Susitna 100 Race Report

Where to even begin. If you’re wondering what would possess me to sign up for this, I had somehow stumbled upon Shawn’s race report from 2008 and thought this sounded horrific and wondered why anyone would subject themselves to this. Somehow, over time, this feeling morphed into curiosity. So here I am.


If you want to know the ending first, I dropped a couple miles shy of the last checkpoint at mile 84. I intended to hobble to the checkpoint but the offer of a snow machine ride was too appealing. At that point I was about 37 hours into the race. I had a full adventure though and had plenty of fun (and “fun”). To say that Su 100 is a tough foot race is an understatement. It was intense. I’m not one to normally wax poetic about running (or in this case walking) or races, but this, to me, was a full-on experience. Also, it would be difficult to walk through the arctic (or close to it) with a 40 pound sled in negative temps without learning some lessons.

This thing ended up being 40 pounds.  Too heavy for the snow conditions.

 Pre-race


Jill, Beat, Steve and I made quick work of “JRT”ing (fussing and fretting about, organizing, packing, unpacking, deliberating, obsessing like a high-strung Jack Russell Terrier) once we were all together in Anchorage. One of Jill’s friends was kind enough to let us stay at her house while she vacationed in Mexico. The gear-check and pre-race meeting is on Thursday while the race starts Saturday. This is so you have time to make several shopping trips to REI, which we did. We had lots of time, therefore, to “JRT” before the race. We packed our sleds and practiced pulling it up and down the street, which was quite snowy. Anchorage received a significant amount of snow just before the race, which did not bode well for trail conditions. The race director’s predictions were (characteristically apparently) gloomy.

Saturday morning we made our way to Point McKenzie, where we had some breakfast at the General Store. We made it there early but managed to find ourselves scrambling to be at the start on time. It was -10 at the start and we were all in full-on freak out mode. And cold. Cold will characterize much of this race. Very very cold.

Goofy pre-race fun (Jill, Steve, me, Beat)

These fat snow bikes are carayzee.

 Start to Flathorn Lake (22 miles)


I made a quick last second decision to wear my overboots since it was so incredibly cold. However, they have no traction so I put on my micro-spikes. I have only run a few miles or so wearing the spikes in the past. This thought didn’t cross my mind. What was on my mind was how amazingly cold it was. My toes were already so cold they were hurting. My feet were hurting for the first full hour or so of the race. I was fully panicked. Would I even make it 10 miles before getting frostbite? I was also stressed out by the terrible condition of the trail we began the race on alongside this road. It was basically choppy powder and very challenging. My new friend Amy was biking with her husband Dan and was visibly panicked as well. I think everyone was wondering what the %$!# they were doing. Thankfully, we hit better terrain and my feet warmed up. However, my left earbud broke while I was fidgeting with it which made me wonder: could I possibly endure a race this long without tunes? That would be an added challenge. Thankfully, I was able to fashion a fix. The fact that I thought this was even an issue to care about is funny in hindsight. I thought about Ted’s comment once that sometimes it’s so cold that nothing works. This seemed to be about right. Plastic breaks, batteries drain quickly… it was cold. But really, iPods are the least of your worries under those circumstances.

The trail was bad at first for everyone

 We (I was basically with Jill and Beat, unintentionally, for the first 25 or so miles) found ourselves on some rolling (like mogul) trails and some flatter sections through swamp. We were treated to clear skies and it was absolutely beautiful. We saw several dog teams go by (cute and happy sled doggies!). We got the famous “Nome” sign where I snapped some pictures of Jill and Beat that didn’t turn out very well since my camera was also protesting the cold. Fussy electronics.



The first section to Flathorn Lake is the only cut-off that you have to mind. They give you 7 hours to make it, when normally is a piece of cake under normal circumstances but pulling a sled through the snow… well, you have to hustle.

This is what much of the race looked like.  Very pretty and expansive.

 A word about that snow and the trail conditions. The massive dump of snow didn’t make its way to wherever we were, which was good. There was, however, a layer of fresh snow on top of the harder base. Due to the cold, the snow was fluffy and did not want to harden. It was like sand. Further, it had no glide. The skiers were suffering and were not able to get any glide and were slow like us foot people. Pulling my sled felt like pulling a body (not that I’ve ever done that). In Utah, pulling the sled was fairly effortless. This was quite effortful. It was, however, a perfect year for bikes. Go figure.




