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.
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| This thing ended up being 40 pounds. Too heavy for the snow conditions. |
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.
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| Goofy pre-race fun (Jill, Steve, me, Beat) |
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| These fat snow bikes are carayzee. |
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.
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| The trail was bad at first for everyone |
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.
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| This is what much of the race looked like. Very pretty and expansive. |
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.”)
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| It was too cold for my camera. A little condensation on the lens... |
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| Glad I didn't have to go to Nome. |
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| Funny spindly trees in one of many swamp crossings |
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| Barbie Doll Corner |
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| Little Susitna River |
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| Checkpoint for 50k runners |
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| Love my buddy Jill! |
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.”
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| Sun set night #1 |
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.
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| Sunrise the next morning |
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).
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| See I'm still alive I can prove it by taking a self-portrait |
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.
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| Sun starting to fade -- beautiful light |
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.
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| Sunset -- night #2 -- scary! |
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?
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| Menacing, right? :p |
Up rolled a snow machine. Without batting an eye I hopped on. My race was over. No more decision to be made.
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| Too funny -- they took my picture after I passed out |
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.
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| 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. |
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| Erin, Sheri and Peggy, hostesses/volunteers extraordinaire |
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| Getting a ride to the airport |
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| At the airport |
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| Not a bad view |
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| Being evacuated |
44 comments:
You are amazing. Truly, amazing. I can see how the wide open sky would be scary --settlers out here on the Great Plains went crazy with the open space and relentless wind.
As usual, beautiful photos and a good story. Nice job, Danni.
j.
I love that your sled had a pretty cover.
This sounds crazy, intense and amazing! I'm glad you survived.
Wow, Riveting. Cant help but wish I could of went. You did a phenomenal job and actually never looked tired in your photos like Jill and Beat.
Thanks for sharing, Danni. What an amazing adventure!
awesome, danni--i don't know you, but i've had 2 attempts at susitna while i lived there and they have been the most profound... i, too, have sobbed my way through stretches of ultras... (low blood glucose)... and have been afraid of a 2nd night at 1.5mph. congratulations on your amazing experience and having the guts to get out there and just be. YOU ROCK! peggy and crew also get my vote for most amazing checkpoint people ever! :)
way to go, Danni!!!!!
oops, meant to sign that... kristin (now in Oregon)
I watched the weather conditions and crossed fingers and toes, hoping that the trail would treat you kindly and return you with YOUR fingers and toes intact.
Well done, Danni. I'm sorry I couldn't be there in-person to cheer you on. Major props for making a good call and finishing the race when you needed to.
Thanks for sharing the photos and race report.
I heart you and I'm so proud of your accomplishment. I'm going to tell everyone I know that my friend Danni just did this very bad arse thing. Now recover, alright?
I love you! You are so strong, Danni, and I feel so blessed to have you as a friend and inspiration! Not that I ever want to do this race :p
You had Gorecki on you ipod???? I thought I was the only person who ever listens to stuff like that when running/training.
Oh, and about the race. Well, if I ever, ever complain about any conditions or being tired, I will need to reread this post. You are one strong and totally amazing woman. I am so glad you did not freeze there.
Holy crap. Woman, I have no words.
You're amazing. I have nothing else to say :)
A truly Danni-esque Race Report. Loved it. You must have pumped it out in record time, it reads like one gigantic exhalation of energy and breath. So proud of you! Now, go get some sleep.
Danni,
What a wonderfully down-to-earth (read: strong dose of reality) and yet emotional report. Thank you for sharing. Now I've cried twice this week! ...both times from loneliness (and I'm not even alone yet!) - watching 127 Hours earlier this week, and now reading your report. For some reason, I was quite touched by your asking if you could just walk with that skier; I guess I could just feel that need to be near someone, anyone. I am so happy for you, that you got everything you needed out of this "race." And you got to ride in a bush plane? No fair! ;-) That sounds like too much fun.
p.s. Tony is reading your report now and was just commenting about you counting to 100 and how he could never do that! OMG - I do that too! Doesn't everyone?
p.p.s. Thanks for the cameo/mention :-)
Wow Danni! You're amazeballs! I mean, running without pulling a sled in non-freezing weather is hard enough; I am so in awe what you've accomplished!
