When Nathalie and I decided a few months ago to do a 50km Ultra trail race in Utah, we thought it would be a great last race leading up to the Adventure Racing World Championships in Ecuador. First, the race is about a month before the World Champs, and second, the race takes place from 7,000ft to 10,000ft of elevation. I have never raced at elevation, so I thought this would be a great way to test myself out and see what it feels like. I figured if things didn't go well, at least I was racing on my own and could slow down or stop if necessary. We knew we were really going to be pushing the envelope for the race, flying into Utah less than 12 hours before the race (although one school of thought is that coming in right before a race at altitude is better than a few days before), but neither one of us could afford to take any time off for this race with the 2 weeks of vacation needed for the World Champs.
The morning of the race was chilly, about 3 degrees, and it was still dark at the start of the race. As the start got closer, we got a little worried that maybe we should have brought a headlamp, but it turned out to be just bright enough to run at a comfortable speed at the start and still see the terrain fairly well. The other most immediate worry was that the first 20km+ of the race were pretty much straight uphill! We started at 7,000ft and climbed 3,000ft right off the start to the highest point in the race. So we knew that the first part of the race would be the most crucial.
I started out in about 10th spot, not wanting to lose touch with the leaders right off the start but also not wanting to blow up either. Quite quickly the field spread out, with the first 5 runners sticking together in one pack and the next 5 (including me) forming another pack. On a few switchbacks, I could see that about halfway up the big first climb, we were about 1 minute behind the lead pack and I couldn't see any runners for quite a ways behind us. I had been running at the back of the second pack up to this point, but was starting to feel quite good as my body warmed up and I got a better sense of the pitch of the climb. I decided to pull ahead of the pack I was running in and try to climb at my own pace. Three of the four other runners came with me for a while and that eventually whittled itself down to only one other runner following my pace. He gave me a few words of encouragement, signalling that he was happy that we were able to pull away from the others. I could see the back of the pack in front of us, telling me that we were making up some ground. I was still feeling good despite pushing a little harder... and then disaster struck.
I felt a little tightness in my calves as I pushed a little harder, but figured that they would eventually stretch themselves out. They didn't. Well, I should say, the left calf didn't. In fact, it got way worse, to the point that I had to fully stop as I felt an intense sharp pain with every step on that leg. Unfortunately, and maybe a little bit fortunately as well, I immediately recognized this pain. I had experienced it twice before in long adventure races when we had to do a very long section of sustained climbing. I don't know exactly what it is, but basically it's a very sharp pain at the insertion point between the bottom of the calf muscle and the top of the Achilles tendon. It causes a sharp pain every time my calf stretches, which is basically every step when you are climbing!
I found myself in a very difficult spot at this point - not dangerous but difficult. I could still walk and could manage the pain by basically pretending that my left foot was in a cast so that I couldn't/wouldn't let it stretch when I would take a step. But it was the question of what to do next that was the most difficult one. So I did all of the things I could think of to try and lessen the pain. I tried to stretch the calf, to stretch my IT band, to completely stop for a bit, and to just try to adapt my gait. Nothing really made it better. But I noticed that by adapting my gait (using the "broken foot" technique mentioned above) it stopped the really realy sharp pain from occurring. Also, it seemed to really be the climbing that was the most painful and when I got to a relatively flat piece of trail I could hobble along without the really sharp pains occurring. I decided that I would make my way to the next aid station and then see from there what to do.
As the aid station got closer, the decision I knew I would have to make got tougher and tougher. On the one hand I knew that it's definitely not good to continue to race when experiencing this type of sharp, injury-type pain. It was definitely clear that something was not quite right in my lower leg and I know first-hand the dangers of trying to push through and injury. On the other hand, I was still able to move forward (albeit a fair bit slower than normal) without making the pain worse and I knew that once I got to the top of the climb that it would be a very long downhill afterward before climbing again. Also (and this was probably one of the most important factors in my decision) I had had this exact thing happen twice before, and continued to race (at a hiking pace) with a lot of pain, but no lasting effects after a few days of rest and some stretching. When I finally got to the aid station about 2/3 up the massive first climb, I decided I would take my time but that I would continue in the race, even if only at a walking pace. So I chatted with the volunteers and took my time having some snacks and taking in some electrolytes. To add insult to injury (literally), despite stopping a few times and only walking the rest of the time, only 5 or 6 runners had passed me, meaning the leaders (including me) had managed to gain a considerable lead on most of the field.