Much of the race is on frozen river, and it was cool when we plopped onto the Little Su and saw tons of ice-fisherman. There were so many folks out fishing it seemed downright urban. People do lots of winter recreation up there, temperatures be damned. It was really neat when could start seeing Mount Susitna and the expanse of river was a cool place to be. Finally, we made our way to Flathorn Lake, with plenty of time before the cutoff, where we were treated with homemade reindeer sausage jambalaya. We didn’t spend a ton of time at this checkpoint and headed out to the “Dismal Swamp” (which precedes the “Wall of Death.”)

It was too cold for my camera.  A little condensation on the lens...

Glad I didn't have to go to Nome.

Funny spindly trees in one of many swamp crossings

Barbie Doll Corner

Little Susitna River

Checkpoint for 50k runners

Love my buddy Jill!

 Flathorn Lake to Luce’s Lodge (miles 22-41)


I’d studiously read every race report I could find on Susitna and anticipated that the Dismal Swamp would be awful. It was actually quite pretty but a headwind started picking up. After the Dismal Swamp you go down the “Wall of Death” into the very wide Yentna River, which eventually leads to Luce’s lodge.
I should note that none of these places are accessible by road. They are all accessible only by plane or snow machine. The magnitude of this operation was astounding. The stuff that people haul out to these remote roadless places is remarkable. Alaskans are pretty impressive people.


The sunset was beautiful. I love the approach into night during ultras. This was no exception. However, it was getting cold and the wind was getting fiercer. I waited a little too long to stop to get my headlamp and warmer layers out of my sled and got really cold really fast. This would be the main lesson to be learned: in temps this cold you can’t afford to have your mitten off for more than a few seconds. I was wearing fleece gloves under my bomber mitten shells, but the gloves alone were not sufficient in the face of this (reportedly) 20 mph+ wind. What this means is that you really need a way to eat and drink without having to stop or futz around with gear. I don’t remember this section being ridiculously long, but it was ridiculously windy. I thought to myself at one point: “this is by far the worst thing I’ve ever done to myself.”

Sun set night #1

 Somewhere in this stretch I noticed that the spikes were causing me (or at least I blame the spikes) to develop soreness/pain in the front of my ankles (the curve where it meets shin). I reminded myself to take the things off at Luce’s and popped some Advil. I guess the pain was worthy of a stop and glove removal. I had to drink occasional water anyhow. I didn’t drink a lot in this race though. I doubt anyone did.




Just as I approached the giant, brightly lit sign for Luce’s, the wind died down. I was relieved because, in all honesty, that wind was a deal breaker. I promised myself I would moderate the suffering and was fully prepared to bail if it was too horrific. That wind was horrific. Thankfully that was the last of the wind, which I nicknamed something else while I was in it but don’t remember what I thought of it as. Something along the lines of Evil.


Once in Luce’s I ordered some famous spaghetti and meatballs (and buttery garlic bread, yum) and shamelessly gobbled it down. I felt instantly rejuvenated. Beat had bonked and looked despondent and kept remarking that the race was so very hard. “I want my mountains. I like mountain races.” Beat looked pretty awful but that guy is tough as nails so I didn’t really think much of it. Jill looked tired but seemed ok. I was borderline hyper at this point. Maybe it’s because during a race you can inhale carby pasta and bread without guilt. To make things even better, Luce’s had a SAUNA. Ahhhh. It was a place to insta-dry clothes and warm up. Luce’s was a happy place. But I had to leave. So sad. Off I went.


 
Luce’s to Alexander Lake (miles 41-53)
Feeling chipper, I bounced off to Alexander Lake. I ran into Amy and Dan who were on the return route. We chatted for a few seconds and exchanged “great jobs” and I continued on. I’m not sure if it’s because I got so warm at Luce’s but I became proportionately cold at some point. I had stuffed my pockets with frozen Snickers, which were delicious and I never grew tired of, but found it stressful to even retrieve them from my pockets. The trail conditions were pretty terrible to Alexander Lake and when I ran into Beat and Jill again I whined that I was having trouble staying warm. Jill had reminded me before the race that the body needs sugar to stay warm, so I tried my best to keep eating. It was tough and I lost interest in monitoring my calories per hour. I just wanted to keep my fingers and make it to the checkpoint.

