2014 Cactus Rose 100 Recap

Hill Country Hillside, Jeff Lynch Photography.

Rugged.

A word that truly captures the essence of the Texas Hill Country. I feel fairly certain that when one imagines the typical "Texas" landscape, thoughts of rolling, dusty, scrub-covered hills as far as the eye can see crisscrossed by rocky horse trails readily come to mind. The trails outside the small town of Bandera, Texas fit this description to a tee. The first time I recall having heard of the trail races that take place in this remote part of south Texas it was in conversation with a local running friend, an older gentleman who remembered the broken ribs and sore ankles that this trail gave him a few years ago. "Not for me," I thought at the time. I like keeping things intact and, well, not broken, thank you very much.

I can't say exactly what finally prompted me to sign up for the 2014 Cactus Rose 100 Mile Endurance Run. The description on the event's website didn't sound any more appealing than that of my friend: "A nasty rugged trail run. Bonus Points for Blood, Cuts, Scrapes, & Puke." On top of that, from a purely logistical standpoint, the race is not at all close to where I reside. It takes place squarely during the school year and would cause me to miss some important family events going on around that time. I knew my wife and kids (my go-to crew) would not be able to make it down. The race is completely unsupported, with no volunteers at aid stations. Runners are on their own to bring whatever food or supplies they will need. And I wasn't certain I could find pacers who would give up a weekend of their own time and make the trip down there. (Fortunately a couple of good friends did step up and would meet me to pace over the latter stages of the race.) Yet the challenge of the trail appealed to me. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith and trust yourself, taking it, as I would be forced to recall in this race, one step at a time.

Hill Country Landscape, via www.wildtexas.com

I decided to camp at the race site which ended up being both easy and cost-effective. On race day, to say that I awoke in my tent is probably a misstatement because I am not sure I slept much (if at all) the night before. I stumbled out of my tent at around 4am to find everything I had set out the night before covered in a heavy layer of dew as a damp chill had settled over the area. It was as if a steady rain had fallen in the night. I went through my prerace checklist, grabbed a few bites of food, packed up my things, and headed to the start line - known as the "Lodge" - which would also serve as the turnaround point for each loop in the race.

Runners had begun gathering as I was waking up, so by the time I walked over to the start line much of the area was already filled with runners and well-wishers. I took a few moments to double check my gear. At 5am the race director Joe sent us on our way with a quiet countdown and a “go”. With that, my day(s) began.

The Course

Cactus Rose is made up of a 25 mile loop that the 100 milers will complete 4 times. When you complete a loop, you reverse direction.  The first 12 miles or so is relatively flat and runnable, with one short but technical climb (Lucky Peak) at around mile 3. After that, runners can take advantage of flat fire roads, fields, and single track without much technicality for about another 9 miles. It’s an opportunity to either make up some time or go out too hard. The true heart of the course would come over the next 13 miles. It would involve several steep climbs and descents over gnarly, rocky trails covered in various sized loose rocks and sotol plants. Drop bags are set out at aid stations that come at roughly 5 mile intervals, so it was easy to keep the mind focused on the "one aid station at a time" mantra.

The elevation profile. Each subsequent loop reverses direction.

Climbing the hills in this park was unlike anything I had ever done before. I heard someone out on the course describe it as "trying to scramble up and down hills that are covered with marbles." This was very accurate. The rocks underfoot were constantly moving and shifting. It was difficult to get any solid footing on the way up, and then on the way down, the steep descents over loose rocks and scree would send a shower of pebbles down the hillsides with each step. Another feature of the course was the infamous sotol. It covers the trail in several places and there's no way to get around it. The sawtoothed, ribbon leaves would leave tiny cuts all over the arms and legs of passing runners. For my part, however, I never found the sotol to be more than a minor irritation.

Sotol is everywhere...

Loop One (5:49)

Most of my first loop was run in the cool, dark, early morning hours. It was an exercise in surveying the landscape, staying relaxed, and conserving as much energy as I could for the later stages of the race. It was a quiet loop for me as I ran without music, and while I had hoped to meet some other runners with whom I could talk a little bit, that did not happen here. I enjoyed the solitude and the chance to remain in my thoughts for a few hours. Watching the sun rise over the hills as I climbed and descended the many small peaks in the latter half of the loop was truly breathtaking. The howl of coyotes off in the distance reminded me that we runners were connecting to something primitive and ancient – a land that was here long before we were and will remain long after we are gone. It was beautiful in all of its ruggedness. I picked up the pace toward the end of the loop, eager to get back to the Lodge and check an awaiting message from one of my pacers. I finished my first loop comfortably in under 6 hours. I was a little behind schedule, but I felt good and was eager to keep moving.