You're probably already thinking about next years race?!!?!?
Wow, Danni. I'm too sleep-deprived and shell-shocked to even write a lucid comment right now, let alone a full race report. I just wanted to say that it was super awesome to share this adventure with you. Seeing how upbeat and excited you were at Luce's really boosted my spirits when Beat was completely bonked and I had just had the humble experience of freezing my hands and a very cold trip up the river. Flathorn Lake has always been my favorite "checkpoint" of any race I've ever done, and I'm also super jealous you got to spend so much time there.
You were amazing and awesome. Now imagine what you can do if you actually specifically train for the Susitna 100. :-) Just kidding. You had a fun winter and a great race. I really can't think of a better way to do it.
I admire you for having the balls to try it, but being as unprepared as you were, but what you did was reckless, I hope you realize that. How about a little training next time (and a few more layers)?
Now now...don't shake your head at me, you know you'll probably be nuts enough to do it again. :)
..... go take a hot bath and thaw out.
Karen,
I disagree that Danni was unprepared. I shook my head as much as anyone when she spent nearly every weekend skiing (though really, who can blame her?) At the same time, she has a deep endurance base and a ton of mental fortitude, which, along with a well-packed sled, is what's really important in a race like the Sustina 100. Specific training will boost performance, but planning and preparation is what makes the difference in the safety margin of the Susitna 100. Danni couldn't have anticipated exactly what clothing she needed for a 40 below windchill, because really, how many times do most of us have a chance to even encounter those conditions to test all of our gear? That's why this race requires a sleeping bag and bivy set up, which is there to serve as a last (and effective) resort if you really get yourself into trouble.
Anyway, I was there, and she was absolutely amazing. It is difficult for those who have never participated in a race like this to really understand. The margin of error is amazingly thin, and small mistakes happen. Getting through them is what matters.
Jill, I'm not saying she wasn't amazing for what tools she had. While I don't have experience with 100 mile races, I do have experience with the unforgiving nature of Alaskan winters. It takes 5 minutes to get frostbite on unprotected skin at -40F. Sitting inactive for just an hour at that temp cools the body off to shivers within about 20 minutes, longer while in the sleeping bag. Just bivy and wait for a rescue? It would probably be awhile before someone came along. What I think is reckless is having the assumption that someone will come to the rescue.
I agree, most people don't know what or how to dress for what -40 feels like, but maybe this race should require people to qualify with the 50K first so there aren't as many DNF as there usually are for this race. The White Mtns 100, for example had what? two people scratch? compared to Susitna with nearly 30? That's a lot of snow machine trips out. White Mtns is about 95% Alaskan, and I think that makes all the difference.
So Danni, if my comment was offensive, I'm sorry. It is just really scary to hear that you got so cold so soon into the race, knowing that you'd have many many more miles to go. Bad things can happen. I immediately thought of Hans Gatt, whom fell into chest deep overflow on the Yukon Quest this year and even though he was rescued quickly, suffered 2nd degree frostbite. I'm just glad things turned out for the best. :) Did I mention that you did awesome? I don't think I'll ever have the guts to try a winter ultra, you are awesome for that! :)
Sorry for the double post. I'll delete the first one. :S
Danni, you are my hero!! What an amazing race report. Thanks for sharing your experience.
Mary Beth (Ruth's sister, aka: Florida flatlander and cold weather wimp extraordinaire)
Great report on your adventure Danni. You are awesome! There are probably hundreds more stories swimming around in your head from your time on the "trail" - thanks for sharing and have a great rest period!!!!
Danni, I promise I'll read it much more carefully. This required some serious "into it". I will also read the comments (seems this could be interesting). In a meantime, just scanning over, and seeing the pictures, and trying to imagine what it was like (and not being able to) - you are a super star. For even dreaming of it. For even trying to go for it. For even believing in yourself enough to make that step. I am thrilld for you. For the adventure, for the experiences, for the guts, for the friends. For something that many - most - will never have a clue about. Congrats.