I obsessed about how cold I was most of the way to Alexander Lake. I also grew so sleepy I couldn’t stand it. I decided I’d earned a nap at Alexander Lake, particularly since I would arrive several hours ahead of the cutoff. Indeed, upon arrival, I brought my sleeping bag in (which we were required to do anyhow to prove we were carrying our -20 or better rated bag) and crawled in and slept under the table. I snoozed for no more than an hour but somehow squandered a couple+ hours at this checkpoint. I completely changed my baselayers and put on additional layers. I had so many clothes there was no reason to be defeated by cold. Geez.


I set out with the single purpose of returning to the sauna at Luce’s. I’d also gotten good at wrapping my head around the hours of slogging between checkpoints. I counted to a hundred over and over and over. Sometimes the counting was to drown out the self-talk that was so negative it angered me. SHUT UP DANNI YOU ARE SUCH A WHINER! UGH! Counting made it harder to listen to myself. Nah nah nah I can’t hear you 45, 46, 47… hours and hours I did this. I did get mad at myself when I kept thinking I was done at 90. No, there are ten more numbers after 90. Duh. Numbers and counting are my friends. Amazing how I can pass hours counting.

Sunrise the next morning

 Alexander Lake to Luce’s Lodge (miles 53-65)


More counting. More slogging. Slow. I knew it would take me about 4.5-5 hours for this segment, so I watched the time tick by. Eventually I made it. I pulled out my poles which helped quite a bit. It started warming up as the sun made its way out. I had to stop about 9879834 times to remove layers. Slog slog slog. Eventually I hit the Yentna River again where this snow machine race “Iron Dog” was happening. It was scary. Snow machines were zooming by at a gazillion miles per hour. This guy (spectator) rolled up to me on his snow machine and insisted I should get off the “trail” and into the deep snow. I explained that I couldn’t walk in deep snow and didn’t want to posthole. In my mind I was furious since it was our trail too. He reminded me that I wouldn’t be able to walk if I was killed by a snow machine. Willing to take that risk, and so tired I almost cried, I trudged on. I could see the Luce’s sign in the distance and just wanted to get there. Please leave me alone guy. Ugh. Finally I made it to Luce’s.


Luce’s was hopping with snowmachiners there to watch the race. I ordered my spaghetti and meatballs for lunch and begged a spot near the fire to warm up and eat. A group of young women were staring at me as I inhaled my spaghetti. They were even whispering. I decided to pretend they were impressed rather than whispering in disgust at the sight of me eating. I overheard one girl say “you guys stop staring.” They looked away. A little kid was talking to his mom: “how does she keep her feet warm?” Mom responded “I bet she has special socks and see she’s wearing gaiters.” I interrupted “yes I’m wearing waterproof socks and the gaiters help keep snow out.” The gaiters were gratuitous with the SealSkinz socks but when I donned them on my way out of Alexander Lake I wasn’t thinking super clearly.


Filling my water (I wore a “PowderBak” vest under all my layers to keep my water from freezing and kept the hose under my jackets – worked like a charm and never froze) I managed to spill and soak the vest. Luckily, the sauna was still hot and running so I dried it in there which worked like a charm as well.
I made it out of there with this interesting guy Ernest who started the race in jeans and a fur hat but eventually put snow pants on over his jeans. I’m pretty sure I saw him at another race where he wore cutoffs. I recall my friend Erich and I talking about “the guy from Alaska.” He wanted to go together but I wanted solitude. It was beautiful and sunny and I wanted to soak it all in alone. I put in my iPod and headed out. There would only be one more person behind me – a skier tough as nails.


At this point there were three of us slow pokes who were continuing on. I was giddy “knowing” I was going to finish at this point. I mean, only one more long stretch and then a shorter stretch. No problem (she says popping Advil without regard to her kidneys).

See I'm still alive I can prove it by taking a self-portrait

 Luce’s Lodge to Flathorn Lake (miles 65-84)

Woah. I definitely didn’t remember spending this much time on the Yentna River. The whole expanse was snow machined over making for no good footing and nothing but sandy fluff. It sure was beautiful and sunny though. I felt really great and happy. This is awesome I thought to myself. The only annoying thing was the volume of snow machine traffic zipping by. They are so very loud. Also, it was basically the frozen river equivalent of being on Lakeshore Drive in Chicago. If you need to pee you can hardly drop trou right there in front of all the vehicles.



