I’ll never forget the Gatorade bottle. It made me think I might not make it.
I was crouched over, head down, in a half-run shuffle, eyes on my muddy running shoes. I stood up only when the trail snaked between large granite boulders that I had to reach to climb up and over. Heavy snow was falling, the flakes in my eyelashes making it hard to see. But when the lightning came, the strikes were quick, loud cracks that boomed as they hit the ground and made the dirt fly.
It was late summer 2005, and at thirty-eight I was attempting to complete my second Pikes Peak Ascent, a race that gains nearly 8,000 feet over thirteen miles, from Manitou Springs, Colorado — elevation 6,320 feet — to the top of Pikes Peak, at 14,114 feet. Because of the rapid elevation gain, ending where the partial pressure of oxygen is only about sixty percent of that at sea level, and the potential for storms that can roll in and turn a blue-skied August day into a struggle for survival, it’s considered by many world-class mountain runners to be one of the hardest races of its kind in the world.
“Kílian Jornet has said that along with Zegama [in Spain] and Sierre-Zinal [in the Swiss Alps], Pikes Peak is the toughest,” boasts Pikes Peak Marathon race director Ron Ilgen.
Jornet, twenty-six, of Spain, has won at Pikes Peak, as well as at the so-called Olympics of high-altitude running, the Skyrunner World Series, and the 100-mile Western States Endurance Run in northern California.
Back when the Pikes Peak races started, in 1956, there was only a small group of runners in each one. Now, as Ilgin says, the races have become “bucket list” events, with 1,800 runners in the Ascent on the third Saturday in August and 800 in the Marathon on Sunday — which involves running up the mountain and then back down again. Some runners try for the “double,” meaning that they run both the Ascent and the Marathon. Qualification times have tightened, and the race is now an established stop for some of the best mountain runners in the world. But somehow, the race still feels like a small-town event in a friendly mountain town.
In the shadow of Pikes Peak, Manitou Springs is a small town of artists, hippies, outdoorsmen — and serious athletes. One of its most famous inhabitants is Matt Carpenter, forty-nine, who holds records in the Pikes Peak Ascent and Marathon, as well as the Leadville Trail 100 Run. He also owns an ice cream shop, the Colorado Custard Company, on Manitou Avenue, and can reliably be found with other extreme runners gathering in the town park, dressed for either nine degrees or eighty-nine degrees, then making their way through town, past the old Victorian houses, Cog Railroad Depot and the buses of tourists to the Barr Trail, which begins the journey up Pikes Peak.
Carpenter and the Incline Club, which he co-founded eighteen years ago, are a self-described “group of nuts who meet most of the year for Sunday long runs on and around Pikes Peak, running no matter how extreme the conditions.”
“You know what time it is when it’s nine degrees and eight a.m. on a Sunday?” Carpenter joked recently as he and a group of runners, myself included, got ready for a couple hours on snow-packed trails and ice around Pikes Peak, bolts screwed into the bottom of our running shoes to provide much-needed traction. “Time to go!”
And off we went, up the main street, Manitou Avenue, toward the Barr Trail, which leads to the summit of Pikes Peak and was named by Brigadier General Zebulon Pike during his discovery and subsequent failed climb of the mountain in 1806.
It was here, almost ten years earlier, about 11.5 miles from the start of the race on Manitou Avenue, where the 900 runners in the second wave of the Ascent gazed up at the Peak thirteen miles in front of them, that I was crouched next to my friend and unofficial coach, an old-school ultra runner named Gary Sobol. It was 2005 and my second Ascent. We were doing the race together for the first time. And Gary, who at sixty-five, was — and still is — an athlete from the “do it, make it good, and don’t complain about it” school of extreme running, didn’t seem worried about the extreme weather conditions.
Gary had run Pikes many times in the 1970s and 1980s with no water or food (“That’s what we did; we didn’t know any better; we just did it,” he says now). He clocked round-trip times (i.e., up and down the mountain, the full twenty-six miles) at around five hours. His wife conveniently was an ICU nurse who didn’t blanch at using her camp stove to heat up a hemostat and paper clip to make holes in his black and bloody toenails to relieve the pressure at the halfway mark of the Leadville 100, one of the country’s toughest ultra races.
As with many Great Santini–style coaches and athletes I’ve known over the years, I’ve learned that Gary’s bark was worse than his bite, that underneath it was a love for running and a zest for challenges that he found great pleasure in sharing. Which was a good thing, considering that at about 13,000 feet, we still had a little over a mile to go in nearly whiteout conditions. We’d been on our feet for over four hours, and Gary, in true “do it or lose it fashion,” who had had surgery for colon cancer only a year before, was also wearing a urine drainage bag in addition to everything else.
