Part 1 – Introduction
Each year, on the last weekend in June, the world’s toughest endurance runners gather in the former Olympic Village of Squaw Valley, California.
Over the next 24 hours, they race each other on foot over 100 miles of the historic Western States trail, through some of the most rugged terrain of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. They climb more than 18,000 feet, and descend more than 23,000 feet while traversing deep canyons and high ridgelines on their way towards the finish line in Auburn. It is one of the most grueling physical and psychological challenges many of them will ever face.
And this year, I’ll be right there with them.
The Western States Endurance Run is the most prestigious race in the burgeoning sport of ultrarunning, which is defined as any footrace longer than the 26.2-mile marathon distance. Most ultramarathons are contested on trails instead of roads, and the most common distance is 50K (31 miles). However, the number of 100-mile races across the country has gradually increased over the past several years – and every one of these races owes its existence to the success of Western States.
If running 100 miles over unforgiving terrain through frequently ferocious weather conditions sounds crazy to you, rest assured that you’re not alone. In fact, the contest was originally designed not for people, but for horses.
Western States started out as a race called the Tevis Cup, which originated when a bunch of old-time California cowboys decided to compare the toughness of their horses to legendary steeds from the days of the Pony Express. Each horse and rider who covered the 100-mile trail in a single day and night were awarded a silver belt buckle to recognize their accomplishment.
For the first two decades of the Tevis Cup’s existence, the thought of anyone travelling the 100-mile trail on foot was inconceivable. Then in 1974, a 27-year-old cowboy by the name of Gordy Ainsleigh learned that his horse was suffering from foot problems and was too lame to attempt the ride.
Ainsleigh was a bit of a maverick – so instead of dropping out of the ride, he laced up his running shoes and lined up alongside nearly 200 horses to take on the trail singlehandedly. He not only finished the course, but did so faster than the 24-hour cutoff, thereby earning himself a silver buckle.
With Ainsleigh’s unfathomable effort, the 100-mile trail race was born. Today, there are no fewer than 60 such races across the United States. And while some races take place at higher altitudes, and others feature greater changes in elevation, Western States remains the crown jewel among this fanatical subset of endurance events.
Western States is unquestionably the biggest event of the year in the ultrarunning community. It’s like Augusta National (without the azaleas), Daytona (without the smell of motor fuel), and Wimbledon (without the strawberries and cream) all rolled into one. What’s more, it affords a select few “regular” runners - such as your author - to compete alongside the world’s best.
Regardless of their ability, all of the participants who meet in Squaw Valley each year realize that they are competing at the very pinnacle of the sport, following in the footsteps of legendary champions who have gone before, while sharing the course with modern-day heroes of ultrarunning. It’s an alluring combination of circumstances – to such a degree that the event struggles to manage the burden of its own popularity.
Each year, an increasing number of ultrarunners clamor to enter Western States – and each year, more and more are turned away. Because the race passes through protected wilderness areas, the US Forest Service limits the number of participants allowed on the trail on race weekend. And while rational folks would find it mind-boggling to hear that a 100-mile trail race actually has to turn people away, that’s exactly what happens with this event.
Consequently, Western States uses a lottery system to select applicants for the race. A portion of the slots are reserved, such as the top 10 male and female finishers from the previous year’s race, runners who have unsuccessfully applied for two straight years, and a handful of sponsored athletes who are given automatic entry. (Another automatic category called “pioneers” includes the now-legendary Gordy Ainsleigh, the man who started it all. Now in his sixties, he still lines up at the start line each year, and has finished the Western States course more than 20 times.)
In December, the lottery “winners” – seriously, that’s the word we use - are notified, and immediately spend the next six months preparing for the hardest day of running they will ever encounter. They do so with equal parts excitement and overwhelming fear, knowing the challenges that await them on race day.
A short list of potential dangers includes altitude sickness, treacherous snowpack in the high country, furnace-like temperatures in the lower canyons, waist deep river crossings, wildlife encounters (mountain lion and bear sightings are not uncommon), and ten or more hours of night running. That’s in addition to all of the medical complications that can derail a runner on race day, which contribute to a 30-40% annual dropout rate.
There’s no prize to speak of, as the race doesn’t award prize money. The highest honor one can earn is a silver belt buckle, awarded to any runner who completes the course in less than 24 hours, just as Gordy Ainsleigh did on the day he decided to race the horses. Otherwise, the only reward awaiting runners at the finish line is a firm handshake, a chair to finally rest upon, and the satisfaction of accomplishing a remarkable feat.
That’s not much inspiration to keep a guy running for 100 miles – so there must be something more that enables him (or her, as the case may be) to get through the most difficult stretches of the weekend. Something internal, something intangible … and something I hope to tap into over the next few months of training.
The what, when, and where of the Western States 100 are the easy parts. The why and how are harder questions to tackle. Between now and June, I’ll be looking for answers on the trails of Monterey County, during one long training run after another.
When I come across something noteworthy, I’ll be sure to let you know.
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