I was listening to music and the sun began to set. It was what would otherwise be an awe-inspiring sunset. The sky turns to red and then purple in a way I’ve never seen. Unbelievable. Except this time I was in a different headspace than the scenery loving Danni of days prior. I knew that dark meant cold and I also became profoundly afraid of the dark. I had my iPod on shuffle and on came Gorecki’s “Symphony of Sorrowful Songs.” I became overwhelmed by the frightful despair of feeling completely alone in the world and in a very scary place. “I feel so alone, I’ve never felt so alone” I thought to myself. Waterworks ensued.



I normally enjoy solitude while out adventuring and never feel “alone” in this world. I don’t think I could have really told you what that meant. I felt for the first time in my life the empty and overwhelming feeling of being “alone.” I knew it was irrational because the skier was still behind me. In fact, I could see her headlamps. Fighting back tears I said to myself “you are not alone! There’s a woman right behind you! Shut up!” I couldn’t help myself. My alone feeling grew into fear. I was crying. There was nothing in particular that I was afraid of – not wolves or moose or whatever. The jeans guy was packing heat in his sled (I’m not joking) in case he came across dangerous animals which seemed a little odd – but no I wasn’t scared of anything in particular and didn’t feel the need for weaponry. I was just terrified by the purple and giant open sky. “I’m so scared and alone” I thought to myself. I was sobbing.

Sun starting to fade -- beautiful light

 “Stop it, you’re having a low point. It’s the second night and you’re having a meltdown. It will get better I promise” I said to myself. The inner dialogue was ridiculous. I couldn’t believe my smarter inner voice. I looked up at the purple sky and the stars were unlike any display I’ve seen in my life. They were, along with the purple sky and amazing landscape, the most ominous and horrifying sky/star/combo I’d ever seen. The sky was menacing. I remember my friend Andrew, who does a lot of these arctic ultras, remarking that seeing the northern lights wasn’t an entirely positive thing when out in an ultra. I had wanted to see northern lights and had been hoping they would be visible but I’m sort of glad they were night this night because they would have been a sign that indeed the world was going to end.

Finally, I’d had enough with my pathetic sobbing and irrational terror. It surely wasn’t helping anything. I turned and headed back a little bit and waited for the skier who wasn’t far behind. “You don’t have to talk to me but can I walk with you?” I asked. “Of course” she said through her face mask. We trudged on together without exchanging a word for a couple hours.

Meltdown over. The river kept going on forever though. I couldn’t believe how long we had to be on this river. I pined for the Dismal Swamp. A race-affiliated “snow machine musher” drove up, remarked that we looked strong and told us we had 8 more miles until the checkpoint. Ugh. That seemed really far. Finally we started chatting and the skier asked me if it was normal to just start crying for no reason. “Um, yeah. I think so.” Apparently she didn’t notice that I was choking back tears when I met up with her.

Sunset -- night #2 -- scary!

 Finally, after an eternity, we reached the Wall of Death to leave the Yentna River. “Yesssss” I thought to myself, doing a mental fist shake. Of course, I had to crawl on all fours to get my sled up the snowy wall. Skier had to take her skis off, carry them AND pull her sled. It was a production. We made it though and I was again giddy. “YAY! Off the eternal bad bad river!” I thanked skier for helping me through what was, in reality, the worst mental breakdown of my life that I can recall. She remarked that the Dismal Swamp would be the one place where she could actually glide and was it ok if she left me. Of course! I’m fine now. And off she went.

For the first time my sled felt *not* like a body and could glide along. I wanted to pick up the pace and run but my front ankle/lower shin problem was quite painful and I realized that I’d been very slowly and very gingerly making bare forward progress over the past 6 hours and that the Advil was no longer doing anything to keep the pain from worsening. Ugh. The meltdown distracted me from the fact that I was incredibly cold and hurting and unable to move very well. I was making 2 mph, if I was lucky. I would reach the next checkpoint 1.5-2 hours before the cutoff at the rate I was going, which was time for a quick snooze. I could still make the finish in 8 hours after the checkpoint. I began to contemplate the reality of 9 or 10 more hours of gingerly slogging in the cold.