“Keep moving,” he said to me as we shuffled along and lightning lit up the sky. “Just remember the finisher jackets at the top.”
It was the fiftieth running of the race, and instead of a technical shirt, we would receive special commemorative fleece jackets. To runners like us, it was better than cash. When I flew to Colorado that summer from my home in the Bay Area to train, we constantly reminded each other of the finisher jackets. A thousand feet to go on Boulder’s tough Green Mountain trail, “Remember the finisher jacket!” we would say to each other. Another few miles to Barr Trail on a training run up Pikes, “It’s all about the jacket.” It was our mantra that summer, on the phone or on the trail.
I was probably so busy thinking of that jacket, keeping my head down, and making it safely to the top that when the lightning hit a stray Gatorade bottle in front of me on the trail, I think I was too scared — and tired — to scream. It ricocheted across the trail in front of us, sending a plume of dirt in the air. Though snow continued to fall, the air smelled metallic. I was scared then. Would I die up here?
I looked over at Gary, who was crouched next to me and saw the lightning strike, too. But before I could say anything, “Stop talking and keep moving,” he said. “Let’s get to the top and get our finisher jackets.” So we kept on, until we came upon a man and woman stretching out against some boulders.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gary shouted. “You stay away from those rocks. You gotta keep moving.” So we kept going, the couple falling in behind us, picking our way up and down the increasingly large boulders that make up the trail in the last mile of the race, until we saw a man on a cell phone leaning against a rock. It was still snowing and bitterly cold, and we could see lightning strikes in the distance.
“I’m not sure I’m going to make it,” we heard him say on his phone as we approached.
“Man, you need to get off your phone now — it’s not safe. You’re going to make it.” This, of course, from Gary, who didn’t for a minute doubt that we were going to be OK.
* * *
My love affair with trail running — and especially mountain running — had begun only the year before, when I met Gary through his wife, Anne.
“My husband is a pretty serious trail runner and runs with a lot of different people here in town,” she said. “You should meet him.” It was a fortuitous meeting, in many ways. I had just been downsized from a publishing job and wasn’t sure what to do next. I was searching for something unyielding that would anchor me as I decided what my next move would be.
Enter Pikes Peak and Manitou Springs, or I should say, re-enter. It was not a new place to me, having spent summers only miles away and a couple thousand feet up at even higher elevation, in Florissant, Colorado, at a girl’s camp called High Trails Ranch.
When my brother and I were small, my parents decided to send us to camp in Colorado. At eleven, I was playing soccer on grass, but in New York that’s about as close as I got to nature. I think my parents wanted us to gain some independence and see another part of the country, but they also fought a lot and wanted to spare us that, or at least give us a break from it, my mother says now.
I was a serious kid, a reader and a dreamer — and I thought if I practiced dribbling my soccer ball enough I would be worthy of Pelé, whose poster hung in my room. I also played tennis, having been made to play with an all-boys playgroup by my dad, who told me it was the only way I would get better and beat them.
“You don’t like it now, but you’ll beat everyone else later,” he would say. In the 1970s and 1980s, he was a runner who also played tennis and racquetball. Though only 5´ 7´´ and 135 pounds, he hit the ball so hard no one could return it. “You know what, Jerry?” my mom would say when we got home from the tennis club and he would brag about winning, about aces and shots no one could return. “No one wants to play with a lunatic.” I agreed, but I also saw what determination and hard work could get you.
The years spent there, first as a camper climbing “fourteeners” like Mt. Princeton, Mt. La Plata, and Pikes Peak — so-called because at over 14,000 feet, they are some of the highest peaks in the United States — then as a counselor leading these climbing trips, drew me to Colorado. New York never felt like home to me. But in the shadow of Pikes Peak, I felt like I had found my home. The trails were more welcoming than city streets and the blue skies lifted my spirits. I had no use for the skyscrapers of the city.
But by my late teens and early twenties, I took the mountain for granted. I loved it enough to feel secure in its presence, but instead of hiking it, my friends and I were more interested in the taverns of Manitou Springs: the Ancient Mariner, the Keg, and even the biker bar the Royal Tavern. Time off during my counselor years, and later on after I moved to Colorado Springs post college, meant hard drinking, partying, and maybe sitting on someone’s car and looking at the lights of Colorado Springs from Cheyenne Canyon. We listened to and followed the Dead, hung out, and tried to figure out what to do with our lives. Staying in Manitou or Colorado Springs wasn’t on anyone’s radar—it was the place of our youth.
Except that I kept coming back to it.
