Risk and Reward: Tahoe 200

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Pre-Race

24-hours before the start of Tahoe 200, a 205.5-mile endurance run that circumnavigates the magnificent and dazzlingly blue Lake Tahoe, by way of the Tahoe Rim Trail (TRT), with occasional detours through aspen meadows, rock gardens, canopied forests, and ridge lines, I was petrified. It wasn’t the course and its substantial climbs and descents that frightened me by that time – I had no control over that. It was the hours out on the trails. The expanse of miles. It was knowing that once I started Tahoe 200, I had 100 hours ahead of me – four nights – out there in the wilderness, where black bears roamed, and the occasional mountain lion stalked. I could get my head around one night, even a second night. I just could not get my head around a third night, and then a fourth night, at altitude, in the mountains, moving forward.

I signed up for the race because the concept of running 200 miles in Tahoe, known for its rugged trails and picturesque beauty, captured my imagination. That and the fact that my ultra-runner and fellow adventure-junky friend Caroline instigated our giving it a try. After being waitlisted for some six months, we got in, three months prior to the race. I was grateful for the narrow span to train. I tend to like the pressure of pulling it all together, and experience has taught me that I can. Training, as it tends to, took on a life of its own. Between running, hill work, boxing, and daily yoga, I felt myself returning to a more confident version of myself, my physical strength resurfacing from what felt like a long and needed break, and along with it, the mental toughness that is necessary to compete, too.

Our first mistake in our Tahoe journey was our opting not to rent a car. With Reno airport over an hour away from Tahoe City, and our return flights at 6 am the morning after the race, we were clear we didn’t want to have to drive to the airport at 3:30 am, which made Uber the best option. Little did we know that Uber is not part of Tahoe City’s landscape, meaning that there are four Uber drivers, and often, they are not available. The result was that we walked a lot, became regulars on the Tahoe City bus, and caught rides with fellow runners when possible. We stayed at the Granlibakken Lodge, a rustic hotel worthy of a novel all its own, with its old-fashioned ski-resort flavor and lavish breakfasts reminiscent of Catskills hotels, which was about five miles from the race start, and one mile away from town. At the Granlikbakken Lodge, we met fellow runners Ryan Kuntz, a fellow 200-miler rookie with an extremely humble demeanor, so when he went on to place 4^th overall at Tahoe 200, we were exuberant over his success. We also met the entertaining Todd Wolford, who was determined to get the race done and undo the curse of his 2018 DNF; unfortunately, after covering some 150 miles on the course, Todd submitted to a DNF in 2019 due to running out of time and subjecting fellow runners to his vivid, if not entertaining, delusions.

Pre-race day was spent attending race-check-in meetings, packing our drop bags, and packing our backpacks. It is impossible to translate the energy that went into our organizing. Having no crew to support us – a choice that seemed right months back – we had to be completely self-sufficient, meaning we needed to have whatever gear and food we anticipated strategically placed in each of our drop bags, which we would intersect at nine locations across the 205.5 miles. I waited to pack my backpack till my drop bags were packed, and that’s when the real stress for me began. I somehow had to carry rain gear, a headlamp, extra batteries, gloves, a hat, emergency blankets, salt tabs, food, and enough water to make it from Aid Station to Aid Station – some of which were 20 miles apart – but also be capable of climbing with it and descending. When my water bladder was filled to its 2.5-liter capacity and my 22-liter water bottles were also full, let’s just say my pack was not manageable for me to carry comfortably, which resulted in my stuffing, somewhat haphazardly, some of my extra gear in my drop bags. This packing and re-packing my pack went on for hours, so that when the race started, I was more interested in throwing my pack off a cliff versus strapping it onto my back.  

The Race

Tahoe 200 starts at 9 am Pacific, at Homewood Mountain Resort. The hoopla prerace is uplifting. Racers pick up their Spot Trackers, which enables friends and family to track us from afar; mingle with other runners and crews, panic over the weight of their back packs, and then we line up, listen to the National Anthem, and we are off! The first climb is on summer roads and single track, a blend of rocky and dusty trail, going up to 8,500 feet, in addition to some steep descents, before it brings you into the first aid station at Barker Pass. It’s a sometimes tedious, but scenic seven miles, which is a great introduction for what’s ahead.