Karen, I am not offended at all, though I think I made a pretty conscious effort to not be reckless. In fact, the reason I dropped was because it seemed reckless to head out and just see whether I would make it and hope for rescue if I didn't. At no time during the race did I allow myself to get into a seriously dangerous situation, which is what I promised myself I would do from the outset. I could have been during the last section if I pressed on, so I didn't. It was a sucky decision to make but the adult one. I guess it's all a question of where the line was for reckless v. not-reckless.
I had a ton of gear and clothes - I was wearing 2 baselayers, a fleece, two synthetic puffies, a Gore-Tex shell, a down puffie, 3 pairs of pants, waterproof socks and two hats and a balaclava. My problem wasn't layers. My problem was my speed (or lack thereof).
I did not train specifically, which could have made a difference (I'm not really sure it would have). That was reckless for sure, but I don't think it was at all the lack of training that did me in. It was a small thing unfortunately (the shin pain) but the good thing is I believe I would have otherwise had a pretty good race + finish. I actually felt quite good and am not otherwise sore.
One could argue the entire thing is reckless. I'm not sure whether I would disagree or not. The question of what is reasonable v. not reasonable in ultra endurance racing (and other adventure sports and activities) is a good one. Where is the line? There are so many things about sports like this that are not only reckless but selfish. To me it's a matter of degree but everyone has a different "line" so to speak.
Anyhow, like I said I'm not the slightest bit offended. But I do believe I made a conscious effort to mitigate any recklessness.
What an incredible adventure! You did great and it was good you knew when to stop. Wish I had the nerve for this.
Really awesome Danni. And to experience existential crisis to boot! I was spellbound by your account and crying along with you. I'm glad you had such a rich and moving experience, but especially happy you got through it alive and well!
Cynthia
Danni, Your craziness is inspiring. It actually sounds super awesome - except for being on the snowmobile race course! Perhaps the Little Su is in my future. Thank-you for your detailed description of the mental fight. I totally get that.
Well, dammit. You know I can't resist weighing in on things that are none of my damn business. However. As the lead race medic for the White Mountains 100 last year, and as a 34 year resident of this frozen corner of the globe, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to point out a couple of things.
First of all, there are several very good reasons why only one racer was given a ride off the WM100 course and none of those reasons had to do with the racer being 'Alaskan'. One of those reasons was the extremely fast race conditions (hard packed, snow machine-groomed trails, no recent snow, cold temps and minimal (yeah, I said it) overflow.)
As to unprepared racers? I met several of them on the course of the White Mountains 100. All finished safely, thanks to the support system available.
One of the racers who very nearly had a show-stopping epic was a person who has done numerous winter races and is a veteran of winter ultras. Not a beginner, not unprepared. Stuff happens. That racer also finished.
I don't personally know Danni, but I have a pretty good idea of her training base (that Jill referenced above). She wasn't unprepared. She is simply down-to-earth enough to acknowledge how it actually feels to be at the very edge of endurance. If anything, this course (and the unpredictable weather) was tailor-made for Danni. Cold, slow, slogging conditions are where patience, consistency and endurance pay off.
Way to go danni! That is so awesome of you to try something as challenging as that!
-Quinn O.
So you're saying that being able to train in the exact race conditions doesn't make the racer better adept to handle the specific challenges in regards to weather and terrain? I sure think it does.
Where my problem lies is that sometimes people lean too heavily on the the idea that someone will swoop in and save them. In Alaska winter ultras, the risk of such a distance is compounded with how cold and remote the races are. Help doesn't always come in time.
Luckily in Danni's case, there was no frostbite. Speaking from experience--where my toes and fingers have nearly gotten frostbite on 15 mile runs at -30; where the previously frostbitten tips of my ears still burn when they get too cold and warm up; where my eyes have frozen shut from the frost that has formed on them and I just blinked too long-- my comments were strictly of relief that Danni was okay and she didn't have to learn these lessons the hard way like I had.
I love Danni's way of just "winging it". I believe she did a marathon last summer where there was little to no training beforehand (And she kicked butt winning an age group award!)... It takes guts to do that. Sometimes it works out, but sometimes it doesn't. I'm not sure that a 100miler with wind chills of -40 is the best place to try.
