At Pacific Crest ’87

Or, how to enjoy a race so much that everyone gets tired of hearing about it.

have told all my friends,

neighbors, and relatives _

this story, and they are © % now bored to death with the & details of my first Pacific Crest Trail 50-mile trail race. Even my long-suffering family gets a glazed look when I tell them again how exciting the race was.

I wasn’t ready for a 50mile race. After running

week. It was very depressing to drop down from 50 miles a week to a mere 36. During the training for the marathon, I had developed exercise-induced asthma. At the Pacific Crest Trail 50, I would be using an inhaler and other medications for the first time in a race. It was probably not the best time to experiment with new drugs, but it was my birthday weekend and this was my first attempt at a 50-miler. I decided I was going to run as far as I could and have as much fun as possible. A two- to three-hour run would be just fine with me. I didn’t need to do the whole thing. Happy birthday to me!

We left my home, in the foothills of San Diego, in a light rain and thick ground fog. When we reached the Laguna Mountains, the air was clear and the stars and the full moon looked like bright cutouts stuck to the dark sky. The morning was cold and windy—in other words, it was a glorious morning! That huge, yellow, full moon was like a Cyclops headlight illuminating the mountains and trails.

The race start was at Cibbets Flats Campground. It was still dark at 4:00 a.m. when we arrived, but the camp was already filled with cars and trailers. | was shy and intimidated by all the experienced, fit, and confident runners milling about in various layers of clothing. Some runners were bundled up in heavy jackets and pants, and others were jogging here and there in shorts and tank tops. What in the world should I wear? There seemed to be no one-outfit-fits-all choice. I scanned the line of runners waiting to use the bathrooms and then scanned the line of runners waiting to get race numbers. While some of the runners ran to generate heat, others sat in their idling cars to keep warm. The scene resembled a county fair that had somehow decided to start way too early, before the sun even arrived.

lended up doing a bit of everything the other runners were doing: putting on and taking off layers of clothing, jogging to stay warm, and spending some time inside the car and out of the cold air.

The lemmings head toward the start

At five minutes to 5:00 a.M., there was movement, and in one of those seemingly spontaneously organized phenomena of ultras, everyone began moving toward the start line at the fence beside the trailhead. The crowd of runners, blowing out frosty breaths and flicking flashlights on and off, was ready. I realized I was apprehensive. I wanted to do well, but at the same time I was trying not to put too much pressure on myself.

Although the full moon was illuminating some of the surroundings and although we had had enough time for our eyes to adjust somewhat to the limited light, we all carried flashlights to show us the way.

Then, as at most ultras, the almost anticlimactic command to go was muttered and we were off, a line of flashlights like fireflies bobbing ahead and behind. I felt my blood rushing and took in the beautiful sight of all the lights. I heard someone comment that this looked like a strange fraternity initiation. To me it looked like jewels weaving and dipping on black velvet.

We would run south to Kitchen Creek Road and then turn around and run back up the mountain to Cibbets Flats Campground, where we had started. The trail is very narrow and rocky, and in many places there are steep drop-offs. I have trouble keeping my eyes on the trail because the moon is lighting up the huge valley that hangs below us off the edge of the trail. I find myself compelled to take in the view, but every time I do, I trip over a rock outcropping and catch myself just in time to keep from pitching forward.

The loop is roughly eight miles. On the return toward the camp, we are entertained by the singing of birds, either roused by our passing or going through their usual early-morning ritual, triggered by the sun sending up rays from behind

the mountaintops to the east. Par for the course, by looking at the sun’s teasing light show, I continue to trip.

None of us is moving very fast at this point. We are in a long line following each other, sometimes running for a bit and then slowing to a walk, all of that determined by the runner in front of us. We are obviously pacing ourselves, and before I realize it, we are back at the parking lot where we started.