For me, these miles were reassuring and helped me to build confidence. I was upbeat, relieved to have gotten started, and although I couldn’t find Caroline – I was unsure if she had darted ahead, or stayed behind – I did intersect with Todd, and managed to acclimate and get focused once the initial fear subsided. The course spread out after about five miles, so that I was able to take it all in – the birds, the trees, the lakes – and find my pace. I did finally meet up with Caroline a few minutes after checking in at the first aid station, and then we were on our way, running the downhills, and hiking the uphill’s.

The next section consisted of 17 miles until we reached the aid station at Loon Lake. We passed through the Rubicon, which had become infamous over the last 24 hours; rumor had it that this section was technical, difficult, and extremely dusty; I was forewarned that I would be coughing and blowing black ick out of my nose for days to come. What no one had mentioned was how many jeeps with enormous tires we would encounter alongside us on the course. This section was like nothing I could have imagined: we were climbing over boulders, waiting for trucks to climb up and down them alongside us, and having to wait for the trucks to pass until we could needle our way between the boulders and their truck tires. The course was beyond technical, rugged, and my poles were often what enabled me to maneuver up, down, and around the boulders. I felt like I had gotten lost on the set of some backcountry reality television show, until one of the jeep women hanging out waiting for a jeep to get over some boulders said to another woman on the sidelines with her: “these runners are certainly amusing.” That was when my perspective shifted, and I realized that just as we thought their pastime was odd, they thought ours was even odder.

Eventually, we came upon granite slabs, traveled through a well populated campground, got lost a few times and used the Gia app to find our way.  From miles 17 through 22, when we hit the aid station at Loon Lake, I had run out of water. I had been carrying 2.5 liters plus one 22-liter flask with me, which I deemed more than enough; in the heat, though, along with the altitude and severe dust, my thirst had been intense. Carrying on for five miles without liquids made me anxious; it is dangerous to get behind hydration in a long race, but Caroline supplied me with sips here and there from her supply, until I came upon a hiker not in the race, who allowed me to borrow a few liters of his water. During this section was when the reality of how long one mile, let alone 17, could take us. We averaged two miles an hour, and while it didn’t feel that long as we were always focused and moving forward, it began to sink in for me how long this race would take.

The next section consisted of 6.5 miles until we arrived at Tells Creek, which was where our first drop bag was waiting for us. As nightfall was approaching and with it the temperatures were dropping, we were excited to have warmer clothes to change into, and to get ready for the night ahead. We got very lost the first mile as we made our way from the aid station. The course was full of fallen trees and debris, and the trail was faint at best. We crossed over a dry riverbed, and eventually were able to get on track, but had to keep referring to the Gia app to stay on course. At Tell’s Creek aid station, where we put on pants, puffer jackets, and geared up with hats and gloves; temperatures had begun to fall rapidly.

We went on to the Wright’s Lake aid station, some 13.5 miles away, then to Sierra at Tahoe aid station, another 18.9 miles away, onward to Housewife Hill, 7.6 miles away, on to Armstrong Pass, which was 17.6 miles away. We had gone through a full night on no sleep and had gotten lost more times than I could count. We were never too lost; it was more along the lines of moving efficiently up mountains, and down them, skirting steep cliffs, traversing endless rocks, and then having a choice to go in three directions. It often took us a few minutes until we pulled out our phones and referred to the Gia app on which we had the course downloaded. Then, we had to determine, depending on the direction we were facing, which way was the correct way to proceed. We often did a bit of trial and error: walk this way a bit to see if we were aligned on course, and if not, walk another way. At times, the course was so overgrown with shrubs that we would second guess if it could even be the right way. Overgrown and all, it typically was the course. There were some memorable climbs – Lover’s Leap trail had us climb 1200 feet in just over a mile – before we got back on the Pony Express trail. We lost track of the climbs and descents, as basically everything on the course was either a climb that went on and on, or a descent that went on and on. The weather shifted with the evening and early morning hours, with our second night out on the course feeling especially frigid as we climbed up to over 9,000 feet.

