The 2021 Run Rabbit Run 100
Runners and buckles and bears, oh my
I’m late for the pre-race meeting for the 2021 Run Rabbit Run 100. This is my third go at this race and I’m not paying much attention; just scanning the crowd for friends and thinking about tomorrow. I do not have adequate training or rest or preparation of any kind. I’m here because I signed up almost two years ago to run the 2020 race, which was cancelled. I might have been in shape for that one. Now I’m just hoping experience and maybe sheer will power will get me to the finish line. Then the race director says something I spend the rest of the meeting wondering if I had heard correctly: people over a certain age could start an hour early. At the end I go up to seek confirmation: Really? I can start early and my finish would still be official?
Yes.
Really? Are you sure? Yes, says Fred, “it’s my race and if I say your finish counts, your finish counts.” If I want the extra hour, I should just show up at 7:00.
I agonize over the extra hour. Would that be lame? Is it cheating? Would an over-36-hour run really count as an official finish? But in the end I decide that I’m not in a position to be a purist about this. I need to give myself every possible chance of getting to the finish line, and this would simply give me a better shot at making it past the earlier cut-off times, like the one that did me in on my last attempt at this race. Theoretically, it’d still be possible to run a sub-36-hour time.
So I set my alarm for an hour earlier than I had planned, and in the morning I show up just as the daylight is returning. There are a few people standing around, with no starting line set-up in evidence. The time rolls around, about a dozen of us line up, and someone yells go. Within a few seconds I have bounded out in front and for a moment have the unprecedented experience of being the actual front-runner. ‘I’m winning!” I yell, not because I think I’m going to maintain my lead for the next 100+ miles, but because I know I’m not likely be in the lead of this (or any ) race again. Ever.
I’m in first place for a number of seconds. Then I’m running side-by-side or in alternating order single-file with two other women. We chat as we make our way up the mountain, virtually alone. It’s lovely to have no crowd of runners jockeying for position on the single track.
We are the first runners to arrive at the Mt Werner aid station. Safe to say I have never been among the first runners to any aid station. By the next one — Long Lake — the faster people who started at the regular time have begun to catch up. I’m only around Mile 11, but I’m pleased that it has taken this long. Normally by now I would be somewhere between the middle and the back of the pack, but for now I’m right with the fast people. I grab a cookie and a volunteer announces “you’re our first cookie taker!” I can’t say I ever aspired to being First Cookie Taker, yet I am filled with pride.
I have no illusions about maintaining this position, but I’m happily ahead of my best-case race plan (composed with the regular starting time in mind), and I’m trying to make the best use of my extra hour. I feel surprisingly good. A primary reason for my lack of training this year has been injuries, but everything bio-mechanical seems to be working just fine, so far. My friend Tim blows through the aid station among the front-runners. He tags me on the shoulder as he passes with an encouraging “get it done!” which is a good reminder to get moving.
The next section of the course is the picturesque Fish Creek Falls trail, down a little past the falls and then back up, through Long Lake again and up over the high point of the course. This is the first extended descent and the second huge, prolonged climb of the race. Because this is an out-and-back stretch, I will see virtually every other runner in the race somewhere along here, which gives me a good idea of how many people are already way ahead of me. It’s pretty hot. Towards the bottom I encounter Tim again, now grim-faced, plowing up the trail. As he passes me, in lieu of a greeting or encouragement, he growls “shit’s about to get real.” Less than 20 miles in seems a little early for this realness. So far, though, I feel fine.
Back up through Long Lake and on to the Summit Lake aid station: not quite 30 miles and I’m no longer way ahead of my race plan, but I have plenty of time to get down past Billy’s Rabbit Hole aid station before dark. My last shot at RRR was upended by the 10 miles from Billy’s to Dry Lake, where I had difficulty finding the trail in the dark and got into a very bad head space. I was in or very near last place and totally alone. This time I’m solidly mid-pack: people all around, and well past the confusing part of the trail by sunset. We are on part of the course where we descend never-ending switchbacks — back and forth, back and forth until it becomes infuriating. This is where my 2019 race became an existential crisis.
This year, though, is completely different. So many people are right here with me, talking, laughing, complaining. The time goes faster this way, but I am actually beginning to wish for a little solitude. I’m relieved when the two chatty guys immediately behind me finally ask to get by, and I slow down a little to let them get far enough ahead of me that I will maybe feel like I’m on my own for a bit. I’m not sure why I want this, given how wretched and filled with dread my previous experience in this area was. It occurs to me that I seem to be disappointed that this race, so far, hasn’t really sucked at all.