Loop Two (9:38)

The design of the course sends runners back out on to the second loop in the opposite direction from the first, meaning that we would start our second loop going back over the rough terrain that we just ran at the end of loop one. The confidence I felt back at the Lodge quickly dissipated as I began to work my way up Cairn’s Climb, the hill that I had just so confidently descended several moments before. I could feel the temperature begin to rise as the sun made its way higher into the sky. Fatigue began to creep into my legs and doubt crept into my mind for the first time. The climbs and descents seemed relentless as each step sent showers of rocks skittering down the hillsides around me. Not only could I not run, but even walking and hiking seemed treacherous – a rolled ankle was only a misstep away, and that could happen at any time. As the miles slowly crept by, I could feel the added weight of exhaustion and dehydration weigh me down. The sun was now in full strength in the sky and the heat was stifling. My stomach began to turn and I could not keep food or fluids down. By the time I reached the Three Sisters at mile 33 I had slowed to a crawl. The climb was an exercise in walking to a nearby bush or small tree (which provided some shade), sitting down, collecting myself, getting up, hiking a couple hundred yards, finding some shade, and repeating the process. Several very kind runners stopped and asked if I was alright. My response was a breathless “Sure. Ok, fine, I’ll be going again soon.” They would offer a word of encouragement then press on. I would wait a few moments, then do the same.

When it comes to finding dark places mentally and emotionally out on the trails I sometimes think I have a special gift. I was convinced it was not my day. I was convinced I did not belong here. I was out of my league. I felt over matched by this course and these athletes who made this endeavor seem effortless. When I finally dragged myself into the aid station at mile 35 I had made up my mind to retire for the day. I took off my hydration vest and dropped to the ground. A kind person brought me a cold cloth and some ice water, and all I could offer in return was a whimper.

Self-doubt and self-pity were the only thoughts I could manage. Frustration and disappointment inevitably followed. (I had a PLAN! Plans are supposed to WORK!) And yet here I was, crossed up by the same despair that had plagued me in previous races. I sipped on some sprite to help settle my uneasy stomach. I was able to eat a few orange slices. I found my chair and just sat in the shade. I took in some electrolytes. I managed to get a text off to my wife from someone else’s phone, telling her I was finished and that my pacers do not need to make the trip. And I waited. For over an hour, I sat and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, I managed to pull myself out of my chair and walk around the aid station. I felt better than I had expected – I was not nauseous, so that was a good start – and I began to think about the possibility of not going home empty-handed. I was 15 miles away from the end of the second loop and, at the very least, a 50-mile medal. The remainder of this loop was relatively flat. If I could manage to somehow get back to Lodge and get something out of this day, then I would consider it a monumental success. A few of the nice folks at the aid station commented that I looked “better” (I took that as a huge compliment) which further served to lift my spirits. After giving my situation a moment of thought, I decided to pick up my hydration vest, fill my bottles, and set out again. I cursed under my breath in probably 5 different languages. I donned my hat and walked back out on the trail, determined to get that medal.

How I was sure I would feel if I got that medal!

It wasn’t long before I came across someone who had also recently stumbled out of that aid station. Within a few moments I had caught up to this runner, another Fort Worth guy named Aaron, and we began to talk about our day. Neither one of us was particularly proud of our effort up to that point, but we had eventually come to the same conclusion – walk this loop and get a medal. He was in the 50 mile race so at least he was going to accomplish his goal of finishing his event. We talked as we slowly moved down the trail, swapping stories and biographies. We were joined by a very pleasant Australian lady named Lynne. Listening to her talk in her Aussie accent was like music to our ears. We shared a great conversation. Walking and talking with Aaron and Lynne was very refreshing. He reminded me of the importance of mindfulness, and we committed ourselves to remaining in the moment - not worrying about what had happened earlier in the day or what would await us later. It was something I needed to hear. Night had fallen by the time we made it back around to the Lodge. I had made it 50 miles. But rather than quit now, I felt as if the game was back on. I had found a nutrition combination that seemed to work. My first pacer of the day, Chris, who knew of my struggles earlier in the day, was glad to see me and had no intention of letting me quit now. I was recharged, feeling reasonably confident, and was ready to set off again. I grabbed my headlamp, thanked Aaron profusely, and jogged back out again into the night with Chris.