While I had some lows, I was steady more or less. I was making sure to eat whenever I could – I carried Stinger Waffles, Kind bars, Cliff Shot Bloks, in my pack – and drank water whenever I was thirsty. I also made it point to assess my exhaustion: could I keep going, or did I need to stop and sleep? I made it over 40 hours before I began to feel that I had to close my eyes to make the multitude of delusions I was experiencing go away. The trees and other inanimate objects had begun to shift form and seemingly reach out to me; at points, I saw groups of young adults practicing yoga or sitting around and talking, until I came upon them and realized no one was there. Overall, I was fine, but I knew that with no sleep, I was not moving as fast as I could or should be. The ideal situation would be to rest at the next aid station we were to reach, which was Armstrong Pass.

It was around this time that our race began to fall apart. Caroline was having issues with her feet – blisters – and she was freezing. I didn’t have foot problems, and while I was freezing, it was manageable for me. I had my lows, but experience has taught me that they pass. I just had to make it to the next aid station. Until time began to run out. We were with Louise at this point, and also one of the course sweeps. We had been moving at a steady clip, until we began to lose momentum due to the winding course, and the wind, which was blowing as we climbed to some 9,000 feet. We had expected to move downhill, but each time we seemed to begin our descent, the course took us up again, climbing higher. We were chilled deep in our bones, and when we finally began our descent, which was steep at times, each rock that collided with my feet caused me to shutter in pain.

The four of us made it into the Armstrong Pass aid station at 4:50 am. We had to be out and on our way by the 5:30 am, heading towards Heavenly aid station, at mile 103. By this time, getting lost and all, we had covered well over 90 miles, but the next aid station was still some 15 miles away. If I left at 5:30 am, I would have six hours to cover the next 15 miles. I sat around the fire with other races who were warming up, all of us debating our next move. One of the aid station volunteers brought me some hot soup to help me warm up. As I ate, the coals in the fire began to take on shapes and forms, and quickly became faces who were all talking to me and reaching out to me, hands outstretched. I put my face closer to the fire to see if any of the faces were recognizable. I wondered if anyone around me was seeing the faces and reaching hands, too. Caroline had fallen asleep, and it became clear to me that if I were to traverse the next section, I would need to rest for a few minutes to break up my hallucinations.

By 5 am, I was debating my next move. I was too cold to sleep, and I felt too tired to dig through my drop bag to find and put on additional clothes, although I was freezing and in need of them. My mind was functioning in some respects, but not making the best sense. Ideally, I needed 30 minutes to sleep, and 30 minutes to get organized to tackle the next 15 miles. When I announced that I was going to keep going, even if I missed the time limit, one of the aid station volunteers reminded me I should sleep before I attempted to keep going – that I didn’t want to start getting lost, especially with the bears out there on the course. Then I thought about losing Caroline, and how I would meet back up with her – and where – considering that we didn’t have a hotel room till Tuesday night, when we were supposed to be finished, and that we didn’t have a car to use as a home base. It began to seem complicated. I was too tired to make sense. Time was ticking. I had about 20 minutes now to get everything together and get going. With the odds against me, I opted to stop my race and turn in my tracker. I didn’t feel bad; I didn’t feel like a failure; at that time, I just felt tired and cold. I knew that I would be returning to this race – that my journey at Tahoe 200 may have been over for this year, but not forever.

I sat around the fire, draped in blankets, with other runners for the next thirty or so minutes, as the aid station dismantled. There was Joe, who made us laugh with his funny disposition; and the guy who had a foot cast with him as he had recently healed from some sort of foot surgery, who was another comedian; there was Louise from Washington State, who we had been with out on the course; another guy who had blisters and foot pain; and Caroline. We waited for what felt like the longest time while the aid station volunteers wrapped all up on their end, and then we were split up for rides back to the race start. Caroline and I drove back to the start line sharing the front seat of a large U-Haul truck. Daylight was breaking, and with it, the temperatures were dropping a bit lower. We had a lot ahead of us, but at that time, we were not too worried about finding a way back to the hotel, or if our hotel could accommodate us with a room for the next few days. We didn’t get settled in and to sleep until later that night – some sixty hours since we had started the race.