I eventually set off again after trying (unsuccessfully) to do a little more stretching. I wasn't in race mode at this point, but I still felt like I wanted to keep trying to move forward. After all, I could walk, so I decided I would at least walk myself off the course at the point where I decided it was too much. So I just focused on moving forward trying to manage the pain and not make it worse. At the risk of sounding like I'm exaggerating, I would say that every step on my left foot was about a 7 out of 10 on a pain scale with any uphills being closer to an 8. I had many many things running through my head, including not wanting to quit the race, being worried about causing more damage, being worried about long-term effects that could impact the World Championships in a month's time, and plenty of other such thoughts. As all of these thoughts filled my head, I was also doing a little bit of "experimenting" with my pain. As an adventure racer, pain is a very common part of most races, so you always have to try and find ways to try and manage the pain, both mentally and physically. So I treated this as an opportunity to practice my pain management techniques. I noticed that as long as I protected my calf from stretching too far, the pain would not get worse. This amounted to running somewhat stiff-legged on my left side. But I was able to jog at an ok pace on the flats and downhills and struggled a bit more on anything that was uphill. So I just tried to pick up the pace a little with the concession that I would focus on not doing anything that would make the pain worse. I'm sure I looked very awkward waddling and hobbling along, but I was happy to be able to keep moving at more that a walking pace.
The next part of the course was mainly downhill, so I really just had to deal with the steady 7/10 pain with each step, which was not easy, but I was fine with it as long as it didn't get worse. I knew there were really only 2 climbs left in the race after the long descent, so I figured I would re-assess again once it was time to start climbing the next uphill section. The toughest part at this point was that I had to stay very focused on every step on my left - any wrong step that would strain my calf would have literally put me to the ground in pain, so I had to really concentrate on protecting the calf on every step. I was quite frustrated at this point, simple because I really felt great other than the calf pain. I was limited by my pain threshold, not by my physical fitness so the race became much more of a mental one than a physical one - but that's not to diminish in any way how difficult the course actually was as well.
I can't remember exactly where on the middle section of the course it happened, but I encountered a mountain biker coming the opposite way on the trail who gave me a big cheer and said "you're doing great - you're in 13th spot!". I really hadn't been thinking about placements or racing since the pain had started on the climb up, but hearing the biker say I was still in 13th spot - despite all of the walking and the stopping - was somewhat perplexing and yet somewhat motivating. If I was about half way through the race, with presumably the toughest section (the first climb) already done and I wasn't losing that many spot even though I was going slower than I wanted to, then maybe I could still finish the race in a respectable time and placing. I really don't know if this line of thinking was a good thing or bad thing, but it's what made me keep going. I stayed with the logic that my hurting calf was "fine" as long as I didn't do anything to make it worse - which would be signaled by worse pain. I know this isn't entirely accurate (you can do more damage even though the pain is not worse), but in cognitively-reduced race mode, that was the logic I went with. I really don't remember much about the second climb - I think I was just in a bubble staying as focused as I could on each step. The second descent was spent anticipating the final climb. I had it in my head that if I can just get up that final climb, I would be able to just "coast" to the finish line.