Loop Three (7:54)

After an uncertain second loop, I was relieved to be in a good place again mentally and physically. I completely trusted my pacer, a seasoned ultrarunner with whom I ran a great last lap at Rocky Raccoon 100 earlier in the year. As we headed out of the Lodge my spirits were high. We immediately began running and kept up a brisk pace over the 12-mile flat section of this loop. Chris kept the conversation going and was careful to help me monitor my nutrition.  I enjoyed feeling the temperatures drop as the night drew on. At the aid stations I would stop and rest for short periods of time. We would check in and I would fish a snack out of a drop bag or have a few sips of Coke. Other than that, our intention was to keep moving, so we did not linger.

We were careful over the gnarly terrain in the later miles of this loop, as the technical climbs and descents in the middle of the night on tired legs became all the more complicated. We were forced to slow down considerably but we still remained positive. A blanket of stars engulfed the sky overhead, and with the exception of our footfalls on the dirt trail, not a sound was to be heard. The occasional headlamp could be seen off in the distance – up on a hill, or down in a valley – but otherwise we were completely alone. I recalled my earlier conversation with Aaron and kept my mind in the present moment. Despite my struggles, I was truly glad to be in this place.

The third loop finished with a quickstep charge back to the Lodge. We passed a few other runners on the way in who also seemed focused and determined. I drew inspiration from them, realizing that at this stage of the game, we’re all in it together. As I made the turnaround, it was time to grab my second pacer, and really get to work.

Loop Four (7:02)

My last loop would be paced by my friend David, an Ironman triathlete whose lack of trail experience was more than compensated for by his athletic ability and sheer enthusiasm. I am not sure how enthusiastic anyone could be after sitting in a cold aid station drinking coffee and hot chicken broth waiting through the night on your runner who is hours behind schedule, but David handled it like a champ. He was ready to go, so with a quick thanks to Chris, we were off.

My goal at this point was to finish in less than 30 hours. I needed a 6 ½ hour last lap to get there. David was going to do his part to help make that happen. I told him about the course and what we faced over the next 12 miles. We were not going to make good time early on, but if we could at least keep moving, there would be longer, more runnable stretches later. I was not looking forward to tackling the hills again but I would handle each one in their own time. “One step at a time”, I would tell myself.

Up and down we went. For the first time all night, an overwhelming drowsiness overcame me. I tried to stay focused on the trail but my heavy eyelids betrayed me. What I wouldn’t have given for some hot coffee! The time was approaching 6am and the sun had just begun to peek over the horizon. David pointed out that some of the hillsides off to the east were beginning to become framed in red. I took this both as good news and bad news – I would surely feel a charge of energy with the approach of daylight, but the sun would also bring the suffocating heat that nearly ended my day so many hours before.

We resolved to get as far as we could as quickly as possible. David scouted ahead for flat sections that we could run. Whenever the opportunity arose, we ran – and knocked out several miles in short order whenever the trail allowed. We would stop and recover when the loose rocks would make an appearance, but otherwise, we pressed on. We actually caught up to my goal time and were starting to build a cushion – it looked like we might hit 6 ½ hours on this loop and finish sub 30!

Victory is MINE!!

Well, not quite. As much as I would like to be able to say I accomplished my goal, that I charged across the finish line in a blaze of glory in under 30 hours with room to spare, unfortunately this didn’t happen. As we passed the 21 mile point in our loop together (mile 96 for me), the morning sun was already high in the sky. I began to succumb to the heat that frustrated me earlier in the day. Our pace slowed, and although David was ready to continue pushing the pace, my legs felt like lead. We could hear the celebrations and music at the finish line but we still had work to do. We hiked the next 3 miles together, which included a hike over “Lucky Peak” – the last significant climb of the day.  It seemed we were making very little progress, but we pressed on, knowing the end was in sight.

Finally, with about a mile to go, we began to jog until at last the finish line came into view. I was elated – to finally be here after 30 hours was a mixture of relief and pure joy. I crossed the line in 30 hours 23 minutes and did not feel one ounce of regret about my time. I received several hugs from volunteers at the finish line, including from my pacer Chris, who had waited around for me to finish. When I was handed my buckle, all I could think of was a line from J.R.R. Tolkein’s “The Fellowship of the Ring”:

“Is it not a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing? So small a thing!”

And yet this small thing meant the world to me at that moment. I found a chair in the shade with my friends and sat down, taking it all in. Chris brought me a hamburger from the food truck. I took a deep breath, had a good look around, and enjoyed the moment. Soon other runners would cross the finish line, and I was grateful to be there to share in their joy as well. And thus my day and my trip to Bandera drew to a close. With my buckle in my hand and gratefulness on my heart I set off to prepare for the trip back home.