Can I just say how much I appreciate all these comments? It makes me feel the opposite of alone :-) What a cool world we live in.
Danni,
You are SUPER AWESOME. What an amazing experience. You write really well too - I'm sitting inside and can imagine the cold you felt.
Wow -thanks for this amazing narrative! You are really tough!!
Love,
Anne
Awesome story Danni. What an adventure. It sounds incredibly tough. Love the sled cover. Great job.
Danni, what an amazing accomplishment. I love it that you are a stellar athlete, cool person, and great rider all rolled into one. Thanks for taking the time to write it all down to share with us while it was still fresh. The counting? Awesome. I just never want you to have to feel so alone again. We love you in Chicago.
-Kate (and Joe)
oh my lord that was supposed to say great "writer", which clearly, I am not. woops.
-Kate
Danni
I really admire you for attempting something like Susitna. I mean, I can't imagine the preparation that must be involved.
Your sense of humor is seriously the best. I really had to laugh when you described how much "fun" it was :).
So, I just don't want this to come off badly - because I'd certainly never make it close to 84 miles - but what was it that was the biggest factor in you stopping? Feeling alone? Fatigue? The cold? Tired legs? I guess in other words, I'm wondering if you would do anythings differently if there were a next time or what you would recommend to people who want to try it themselves?
Hi Danni--So, it turns out it's a small world. I regularly follow your blog (and Jill's) as I was born and raised in Montana (Cut Bank) and love to see what fellow Montanan runners are up to. I posted your blog account of the race on my Facebook page, and lo and behold...it turns out you are well-acquainted with my good friend from high school (Joel) and his wife Bea (Bea and I are FB friends). What a small world. Anyway, I'm in complete admiration of you guys doing this race. We live in MA now, and obviously have much fewer opportunities for adventures like this (or rather, adequate training for adventures like these). Your write-up of the race was brilliant (as was Jill's). Keep up the great running (and writing) from Montana!
Thanks again everyone for the comments.
Kristin, what a crazy small world. Bea sort of explained this but my impression was that she shared with you the blog link knowing you were into ultra running or something. I didn't realize it was a total coincidence. I must say, Cut Bank people seem to be uniquely cool. Though you don't have the same specific training opportunities I expect cold wind is in your blood and you would know just how to handle it. Also, you could run on beach for the ankle training. Anyhow, so very cool I hope to meet you sometime!
SLG, I've now reflected more and if any one of these three things had been different I would have continued on:
1) no pain in ankles/skins
2) warmer temps
3) buddy/not be alone
I genuinely was afraid of putting myself in danger since it doesn't take long to become hypothermic. I'm not sure how a buddy would have helped but in my mind it would have probably helped. Maybe I just wussed out too, I don't know. The mind works funny when you're that tired. My surivial instinct is much stronger than my ambition. As far as preparing, I think walking more in snow or sand would have been good training for my ankles. Next time I will do some power walks in the snow :-)
OMG next time? Danni I am just so grateful that you are alive and well with all digits intact! And you had quite an adventure to boot - isn't that enough? Loved the photos and report, knowing that it all turned out ok made reading it easier. Love you - Lucia
Wow, Danni! What an incredible adventure. I can grasp the overwhelming feeling of being alone. I wonder if it is because of the wide open-ness? I am so glad that you didn't have a run of the mill dejected drop, that is just awesome. And that you are thinking about returning, well, that is priceless. I do hope you will create a post of equipment necessary and not necessary as well as what you learned. I am going to do Tuscobia 75 in WI next December, it will be my first race of this sort..training for Arrowhead 135 someday. Thank you so much for sharing your experience. I loved reading about it! Congratulations to you :)
Yay, I finally got around to reading this!
This was a cool post. I felt cold just reading about the cold there. You're amazing for getting through as far as you did. I hate the cold with a firey hate right about this time every year and I CANNOT imagine running that far in the effing cold. Alaska sounds effing cold.
I love that one picture towards the beginning where you have ice crystals in your braids. Badass, but still ladylike :)
Amazing experience and I'm impressed with your accomplishment. Even if it's not exeactly what you had imagined, it still sounds like you came away with some really good stuff. Wahooo!
Congratulations Danni!
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