Tucked away in our hotel room with the heat blasting, I slept the most concrete and relaxed sleep that I can remember in years. The next day, we opted to make our way down to the finish line and cheer runners in, gather our drop bags, and help however we could. It was raining and then snowing, and when we intercepted runners en route to one of the final aid stations as we walked through town to the finish line, they were blank faced, resolved, and one woman we cheered on was crying.

Retrospect

It is beyond amazing to wrap your head around the fact that the male winner, Michael McKnight, finished the race in 56:50 and the second place winner, Ryan Montgomery, finished the race in 54:24. On the woman’s side, Angela Myer came in first at 64:01, with Mika Thewes in second place, with a time of 69:35. Badwater buddies Grant Maughan came in 36^th, with a time of 79:28, and Danny Westgard came in 68^th, with a time of 86:38. Superstar Sandy Suckling, from Australia, came in 131^st, with a time of 97:47. This race was about survival and getting through it. When Caroline and my race ended, we were compulsively tracking people we knew out on the course, sending them prayers and good energy to succeed.

My overall disposition for the race was happiness. Not a happiness tied to anything, but one that existed simply because I had the time to experience the world around me. For me, there is something to being outside, so far away, lost, but not directionless, that makes my heart beat faster, that makes me believe there is more to life, that I am not quite there yet, and it brings me back to one of my favorite quotes from Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club: “May I never be complete. May I never be content. May I never be perfect.” I will add to the quote: may I never lose my love for exploration, for the unknown, for facing my fears and being vulnerable in a way that connects me to others.

Looking out at Lake Tahoe, the largest alpine lake in North America, and the immense boulders and mountains and trees – an abundance of Evergreen trees, which I later learned consisted of White Fir, Ponderosa Pine, and Jeffrey Pine – I was reminded of my smallness in the great chain of being. I believe that it’s only when we are reminded of our place on this earth, that we can begin to fathom what a great, big world surrounds us. While we sometimes like to believe the world revolves around us, it does not. The world is, and we exist in it, and it’s up to us to take it all in and appreciate its grandness and amazing attributes or become absorbed in our mini dramas. On those mountains, in the darkness, the mass of stars piercing through the night sky with clarity and dazzle, I often felt so cold, so broken, so alive that I was able to tap into a true sense of compassion for all around me – my fellow adventurers, the birds, the bees, and even the bears, who I knew were out there on the trails. I was scared of the climbs in the night – there were cliffs that we could fall off – but I wasn’t so scared that I wanted to stop. That’s the amazing thing about breaking through barriers: while stopping always seems easier, once you are moving forward and into the unknown, it’s hard to do anything but keep going, keep living, keep trusting. At heart, we are all adventurers, who all too often limit ourselves by daily chores and responsibilities. Races teach me to say, what if? Why not? and to believe in all of the amazing places I will go – both on a course and in my life.  

The runners, crews, and volunteers one encounters at extreme races are unlike people we encounter in our everyday lives, because during these races, we are broken versions of ourselves, ready to laugh or cry or fall apart at any moment. The support, good cheer, and embraces we receive from those surrounding us at these races are often our lifelines to keep going, trusting, and believing in ourselves. The race staff and volunteers at Tahoe 200 were nothing short of spectacular. The sheer hours they were out there on the course supporting the runners was mind-blowing. From helping with our water bladders, to preparing food, offering advice, inspiration, tending to blisters – I felt so lucky to be part of this world in which people wish and want the best for others. I’ve long ascribed to the philosophy that a candle loses nothing by lighting another candle. We can all help each other. We can all be winners. We can all succeed. At Tahoe 200, the vibe was one of togetherness, support, and we can all succeed.

It’s not easy to find time to train, to get away from work and life and show up at a race; it’s not easy to turn off all the other stuff you need to be doing, and start a race – whether it’s a journey of 100 miles or 200 miles or more. But by doing so, I am saying yes to life, yes to chance, yes to discovering new aspects of myself, that I just don’t get to experience when I am sitting in a comfortable office and plugging away at my computer. When I take that first panicked, excited, life-affirming step forward in a race, I am saying yes to who I may become, yes to the version of me who may be waiting for me after all the excuses and fear and drama is stripped away and I’m at my breaking point, which may, after all, be my starting point.