Just as I’m contemplating this idea, one of the guys who just passed me screams. I suspect that this gentleman would prefer I say he “yelled” or “shouted,” but from my position of relative isolation in the very dark forest some 50 or so feet behind him, what I hear is a literally hair-raising scream, followed by general hubbub: both guys shouting, clapping, banging together their trekking poles, amidst all of which I discerned the word BEAR. I am suddenly very glad not to be out here alone.
I approach slowly, and a few guys behind me catch up, so I am comfortably in the middle of the group. We all make noise. Sure enough, there, on a silvery aspen trunk, is a small black bear, only a few feet off the trail. I have never been this close to a wild bear. This is a baby, though. It’s cute. The original scouts say there are two cubs, and I see a second pair of eyes but not really the other bear. They also say what we all thought the moment we see the adorable babies: mama bear must be very nearby, and she’s not going to like us.
We’ve come to a standstill to confer. Getting past the bears requires proceeding forward on the trail, which brings us briefly even closer to both babies and possibly the unseen mother. The only other option, aside from standing here all night, is retreating back up the switchbacks we have been patiently enduring, but no one even mentions the idea of going back. As we huddle together peering into the darkness — is that a rustle? Did you hear growling? — a lone runner comes chugging up behind us and seems annoyed by the roadblock. “THERE ARE BEARS RIGHT THERE” doesn’t seem to make any impression on him: he pushes past us all and jogs on ahead with no apparent problem. No snarling, no screaming.
Encouraged by this, and sticking together, we begin to inch forward, and then break into a somewhat manic run. No one is attacked. After 50 feet or so I am just beginning to relax when we come to another switchback — a very tight hairpin turn — and suddenly we’re running right back toward the bears, now slightly downhill from them rather than above. Another scream: that guy who pushed past us has discovered (who knew?) that there’s a family of bears next to the trail. He pauses only briefly and continues; we all successfully pass. After staying in the very center of the group and running rather faster than I might have preferred, I slow down and let the others go ahead. The trail, finally, continues in one direction for a considerable distance. Finally we’re far from the bears (those bears, at least) and approaching Dry Lake aid station.
I don’t linger at Dry Lake. I’m just past Mile 44, it’s after 10:00pm, and this aid station was the scene of my total and complete meltdown last time. It feels vaguely cursed. I also just want to keep moving. The course has us passing through Olympian Hall, climbing the “Lane of Pain” up the mountain behind it, looping around up there and coming down and back through. In 2019, after being slowed down by repeated bouts of despair and violent attacks by personal demons, I completed this section about 20 minutes too late and that was the end of my race: cut off at about 65 miles. Hopefully not this time.
Olympian has a different vibe this year: no crew allowed, so it’s just volunteers, pacers and runners, who are exhibiting various degrees of exhaustion and delirium. Some of us are just passed the 50-mile mark; others have knocked out the not-quite-14-mile Emerald Mountain loop and are on their way back to Dry Lake. If nothing else, I am hell-bent on beating the 7:00am inbound cut-off.
I set out up the very steep Lane of Pain. It is, indeed, painful, but the climb is easier than last time. This loop was new to me in 2019, and was the section where I was most confused and saw the highest number of things that weren’t there. This time, though, I don’t see anything surprising — no boats in the trees, no oxen with fangs — and I don’t get the creepy feeling I’m being stalked by evil spirits lurking in the forest. While this is quite a relief, I must admit, it makes this section a little boring.
The descent goes down a different trail. My memory of this trail — confirmed by close examination of the course map — is a nightmare of switchbacks. A mind-boggling number of switchbacks. It feels like you’re never going to get off the mountain. This year I am mentally prepared for this and try to keep my head down and not try to count the turns. For some absurd number of back-and-forths I manage not to think about how frustrating this is, but eventually it starts getting to me. Again? Another one? REALLY? This is relatively easy trail to run but something about the switchbacks makes it torturous. A mental stress test; a dripping faucet — seems like it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but after endless repetition it gets to you. I try to focus on speeding up, not only to beat that cutoff but to get this the fuck over with. I may or may not be screaming profanity at every turn.
