Leadville

The Leadville race series is legendary in the world of endurance racing, pushing the boundaries of human capability. Each year, athletes from all over the world test their grit, guts and determination in one or more of the Series’ events, including the Leadville Trail Marathon, Silver Rush 50-mile Mountain Bike or Run, Leadville Trail 100-mile Mountain Bike, Leadville 10K Run or Leadville Trail 100-mile Run. For most, completing just one of these is an incredible accomplishment.

Few are crazy enough to attempt five in a single season.

Those who do traverse the peaks of the Rocky Mountains over the course of the summer, “Racing Across the Sky” with the ultimate goal of earning the coveted buckle and title of Leadman or Leadwoman.

It takes years of training and, of the120 dedicated souls who are at the start, less than half will finish. Anything can go wrong. And even for the fittest, failure awaits around many a corner. Weather, race conditions, one quick fall, or a mechanical breakdown, and lifelong goals come crashing down. 

The series starts at 10,200 feet of elevation, and crosses dozens of summits to peak at 12,600 feet. It’s dizzying just to think about. 

“Air is precious. People hallucinate. And, the year I turned 50, I knew I had to do it.”

I’m not quite an ultra-athlete, but as summer and the series began, I was as fit and healthy, well-rested and injury free as possible. I was surrounded by people who motivated me and spent hours on the bike. My cardiovascular health was excellent, I’d trained and spent time in altitude, and I was prepared, physically and mentally. 

The marathon was painful, but I got it done. The 50-mile Silver Rush bike race was not easy, but definitely do-able. The 100-mile bike race is where I usually had peaked in previous years and I was looking forward; anticipating a personal best in 10 hours. 

And then the unexpected happened. I started to get sick. That day, at the pre-race rally, instead of being able to join in and inspire and motivate the other athletes, I found myself with a terrible case of laryngitis; an unwelcome chest cold tried to move in. 

I was not going down without a fight. Back at the apartment, I covered myself in blankets with the intention of weakening the virus. Deep yoga breathing in multiple half-hour sessions, combined with intense heat had me breaking out into deep, deep sweats. 

The next morning, I woke up and felt fine, thinking “mission accomplished,” happily starting the race, and completely optimistic. 

Early on, there’s a big, nasty climb. It’s an 18-degree grind and, even though no one is quite warmed up, I felt good, and was on pace at the top, blowing down the three-mile descent with a smile on my face. 

But, then again, the unexpected. A twitch in my leg. It came out of nowhere. A cramp. 

In accomplishing the goal of ridding my body of the virus, I had consequently become completely dehydrated. 

This is the allure of Leadville; every little piece of the story has its reason. So many mini-moments of destiny. To be arguably in the best shape you’ve ever been, to never feel better, and then that moment, to have a cramp set in. 

Immediately, I relinquished my goal of 10 hours, and focused on finishing in 12 to be able to continue and complete the Series with the final event, the 100 Mile Run. 

Recovery came easy, and the next day, the 10k was no problem. The only thing between me and the Leadman Belt Buckle was the 100-mile run in six days. 

I had done the math and to finish the race in under thirty hours, I planned to simply fast-walk it. 

Two days before the run, truly the last minute, everything changed. I had to switch strategies. 

Talking with Ken Chlouber, the Leadville founder, dear friend and supporter, started with horror stories:

“You won’t know who your mother is” “You won’t remember your own name.”

“Oh, no,” I laughed him off. “This won’t happen. I’ll be fine. I can fast-walk it.” 

“You can't do that,” he said. 

“Of course, I can do it. That's one hundred miles, thirty hours, that's 3.3 miles per hour.”

He explained how I actually had to reach the Twin Lakes checkpoint at mile forty by a certain time or be eliminated. 

Doing this math, I realized that came out to 4.5 miles per hour – definitely not fast-walking. 

I would have to run. 