It was an opportunity to doff a layer or two of clothing and to refill my fanny pack and water bottles before taking off again up the trail. In a rookie mistake, I drop my gloves off at the car only to realize that it is still cold and my hands are freezing. But not to worry. I can see ahead that we are coming out of the shadows and into the sun.

The runners are now more spread out, and most of them are picking up the pace a bit. I’m trying to control my pace, to keep it as even as possible. The brush is high and the trail twists and turns. I can see two runners in front of me and hear several behind me. Occasionally the trails twist enough that I find myself alone. At this point in the race, I find that comforting, for I can run at whatever speed I wish.

yy of Patricia Halderman

Keeping my pace steady as | make my way through the twists and turns of the trail.

On my own, without aid

The scenery is beautiful on the way north to Burnt Rancheria Campground and the Desert View aid station. This is a 10-mile segment of the course with no aid available. The next aid station, or what I think should be the next aid station, does not appear where I expect it to be. I am out of water when I finally arrive at Desert View and the aid station, which has come to be known as Dale’s Famous Soup Kitchen, for obvious reasons. I knock back a Coke, eat hot chicken soup, and fill up the pack with bananas and cookies. I fill my water bottles to the brim and am on my way. I still feel terrific— onward and upward. But I am proceeding very cautiously, figuring that between my low training mileage and the asthma, I had best go slowly. I walk and run, run and walk. I feel comfortable, and my legs have some spring and feel fresh. The next aid station is located across from the Al Bahr Camp and RV Park at 5,400 feet elevation. It is about six miles from Desert View and Dale’s wonderful soup.

The trail follows the Sunrise Highway. The panoramic views of the Anza Borrego Desert below get me back into my gawking/tripping routine. I am running right on the edge of the mountains, looking straight down into the desert. Awesome! I feed myself every 15 minutes with a Life Saver or a cookie and a sip of water.

Running into aid stations is a high, especially after you’ve been alone ona trail. All the volunteers cheer and act as though seeing me shuffle into their little corner of the course is the high point of their day. At Al Bahr, I fill up with everything I can hold and leave chewing a banana. It is about 10 miles from Burnt Rancheria to the Pioneer Mail Campground (at 5,200 feet altitude). It is then another uphill mile to the huge rock that is the northern turnaround aid station. I can’t believe that I am this far into the race and still feel so good! My crew/friend has given up all thoughts of my dropping out early and driving home before noon. I make the turnaround at 11:30 and beat the cutoff time by a full 30 minutes. What a magnificent view from the giant rock! I can see for miles and miles into the desert. I watch as brightly colored hang gliders sail off the cliff and float to the desert floor. They must be crazy. That’s a scary thing to do. They make me feel nearly sane.

Now it is back to the Al Bahr aid station for more food and drinks. To protect my knees from the downhills on the way back, I put on my knee braces. I’ve been feeling like a horse—or a mule—what with the pack and leg wrappings. I am afraid to ask myself why and how I am still having fun and feeling good. Things are still going well, but I am noticing that on this return trip, the aid stations seem to be placed farther apart than they were on the way out. I shuffle along from Al Bahr to Desert View.

Running in the opposite direction makes everything look different, or is that because I may be getting a little dizzy? At Desert View aid station, the volunteers test each runner’s mental acuity. Each of us is asked, “What is your name?” An

incorrect answer qualifies the runner for a rest stop or a disqualification. It is tempting, for a moment, to forget my own name.

I realize that I am beginning to feel the twinges of being a coward. Iam now facing running and walking 10 miles with no aid stations and no one to help me if I get into trouble. My water bottles are full, and I have my candy and cookies. I guess I’m as prepared as I’ve ever been this far into a race.

Iam sort of eager to run a little faster, but I am alarmed at feeling dizzy. The last few miles were far from roads, and I haven’t seen any other runners lately. Lonely. No other runners. No people. No nothing. I feel a little alone. All right, I admit it: a lot alone. The trail is marked with blue streamers, and I’m tracking those plastic strips with the dedication of a bloodhound on the trail of a lost child.