Back in Olympian Hall, I feel validated by virtually every runner complaining about the fucking switchbacks. I encounter my friend John. He’s preparing to head out with his pacer, Mandy. It’s great to see a friendly face, and I’m encouraged to be this close to him, because he’s a much better and more experienced ultra-runner than I am. It’s just past 5:00am. I tag team a bit with John and Mandy as we try to get to Dry Lake before sunrise. Arriving a little before them, I am greeted by Shana, John’s girlfriend, who is there waiting to pace him the rest of the way. John’s crew offers a bit of support which is encouraging, as I am here on my own. Dry Lake in the daylight is perfectly pleasant (not cursed, it turns out). The next section of the course is new to me and everything I have heard about it suggests it will be horrible.
But the sun is now up, I feel okay, and I think things are going pretty well.
This new part starts out just a nice, pretty trail. Woodsy, gently rolling. There are a number of other trails around here, though, and the course is not well marked, so I keep backtracking to look for course markers or for reassurance from other runners. It starts to get steep, and after winding around and over hill after hill, I start to feel like I’m way off course. The trail grows increasingly vertical and appears to run right into a huge rock. It turns out this IS the trail. I need to employ my hands, here, and try hard to think of this as climbing rather than crawling. I assume this is just one nasty little obstacle to get over, but the other side reveals more of the same: up, over, down, up, around, up, up, more up. Mostly UP. It’s rocky up here — minimal foliage — so the course markers, such as they are, are either small cairns, ribbons tied to low shrubs or just white marks on the rock. Most of these are not visible from below, so there are many, many places where I have to guess which rock to climb, or stop every time I get to the top of something to scope out the next move.
This is hardly the only problem I’m having. This is brutal. Like, insanely brutal. And endless. I can’t even believe I’m still out here. Fuck. I still occasionally glimpse John or other runners, way up ahead, but for the first sustained period of the race I am largely alone. Maybe off the course, maybe lost, maybe just not going to make it back at all, let alone in time to finish. The ridiculously steep, brutal climbing goes on and on. Even when I am under the impression that I’ve gotten “over” some final hill, I’m wrong. On and on. Brutal. This sucks SO MUCH. I am filled with rage. Seriously considering lying down and crying. This is totally uncalled for. Sadistic. Fuck. WHY? Assholes. If I actually get back alive I am never ever doing this fucking race ever again. NEVER. Fuck.
Very anticlimactically, the trail just kind of merges onto the road and I have a momentary burst of optimism. There is still an unfamiliar stretch from the road back down to Billy’s Rabbit Hole, but I assume this is a straightforward bit and then I will be back on terrain I came the other direction on yesterday. My rage begins to dissipate as I jog down through the meadows, but there is nary a course marker in sight and I soon become disoriented. Shouldn’t Billy’s be just down there? No one to be seen anywhere. I should know by now not to rely on general assumptions about where I am or where I’m supposed to be going, but…no. I don’t.
I backtrack, looking for markers. I go way off into the meadow, looking for clues. I’m stomping stupidly through tall prickly grass when I see another human in the distance, apparently coming along the trail I was on before I decided I was on the wrong trail. She goes right on by and over the hill I didn’t think I should be going over. I make my way back and follow her. Sure enough, this is the course, and Billy’s is right here, full of cheerful people and restorative pickles. I have wasted at least an hour since Dry Lake stupidly wandering off the course. Idiot.
Finally back at the Summit Lake aid station I plunk myself in a chair to change my socks. I’m just past Mile 80 and feeling pretty good about things…until I realize that I’m not much ahead of the time I was here in 2017, when I barely made it to the finish by the final cutoff. This is a rude awakening. My early start and my 13 seconds as the front-runner apparently made me complacent. It has been many, many hours since I was anywhere near the fast people. I forgot that I’m under-trained and unprepared (not mention slow) and will be lucky to finish, extra hour notwithstanding.
It seems to take forever to get back to Long Lake, but I finally pass through there for the third and last time and head for Mt Werner — the last aid station before the finish. Time has begun to warp, and it seems like I’m trudging past the same six trees over and over again, getting nowhere. I keep looking at the time and thinking I’m okay because I’m almost there, but someone has installed a whole new mountain between me and the aid station. I swear this was not here yesterday. And I am not, it turns out, almost there.