Had I known, would I have tried? Would I have changed my mind? A year of training, having completed four of the five Leadman stages, supported by a caring crew and as excited as I was? 

I was committed.

We moved forward. 

World-class ultra-runners may complete the course around sixteen or seventeen hours, but most come in between twenty-five and thirty hours – if they come in at all. 

The gun went off and we started. Beams of light bobbed in their steps, one great, glorious swarm taking flight. 

In doing this 100-mile race, by eight in the morning, you have already run one marathon, yet the race has barely started. In a marathon, at mile 18, you think, “eight more miles to go, not far.” In this hundred-mile race, at mile twenty-six, it’s not about it ending. It’s just the start. The scale changes. The perspective shifts.  

Mile eighteen is Sugarloaf Pass. Treacherous, sandy, with twenty-percent grade that pokes into the sky, and it was here, things began to get interesting. 

Going up was easy, passing other racers, going as fast as I needed. Coming down became a different story. For some reason, with every step I felt excruciating pain in my knees, so tried running sideways, backwards and finally, realized the only thing was to take the pain head on and point my feet forward. Every step felt like someone was taking a baseball bat to my knees.

The crew met me at the bottom, and I pleaded for Advil, desperate for relief. I had been warned about the dangers of ibuprofen, but why, I didn’t know. I didn’t know it breaks down in your kidneys, making them lethargic. Coupled with the myoglobin that needs to get through from the muscle breakdown, it can stop them from functioning altogether, causing rhabdomyalgia, a life-threatening kidney condition, something else I wasn’t aware of. I took a double dose and continued. 

Twin Lakes was the next checkpoint at 9,300 feet before mile 40. Again, going up was fine, but on the way down I realized I was running out of time. To make the first cutoff, I’d have to run, and I had to run fast. With an all-out sprint, I crossed the cutoff line and was allowed to continue for the next sixty.

Next up, was ascending Hope Pass. It should be called No-Hope Pass. You have to cross a river to get to it, but the storm the night before ripened it, the river crested and there were multiple streams, ponds, swamps to wade, swim or splash through.

Leadville. The Day After.

Typically, after these long races, there is an hour or two where you feel awful. You want to throw up. But usually, when you give your body time, it recovers. Mine didn’t. I couldn’t sleep, and all day Sunday, I felt awful. Monday, a nurse came and took a blood sample. Hours later, somewhat frantically, the course doctor returned. 

“You told me to tell you when it's time to go to hospital,” he said. 

“Yes,” I said.

“It's right now,” he said. “We've got to go right now.”

A medevac helicopter took us to Denver, where despite a waiting wheelchair, and still not understanding the severity of my condition, I walked myself into the hospital. A handful of ICU specialists with serious looks were expecting me. 

The doctor in Leadville didn’t tell me what had him so freaked out – that my potassium was at 7.5. (Your kidneys, functioning at their optimal level, keep your potassium between 3.5 and 4.5. If it drops to 2 or 2.5, you won’t be able to get off the floor. 5.5 or 6, and your heart will stop.)

The odds of my still being alive were less than a half of one percent.

When potassium levels become so high that your heart stops, they can’t jump-start you.

 You're done. There's no coming back.

Within minutes I was in the ICU, connected to dialysis. I hadn’t urinated since my kidneys shut down. The effect was immediate, lowering my potassium levels and protecting my heart. With no other conditions, and being healthy, they were cautiously optimistic that my system would start functioning again.

 I had no idea the challenges ahead of me.

My weight ballooned from 167 pounds to 190 pounds. I still couldn’t urinate. I was pumped full of fluids, in pain. The Friday before the race, I felt like I was twenty-three years old. By Tuesday, I felt more like ninety-three. 

Through the week, you could feel the concern mounting. Still no urination. One of the more non-emotional doctors, told me there are a million and a half filters in each kidney and mine were all plugged. “You will never be the same,” she said. At best, I would spend the rest of my life on dialysis.