Around this time, I took a look at my GPS watch, trying to anticipate when I would be starting the final climb. To my dismay, I had only logged just over 30km, meaning I was still a ways away from the last climb. So I just put my head down and plugged away at the trail in front of me. I finally got to the point in the trail where we started to climb again - what a relief... sort of. I was happy to be starting my last uphill, but I was also at the bottom of the uphill and I knew it would not be easy or short or pleasant. The majority of it was an access road leading up the ski hill. Mentally, for me it's much easier to be in single track trails when climbing because I can't see what's very far ahead, so I'm forced to take things bit by bit. But on this access road, I could see it climb and climb and climb, and I could even see a few runners now and then - WAY higher up the mountain than where I was at. So I knew it was just going to be pretty much straight and steady all the way up to the top of the mountain. I moved forward with a recurring pattern of 10-15 metres of awkward jogging, followed by the same distance of hobbling/walking (and repeat!). Wherever the trail got a little steeper I was forced to hike, this time equally from the pain and the physical fatigue. It was around this point that my speed began to once again be dictated by my physical fitness as much as my pain threshold - so I was going about as "fast" as I wanted to go at that point in the race, which in some twisted, weird way was satisfying. To my complete surprise, I actually began to pass people. I could see by the color of people's race bibs that the majority of them were from the 50 mile race, but I also recognized a few of the 50km runners that had passed me earlier in the race after my calf began to hurt.
When I finally got to the top of the last climb there was the final aid station of the race, which was an Octoberfest celebration! There was German music playing and people dressed in traditional "Octoberfest" type clothing. This was actually the same aid station at the top of the second climb as well, but we reached it from a different side of the mountain. I took in the same things that I had at every other station up to that point - a half of a banana, 3 glasses full of electrolyte drink, and a half package of Cliff Shot Blocks electrolyte chews - and off I went. A jolly man dressed in his Octoberfest garb cheered me on, saying "it's all downhill from here to the finish line!". I already knew that, but it still felt good to hear him say it. For some reason, in my mind I was thinking that going about 7 or 8 km downhill to the finish line would be relatively quick and relatively easy compared to the rest of the race... WRONG! It seemed to take forever to get down that mountain and it didn't really feel any easier, despite the fact that I was going downhill. I think I was just getting physically tired of straining to protect my calf on every other step and mentally I was getting worn down as well. The trail was an endless series of switchbacks slowly making its way down the mountain. At one point I lost focus and kicked a rock and did a Superman dive onto the trail in front of me - thankfully I escaped with dirty hands, shorts, and t-shirt as well as a bruise on my thigh, but no major damage. I got up, dusted myself off and continued to make my way down to the finish. Finally I started to hear the music and the announcer at the finish line, which gave me a little more energy to get this race done. I could see far ahead and behind me for most of the last downhill, so I knew there was nobody I could catch, nor anyone that could catch me, so I tried to maintain my pace, with the relief of not having to push too hard.
When I finally crossed the finish line, I experienced a bunch of emotions simultaneously - relief (both mental and physical), satisfaction (that I managed to finish the race when I really didn't think I would be able to), frustration (at feeling so good fitness-wise, but not being able to push), and worry (that maybe I shouldn't have continued in the race). After chugging a few water bottles full of chocolate recovery drink, I immediately made my way to the massage therapy tent to talk to the people there about my calf. He had me lay face down on the table and started to check things out... You know that something's not good when the massage therapist working on you says "holy shit!". He followed up by saying that he couldn't believe the size of the knot in my sore calf. As he checked around further, he basically told me that everything is very tight from my hip flexor downward, and it's what was causing the huge knot/tightness in my lower calf area. He then proceeded to make me laugh/scream (that sound you make when something hurts so much you just want to kick the person who is pressing on the sore spot!) while he tried to work out some of the crap in there. After my pain session, I made my way to the results tent to learn that I had finished 10th overall. How could I not be pleased with that result considering everything that had happened. I was very happy to have just been able to finish the race, let alone to still place fairly well. But the competitor in me immediately started to wonder how well I could have placed had I been able to push all the way through the race...
The race itself and the location are fabulous. I certainly hope to be able to return to this race again to race it properly and to once again take in the amazing landscape.
2 days after the race, my calf is feeling much better - I have been vigilantly icing and stretching, and it seems to be paying off. I feel extremely fortunate to have escaped any serious fallout (at least it appears that way so far) from the race (altitude-wise or injury-wise) and I am happy that the choices I made during the race paid off - I know that I may not always be that lucky...
Some race photos here.
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