, having not seen him since just below the Mormon Emigrant aid station, which seemed like an eternity ago.

At some point, after walking up a small crest, I was able to run steadily without granting myself permission to rest. The familiar smell of campfire and s'mores I recognized earlier hit me again, and I knew my next left would place me back at the Tank Stop aid station. When I arrived, Kurt and Mike told me Chris was barely out ahead, and while I appreciated the support, I had no intention of getting him or even believing they were being honest. I figured it was a supportive move on their part. Once my bottles where loaded again, I started up the dreaded climb toward Overlook.

Surprisingly, the pitch wasn't as tough as I anticipated, nor as unforgiving as the Stagecoach section of trail in Auburn I trained on with my friend Galen (Farris) in preparation for this. But it was hot, and I was tired, and I walked completely runnable stretches. It didn't seem so much a result of an inability to run as much as the hope I'd reduce fatigue for the end of the race.

Not long in the climb I saw Chris moving slowly ahead. He certainly wasn't walking, but I managed to gain on him. The sight seemed to awake my willingness to run. Suddenly I wasn't offering myself the option to walk. Two thirds from the top (I estimate), I slowly eased up next to him and offered him a plug from my handheld. He declined, checked his watch, and confirmed we'd be at Overlook soon enough (roughly 2k, I thought). We ran side by side for a moment or two, but my pace was pushing me ahead, and since we'd essentially passed the serious climbing, I wasn't really in favor of slowing down if my body didn't need it. We faced half-marathon runner traffic--one of whom was my friend Amy (Thoma), who showed me a massive bandage on her elbow that covered a nasty wound. I showed her the number "1," an oddly competitive move for me, and kept pushing.

Heading into Overlook, I waved at Steven again. Fresh from Tank Stop and ready to be done, I had no reason to stop. I turned left and dropped down a gorgeous descent along the road leading to the canal. Evidently Chris stopped for fuel, because I didn't see him coming downhill behind me. I logged a 6:25 split and actually felt pretty good, even though my brain knew I'd given a bit too much a bit too soon. The next two miles are mostly flat, wide, and navigable. I did not take advantage, though, having burned up the fun stuff in the free fall of the previous mile. 7:31 and 8:13 aren't bad splits, but I walked frequently, and I certainly thought I was going to get sacked.

I kept hoping to see the oil and chip road that would lead to the finish, but it never materialized. I was granted some false hope by the sound of the freeway, but that was evidently more a sign of elevation than proximity. I passed a friend Ty (Nikel), and he said I had maybe "6-, 7-, 800 meters left." It didn't seem possible. Yet soon enough, the trail squeezed through a gate and, lo, my feet left the dirt. I crossed a bridge, flew past a resident in a parked Chevy Camero near a sign reading, "It's REALLY All Down Hill From Here!" I finally allowed myself to believe I might be the first to cross.

I made the final left, heard a shorter-distance runner say, "Geez, he's going fast," and let gravity do the rest. The straight shot to the finish was fast and painful and sweet. I heard my name and the distance (though not my place or my time), stopped my watch, threw down my bottles, and put my hands on my knees. Done, brought in by an inexplicable 6:41 mile.