Western States Race Report 2009
Western States 2009 was not the race I’d hoped for. Once again, I was beaten into submission by this event. And yet, surprisingly, I don’t feel nearly as deflated as I did after my previous attempts. Although I ultimately gave up, it didn’t come without a fight—and I’m proud of that.
In 2006, I had the race in hand, only to mismanage the final miles and end up with a win-that-was-not and a hospital stay. At the time, I couldn’t find a single positive in that experience. In 2007, I made matters worse. I was fit—perhaps even overtrained—but I became sick a couple of weeks before the race and ignored my instincts. I started anyway and dropped just thirty-five miles in. It’s a race I’m not proud of. Then came 2008, when the race was canceled due to wildfires. After a year of preparation and sacrifice, having the event disappear entirely felt like the most devastating blow Western States had dealt me.
Against that backdrop, 2009—while disappointing—felt different. Less demoralizing. More honest.
Leading into race week, I was battling a nasty illness. But by Tuesday and Wednesday, I began to feel surprisingly good. After driving down from Seattle, I loosened up with an out-and-back from No Hands Bridge to Highway 49. The warm air and smooth trail felt like a gift. On Wednesday, I ran easily at Diamond Peak above Lake Tahoe. Thursday brought more of the same—effortless climbing at elevation in Five Lakes Basin. By Friday, I was calm, hydrated, and confident. Lying in bed that night, I imagined crossing the finish line upright, somewhere in the top ten. It felt realistic.
Race day had other ideas.
Aside from following the lead pack down a wrong turn in the first mile, the opening twenty-two miles felt smooth. I drank consistently, ate every half hour, and rolled into Duncan Canyon feeling patient and in control. I knew the field would go out fast, and I believed the race would come back later in the day.
Shortly after leaving Duncan Canyon, my stomach began to turn. By Robinson Flat, I was bent over purging everything I’d taken in—and I didn’t feel better afterward. I walked, tried to reset, but nothing settled. At Dusty Corners, Andrea asked how I was feeling. “Not good,” I said. “I’ve been throwing up.”
I shuffled onward, trying solid food when gels wouldn’t stay down. A burrito went in reluctantly, but it stayed—for a while. At Last Chance, I stepped on the scale expecting a big drop. I was down only a pound. The descent to the Swinging Bridge felt manageable, but the climb up Devil’s Thumb was another story. The heat finally made itself known. Krissy and I tackled the climb together, but it took everything I had just to keep her in sight. By the time I reached the aid station, I was spent—mentally and physically.
The volunteers told me I looked alert. My weight was still stable. That was reassuring. I sat, sipped broth and ginger ale, managed a bit of fruit. My blood pressure was low, especially when standing, but after an hour I decided to move on, aiming at least for Michigan Bluff.
I descended to El Dorado Canyon with Jeff Phillips, reached the river without incident, and even managed a couple of Oreos on the climb out. Then the vomiting returned. Near Michigan Bluff, I ran into my uncle and my pacer, who had come down the trail looking for me. From their expressions, I knew I didn’t look good.
At Michigan Bluff, my weight was unchanged. I went straight to medical. I hadn’t urinated in hours, so they held me until I could rehydrate. When I finally did pee, the color wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. They warned me: if the vomiting continued to Foresthill, I should stop.
I left the aid station with cautious optimism. My legs still felt strong. My stomach, however, had other plans. Within minutes, the cramps returned. I vomited repeatedly on the descent to Volcano Canyon, somehow still running well between episodes. At Bath Road, I met my pacers, Uncle Bill and Dan. Halfway up the climb, the dry heaves began again. Near the top, it all came undone—violently and unmistakably. Watching my uncle silently signal to Dan that this was over told me everything I needed to know.
I walked into Foresthill and weighed in—again, unchanged. I sat, tried broth, gagged. That was enough. After 2006, I wasn’t willing to tempt fate. With reluctance on her part and certainty on mine, the official clipped my yellow band. My 2009 Western States was over.
I didn’t finish. But I fought. And this time, I walked away knowing I made the right decision.