I began the cost-benefit analysis and thought about why I was there and what I wanted. What would be the benefits of trudging through, slowly, undoubtedly in last place alone through the night, to the finish? Well, I would have finished. I would get the elusive buckle. I would be proud of myself. I would have achieved what I set out to do.  My friends tracking me would be happy. 

What would be the downside? It would, at best, be fairly painful and slow going. That alone was ok. It wasn’t debilitating pain. I could probably trudge gingerly at 2 mph. However it was going to be very cold. I was going to be very alone (though in hindsight I probably could have stayed with the skier since I don’t think there was much more skiable terrain for her and we were probably moving at the same pace again). If I got too cold I was SOL. There were snow machines checking up on us but only every couple hours or so. That was more than enough time to get into danger. I pondered what was wrong with me and whether I was going to do longer lasting damage to my tendons or muscles or whatever was bothering me. Would my ski season be kaput?

Menacing, right? :p

Most importantly, I pondered: what did I want out of the experience?  Why was I there?  Whatever it was I had most certainly already gotten.  I knew that much.  After Western States I felt sort of dejected and ashamed for dropping and I don’t like that feeling. I didn’t want it again.  But finishing seemed like an arbitrary and cruel (and possibly dangerous) proposition. Even wearing every single layer I had, I had difficulty staying warm. It was going to be cold all night until the bitter end, if I made it. Ugh. I decided to get to the checkpoint, snooze and decide what to do. I figured it was physically possible to finish. But I might become hypothermic. It seemed sort of irresponsible to keep going at the slow speed I was going. I thought skier would be gone from the checkpoint by the time I got there and I would be alone. “I’ll play it by ear.”

Up rolled a snow machine. Without batting an eye I hopped on. My race was over. No more decision to be made.

Too funny -- they took my picture after I passed out

 Vacationing at Flathorn Lake
The volunteers here were unbelievably loving. I went to bed in the warm loft of the cabin and slept until one of the volunteers came in the next morning with hot tea by the fire. When I went down all my gross stuff was hanging to dry by the fire and sat to enjoy the “Russian Tea” (Alaskan Tea I think, made from Tang, lemonade, iced tea and mulling spices I think). Next the kind volunteer brought me coffee and a plate of eggs and biscuits and gravy.  These folks are just kind. 

Peggy and Shady, whose special coat is to keep her from getting so tired she can't walk.  She begs for you to throw a stick and evidently will do this all day and night until she literally can't move.

Erin, Sheri and Peggy, hostesses/volunteers extraordinaire

Getting a ride to the airport

 I ended up being flown back to Anchorage where Steve picked me up.  It made the most sense since Kirk (pilot) and Peggy live in Anchorage and were headed there.  Kirk was a nice guy and was an excellent tour guide.  Our flight was phenomenal and, I hate to say it, I felt like I'd gotten a bonus experience by dropping.  Not your run-of-the-mill dejected sad drop.  This was awesome.  I was happy and having fun.

At the airport

Not a bad view

Being evacuated

So, that's my story.  I'm sure there are lots of things I'm forgetting but as I took the red-eye home I've had little sleep since Friday night.  I will probably do a separate post on my gear and lessons learned about planning and packing your sled (in case someone like me is scouring the web for race reports and information).  I still can't get over how intense, cool and SO MUCH MORE THAN I EXPECTED this experience was.  I will be drinking it in for some time and strongly considering going back...

So far so good

I made it to Alaska and my gear has been weighed and approved.  Without food or my sled, my stuff weighed in at 26.8 pounds, which seems fairly average.  This also doesn't include snowshoes which I anticipate bringing -- the forecast changed from ideal to *not* ideal with lots of fresh snow.  Below is part of the race director's power point.  Hmmm.  Well, if you want you can internet/geo-stalk me (thanks to my friend Dave) you should go here.  It doesn't track me automatically, I have to press a button for it to send a signal so if it doesn't seem to work don't worry about it.  I'll try to send the "ok" message every hour or two or so.  The race starts at 9 a.m. tomorrow.

