Why Zane Grey 50 is like a conference call

What makes Zane Grey 50 so hard? I still don’t know exactly. But after spending close to 11 hours running it last Saturday, I can confirm that it’s true even if I can’t put my finger on why. I was expecting the trail to be a lot worse, like hands-and-knees scrambling over boulders. But although the trail certainly had plenty of rubble, that alone didn’t seem like enough for people to call this one of the hardest 50s in the country. My guess is that it’s the cumulative effects of the rubble, the steady climbing, the heat, and the altitude – which, in combination, make this race exactly like sitting in an endless conference call at work when you’re hungover. I have never had to fight so hard against the urge to nap.

It took me a lot of miles of thinking and resisting the temptation to curl up to sleep under a cactus to come to that conclusion. In the meantime, I spent my time loving the Mogollon Rim scenery. After enduring the rain of another Portland winter, the Arizona desert is like Disneyland to me (in a good way, if possible). I could feel the mold and algae desiccating off my skin. It is such a treat to have to use sunscreen again! (This was my thinking during the first hour before the sun came up and started incinerating me for the rest of the day).

Another impression from early in the race was the luxurious realization that we were in good hands in terms of course markings. I love trail ultras for a lot of reasons, most of them having to do with adversity. But the one hardship that is just no fun at all is getting lost. It was a privilege not to have to fret about that, thanks to the genius system of yellow flags = this way, blue flags = not that way. I also applaud the aid station volunteers and their offspring. There were some adorable kids sitting by the creek at the second aid station at mile 17 who gave me advice on which rocks to step on to get across! They even told me which rock was the wobbly one! Maybe next year they could supply kids like this for the entire route.

By this point it was still nice and cool, although I could feel the sun starting to bite. My fantastic crew, aka husband Geof (the ruggedly handsome guy with the English accent who helped himself to the pumpkin pie at the aid stations), had everything ready for me so that I could continue my nap fantasies without breaking stride. I left AS 2 still in my tank top, hoping that my skim-milk-colored Oregon skin would survive until mile 33, which would be the next time I would see Geof and could switch to a long- sleeved shirt.

It continued to get hotter. Finally I could enjoy feeling warm enough that I didn’t want to turn the thermostat up, I thought to myself! (worth a shot). The section after AS 2 was mostly pleasant, with a few trees and shady gullies, and then some lovely rolling sections in silky grass to break up the continued gradual ascents and steeper climbs. The steep sections were actually a nice break because I was walking them. I’ve realized that one thing ultrarunning has soured me on is enjoyment of hiking. Growing up in Montana, I used to love backpacking and hiking in the wilderness. That was before I realized how slow and tedious hiking is. HOWEVER, in this race, hiking was becoming nearly as seductive an obsession as sleep, and I saw a few other runners in this section who seemed to have gotten lulled into hiking as well.

Hotter and hotter, climbing and more climbing, skin baking into what will surely be a lobster sunburn, and suddenly I popped out at AS 3, known as Hell’s Gate. One volunteer said, "Welcome to Hell," which made me laugh. There was no crew access at this remote aid station, so I refilled my camelbak and chatted with Justin Lutick, who had come in just ahead of me. He warned me that the 10-mile section to the next aid station was long, hot, and exposed. Yep.

Being from Montana has completely crippled my fashion sensibilities, but one thing I was proudest of in this race was my homemade ear and neck protector, made by safety-pinning a bandana to the bottom of my baseball cap. What I remember from the next section is charging forth in my Laurence of Arabia headgear, with my upper body being blow-torched by the sun while my lower body was flayed by manzanita bushes. This went on for miles. Things I thought about to pass the time: 1) Bad Lip Reading.com, which our awesome Phoenix friends introduced us to. 2) The amazing "Hangover" breakfast sandwich I had the day before at Daily Dose in Phoenix. 3) Beano. As my sister says, "Does it actually work? If so, why doesn’t everybody take it all the time?" 4) My terrified new respect for Arizona—home of Babeu, Arpaio, and bumper stickers that say "Leave me my money and my guns and KEEP YOUR CHANGE." It’s a harsh environment for a kale-muncher from Portlandia.

Deep into these mental pursuits, I was startled to see Joe Grant materialize out of the bushes. He had been lost on Myrtle Ridge for an hour and a half, and had also managed to blow out the top of his shoe. I commiserated with him and shared some water. He said his race was done, which took a little wind out of my sails. Getting lost sucks. I found out later that other people also got lost in this section, and I can totally empathize. I have an uncanny ability to get lost, so it was nice that Justin and I ran together for awhile because he knows the trail and pointed out several possible Bermuda triangle spots as we went.

My sleeping sickness would come and go, and as we started finally getting toward AS 4 at mile 33, I happened to briefly catch up with the two scary-fast leading ladies: Paulette Zillmer and Diana Finkel, who were running close together at that point. I was pretty pleased to drop down into the AS, as my camelbak had run dry 2 miles back. Geof and I did a Three Stooges routine, trying to gather all the stuff my addled brain was asking for: long-sleeved shirt, more endurolytes, dump water on my head, take 2 Tylenol, chug water to make up for running out, replenish my gels, sunscreen on the legs.

I found a lot to enjoy in the next section, even as the all-body fatigue settled in. There were more trees, thus more shade, which was nice. The scary leading ladies had handily dusted me, which left me free to meander along at my own pace. I kept running up the little hills, hiking the steeper ones and rethinking all the mean thoughts I’ve had about hiking. We were warned about this section (from mile 33 to mile 44), as it’s the longest we go without aid, but runner arithmetic was also kicking in: once I get to the next aid station, only seven miles to go, hallelujah. Also, Geof was going to be pacing me from there to the finish so I could have an actual person to talk to and my tired brain could stop thinking about Beano and Mitt Romney.

Justin caught up to me as we approached the aid station and offered great words of encouragement. He called me tough! Could there be any sweeter compliment? Then he breezed past me and left me for dead.

One last, endless seven mile leg to go. Geof was an awesome running partner. He knows exactly what to do: get me started ranting about work so I can take my mind off more pressing matters like pain, fatigue, and heat. He also told me really (really) bad jokes, which made me run as fast as I could at that point (You’ll agree: "I’ve been thinking I’d like to dig up one of these trees and bring it back to Portland to plant in our yard. But I think it would just pine.") Being an accomplished ultrarunner himself, he knows the power of irritation to boost one’s motivation to reach the finish line, which we eventually did, much to my joy. A charming young boy came up and asked me if I wanted a popsicle. (!!) Nothing in the world could have been more sublime in that moment, except maybe opiates.

Things I learned (and relearned) at Zane Grey 50: 1) if your clothing is actually turning white with salt, don’t be stingy with the salt caps, 2) when a song on your iPod makes you weepy it’s time for a gel, 3) Zane Grey may have been a lousy botanist (sage? purple??) but he was a good judge of wild landscapes, and 4) I’m profoundly grateful that there’s a whole community of people out there who are willing to come together to help each other test their limits. Wild country and good people = one great race.

Geof learned some interesting things too. 1) Oreos taste good melted, 2) cheap styrofoam coolers are easily cracked, 3) flooded backseats of rental cars dry quickly in Arizona heat.