Things that go bump in the day

It is about this time that I hear the sound of large things moving in the bushes. I shake off the feeling of doom and gloom and concentrate on the soft pine-needle trail. The trail is currently flat, and all Ican see in all directions are pine trees—pine trees everywhere. I see a pole in the distance, and I’m excited—over a telephone pole. My mind must be going. It’s at about this time that I realize that I’m getting very sick of Life Savers and gingersnap cookies. Depressing.

T head into the “largest stand of unbroken chaparral in San Diego County.” I know this to be true. This is not the first time I have been here. I am very excited to see a man out hiking with his dog. I continue trotting down the trail, and when I look around I catch a glimpse of a runner behind me. I am immensely cheered. I then see a runner very far ahead of me. I am elated and happy. I am not the only person left on the planet, like Charlton Heston in The Omega Man! I see before me row after row of mountains, but I can’t remember how far it is to the finish. Help. I run through a streambed and whip around a boulder and I can see the camp below me—way, way below me.

The finish line must be close. I start to pick up my speed. I feel great again. I must remind myself that “fast” and “great” are relative terms at this point in the race, where it just means faster and greater than before.

What a wonderful feeling to charge up and down the hills. When I come around the last hill and see Fred Canyon Road and the Cibbets Flats Campground below me, I know I’m coming home!

The dizziness has disappeared. What dizziness? I run the last mile as fast as my worn-out feet can while tripping over rocks. I keep thinking that I must be near the road that leads down to camp, but it takes a long, long time to get around the mountain. I see it: the prettiest dirt road there ever was stretched out in front of me, and I try to run faster. I am trying desperately to finish under 12 hours. I fly down the road to the finish. Run, old birthday girl!

<4 The April 1987 issue of UltraRun- | ning preserves the events of my first Pacific Crest Trail 50-miler almost 25 years ago.

Ideal Conditions & Strong Field Produce Records at PCT 50

wis oma iar 82. Moward Arnold,$3 22:02:23 . S peeve Zapp 43.42 23:04:40 + Linda Carriger, ‘ 85. Torey Fastisecras Hioeig 8. Barbara Basta.43 2095 87. John Fovers+ 8. kK, Bechtet,4z 89. Dennis Mi, Si 90. Nancy Tinker, 35 9. Fred WeLenaeay 92. Tony Delgado, 29 93. William Martella ,38 94. Melda Dean, 58 95. Yrorne Konsauret.49 %. William feddar.3o~ Dhr46s33 7 Mare Gresnberg,¥ 11185039 98. Bill Dickey, 47 12:00:28 99. Pat Halderman,44 1024 100. Bave Conditait 101. Mike DiPippe, 32 102. Frank Pitts, 65 103. Tony Farinetia.45 104. Leon Ransom, 50 105. Gerry Brotherton 66

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My finish is 12 hours and two minutes. I smile, yell, and throw up my arms as I cross the finish line. Where is my gold medal? Roses? Reporters?

I realize I didn’t win anything in the traditional sense of the word, and I also know that my finishing time is not a world record. But I feel an enormous personal thrill! On some personal level, I’ve won a lot. I feel great. The asthma stayed under control. This race is the most awesome birthday present I could have given myself.

For the next two weeks I bounce around, pinching myself to see whether I really ran 50 miles on mountain trails. I tell everyone I meet about what I’ve done. I even tell people who are waiting in line at the supermarket. I can see in their eyes that they don’t get it. “Who is that woman?” they ask. It’s just me, the birthday girl ultrarunner.

I still have the April 1987 issue of UltraRunning, where anytime I want to I can go to the PCT results and see the list of 123 starters and 105 finishers. I am the last woman out of 14; there are six men listed as finishing behind me.

But here’s the real nub of this story. I decide to go back and run the race the following year. And, hey! I finish in 10:28:59. Who says lightning can’t strike

twice? Mp &