I FINALLY see the aid station and work up a bit of a jog, but it is considerably farther away than it appears and I have to take walk breaks. Somehow it is already almost 6:30, meaning I have only 90 minutes to haul my ass down the mountain. It’s only 6.4 miles (supposedly), but I’ve now covered more than 95 miles and the sun is getting low. So no more hiking or jogging: I have to run.
I slowly crank up the pace until I’m actually running. It’s incredibly painful, and I’m starting to panic. Fuck. I can’t see my watch. The sun is gone. Once I’ve turned off the road it becomes impossible to see any course markings. I know that it would be helpful to have light but I’m convinced I can’t spare the maybe 45 seconds it would take to fish a headlamp out of my pack and put it on, so I blunder on in the dark. I am NOT missing this cutoff, but…where the fuck am I? Where the fuck is the course? There’s no one out here and I’m now going as fast as I can even though I’m pretty sure I’ve taken a fatal wrong turn and am running away from town, back into the woods. This is ridiculous.
Of course it is.
A single headlamp appears to be coming towards me, which seems quite wrong. I hear some yelling off to the side and the woman wearing the headlamp responds, confirming that this is an actual person and (probably) not a hallucination. I really have no idea what was said in this exchange, but the headlamp turns around and heads back the way it came, and I have the epiphany that this magical creature is here to lead me out of the darkness. I follow her. The magical creature is damn fast, though, so in spite of now sprinting as fast as I possibly can she is receding into the distance and I’m again just hoping like hell that I’m going the right way and I’m almost there and I’m wrong about what time it is. I am 100 percent focused on not falling down or crashing into something in the dark. I’m convinced I have like 30 seconds until the cutoff.
Amazingly, I emerge into light. People are lining the way, cheering, and I can see the finish line…but first there’s the creek bed. I plunge down into it, trying to navigate the rocks and not fall into the water; there are lights but at this point I’m in full panic, stumbling around trying to figure out where I’m supposed to go. There’s a lot of yelling: people lining both banks of the creek, looking down at me, yelling. And laughing. I’m like a zoo exhibit — a creature in a pit with a loud audience laughing and shouting down at me. Like a dog fight. Or the Roman Coliseum. I’m incredibly confused.
Finally I manage to find the correct way and stagger up the bank, where I again run back and forth like an idiot, stop before I’ve crossed the finish line (more laughing and yelling), then plow across the line and keep going until the race director yells for me to come back for my official race-ending hug. I’m handed a buckle, and a commemorative glass, get a few pats on the back, and then everyone’s attention turns to the next person coming over the line. It turns out there’s a full 15 minutes left before the cutoff. I have officially finished.
I’m in a daze. The epic sprint for the last however-many-minutes has erased everything that came before and I’m just standing here, looking around, waiting to have a thought. It seems to be raining a little. I feel a little wistful: I would have preferred a somewhat more dignified finish. With the very kind assistance of Amanda and Billy, the operators of Billy’s Rabbit Hole who have long since closed up their aid station and come to watch the finish, I make it back to my room. I admire my buckle and finally pick up my phone, happily anticipating congratulatory messages.
There are none. Not. One. There are a few “I hope you’re okay” and a couple of “nice try!” type texts, and some anxious messages from my sister, wondering why I won’t answer the phone. I find that the race website reports my check-ins only through Olympian Hall at around 5 am, and says I dropped from the race at or before Dry Lake. DNF. This is incredibly deflating. On the other hand, there is a message from Tim saying “that shit was the hardest race I’ve ever done,” which I find extremely validating. I call my sister and my son and send out a number of texts reporting that I am alive and well and that I did NOT drop out — dammit — and I DID, in fact, finish. Dammit. Then I shower and pass out.
In the morning I am both happy and proud of myself and disappointed that my finish, while official, was not under 36 hours, was notably inelegant, AND was misreported as a DNF (this took another day or so to correct). While collecting my drop bags I overhear a number of conversations about the difficulty of the course and begin to feel better about my race. Because it was brutal, and I DID IT. There is much commiserating about that especially heinous part between Dry Lake and Billy’s — the part where I swore up and down that I would NEVER DO THIS DAMN RACE EVER AGAIN. Just as I’m thinking this I hear another bit of conversation, in which someone says that women over 50 who finish the race are offered free registration the following year. The race director confirms that this is true. In that moment, I know I’ll be back next year.