At the pre-race meeting the optimism was palpable

I'm starting to get nervous.  It will not only be snowier than originally predicted but much colder.  Two things that are not awesome.  The forecast for being able to see northern lights is decent though and if I can see northern lights I will be ecstatic.  No matter what, it will be fun.  I'm already have fun. 

My sled is packed.

I am ready to pull a sled 100 miles in Alaska in February.

Everything on my list is sitting happily in my sled.  I am relieved to have that task completed.  Without any liquid in my sled, which I may not have at any point -- I am bringing an extra insulated container for water and a couple of thermos containers just in case -- my sled weighs in around 26 pounds (with food).  This seems sort of heavy to me, but I think I'm required to have 15 pounds of gear not including food.  I will double check the rules today and think longer and harder about all the stuff I'm bringing.  What really struck me while I was weighing my stuff was how much I now weigh.  Wow, I am super talented at packing on pounds when not paying attention.  I'm the heaviest I've been in many years.  Luckily, my friend and I have declared March "booze-free" month and I'm pretty sure this will go far in, at least, making me feel deprived and self-righteous.  That's what dieting is all about, no?  Anyhow, it's remarkable that not only am I endeavoring to do a hard-core race without conventional "training," I am carrying extra needless weight to boot.  Pretty silly.

My buddy Dave is loaning me his SPOT tracker and I think I will have a way to set it up so I can be tracked during Susitna.  Everyone can look and laugh and say "ha ha ha she is only moving at 2 mph!!!"  Or, "I wonder if she's really cold right now?"  If I get an airplane ride back to wherever the airplanes go that should be pretty neat to watch on the SPOT tracker.  (If you drop you get a plane ride!)

Conditions are presently looking good -- highs in the 20s lows above freezing.  I'm actually pretty excited to test the limits of my mental fortitude.  I think it's going to be a slog to end all slogs and I'm ready for it.  If I've learned anything, it's that no matter how miserable these things are, they seem really fun in hindsight.  So, to make for fun memories I have to trudge onward, one foot in front of the other until I reach some store in Point McKenzie, Alaska.  I really hope to see northern lights and hope to get some good photos.  I definitely plan to keep my fingers and toes.

I'll post more info on the SPOT tracking once Dave teaches me how the SPOT works tonight.

Sad Anniversary

Thirteen years ago today I lost my mom.  What really gets me as the years pass is how young she was.  She was only 49 years old.  That's only 14 years older than I am now.  It's less than a decade older than Ted.  I am randomly grief-stricken still by her absence, though never on any particular day or for any predictable reason.  I think she would really like Montana (in August at least) and would be pleased by the life I'm leading.  I miss her.  She was pretty cool (though she would at times drive me nuts like any self-respecting mother does).  She would read my blog if she were around still.  I wonder though if she would sign up for Facebook.

To visit her necessitates a trip to Daytona, Florida

Hubris In Motion

One online definition of hubris: Excessive pride displayed by a character, at times taking the form of a boastful challenge to the gods or other higher powers--often resulting in harsh punishment.


It seems apt.  Two weeks from tomorrow I fly to Anchorage for the Susitna 100.  I haven't been idle these past months, but I've hardly been training (i.e. running) like I was planning a hundred mile race.  Of course, my last hundred mile finish wasn't exactly the culmination of much training, and this might be further setting the stage for a spectacular fall of Greek-tragedy proportions (in the context of me doing something obscure that no one cares about, so imagine a teeny tiny imperceptible Greek tragedy in which I fall after my boastful challenge to the Gods of Really Cold and Very Far).

I think in no small part I'm most excited by the unknown of whether I will be able to do this.  Normally I have at least some sense of what to expect but in this case, I've still never spent more than 8 hours out in the wintery cold at a time and have never spent a night trudging through snow in the cold darkness.  I've never even been to Alaska.  My preparedness and the seriousness of this adventure are inversely proportional.  (Don't worry though my new -40 bag, which will be with me on my sled, will keep me warm in any conditions and Dave is loaning me his SPOT tracker -- and I don't intend to endanger myself).

Because I am a complete and unabashed geek, I'm already wondering what my race report will look like.  There's a good chance it will involve the word hubris.  Regardless, I'm excited for the adventure and have the sense that I will be glad I went no matter what happens (within reason of course).  This attitude is hubris as well no doubt... yikes.  The question I should be asking I suppose is whether I'm ready for my punishment.