I tried moving to a beautiful part of California near Yosemite for a newspaper job, but I missed Colorado and returned, working in book publishing in Boulder for over ten years, and though I had been running for a while (10Ks and half marathons around Boulder and Denver, where I lived) I had never considered running the Pikes Peak Ascent or Marathon. But when I was laid off after my company decided to close their Boulder office in late spring of 2004, I felt like I was drifting. Suddenly that mountain I saw daily during my commute, although it was over 100 miles away, was still the talisman of my childhood. After all these years, it was still the place to go to make sense of the world, a place that might provide me with some direction.
A few weeks after signing up for the race, I met Gary, an older gray-haired Steve McQueen in his Bullitt days: trim, weathered, with a permanent look of determination on his face. Born in Hartford, Connecticut, he had a rough and tumble way about him that was more East Coast than laid-back Boulder. He had run races all over Colorado: Pikes Peak, Leadville, Mt. Evans, the Doc Holliday, and up Flagstaff Mountain in Boulder for fun—even when it was twenty below. The harder, the better. His kids ran too, and with a daughter my age training for Pikes as well, he did double duty as a coach, in addition to training with a host of running friends he had accumulated over the years.
After our first training run (one of many that summer) I felt I had my compass back. The tough runs around Boulder, where Gary lived, and our trips down to Pikes Peak to train fueled in me a sense of accomplishment that carried over to the rest of my life, including my job search and decision to find a new publishing job, even if it meant leaving the state — as long as the running was good.
By the middle of the summer we were passing everyone on the trail. Leaving my house in Denver at dawn, I would beat the rush-hour traffic to Boulder, dressed in running clothes instead of office attire, feeling free and exuberant. After our run, we would have a big breakfast at our favorite diner and talk Pikes strategy.
“What worked for you today was going out easy so you had some energy to kick some ass when you got to the last part of the up and could scramble up those rocks to the top,” Gary said after one of our killer runs on Boulder’s Green Mountain, which starts at about 5,900 feet and ends at 8,100, a relatively quick but heart-pounding ascent.
We had trained together enough on the mountain to know that I would likely break five hours, but I was worried I might not and I wanted to keep my first goal manageable. Gary, who was unable to do the race with me because of his recent colon cancer surgery, knew the course like the back of his hand, plotting out the times I would need to make sure I made the cut-offs and my five-hour-to-the-top goal.
“If you can get to the top of the Ws [switchbacks] in about an hour and a half, and make it to Barr in three hours, you should be fine,” he’d said. He was referring to Barr Camp, a cabin with year-round caretakers, where hikers and runners can camp overnight on the way to the summit, get up-to-date weather reports, buy a Gatorade, or just catch their breath and enjoy the beauty at 10,200 feet, approximately halfway up.
“But remember, the race starts at the A-frame, so you want to make sure you’re feeling good when you get up there.”
The A-frame is not in any way the picturesque sort of A-frame cottage that you might imagine. It’s essentially a lean-to that runners and hikers can take cover under in the event of a likely storm. It’s almost at treeline, where you begin to see the exposed, granite moonscape leading up to the top of the mountain. At 11,950 feet, it’s 10.2 miles into the race, with the remaining three or so the toughest of the course. After all that relentless uphill, except for stretches of some relatively flat trail about halfway up the mountain, and oxygen levels decreasing dramatically, you’re likely to feel anywhere from exhausted to passed out. But as Pikes record-holder Matt Carpenter says in his advice to runners on his Skyrunner Web site, “Remember JAM — Just Always Move. If that means running — awesome. If that means walking — super. If that means crawling — do it.”
Carpenter, at 5´7 and 122 pounds, strides so easily over the trail that it’s almost like a ballet he performs with his feet barely touching the ground. He is the course record holder in the Ascent — 2:01:06 — and in the marathon at 3:16:39. But he is not known only for setting records on Pikes Peak. In 2005, he lowered the course record at the Leadville 100 by over 90 minutes to 15:42:59. Some context: My fastest time on the Ascent alone is a little more than an hour over Carpenter’s marathon time. Part man, part mountain goat, his VO2 max, the measure of how efficiently your body uses oxygen, was measured at the U.S. Olympic Training Center in nearby Colorado Springs to be 90.2, the highest they had ever recorded. The fact that he is also somehow a mere mortal training with the rest of the Incline Club—the local running group he cofounded—is a testament to both his humility and the love of the mountain that inspires us all, from the youngest and fastest to the older and still pretty damned fast.
* * *
The day before my first Ascent in 2004, I stopped at the Denver Diner to eat a big breakfast. I thought I was feeling a cold coming on, what I now know all these years later is just the usual nerves making me feel like I’m coming down with something, common among runners. So I called Gary.
“I don’t feel good. Maybe I should skip it or go down to Manitou tomorrow,” I said. Silence, but not for long. “You’d better get your butt down there and call me when you get to the motel,” he said.
That night at the Pikes Peak Inn, right at the start line, it snowed. I walked outside and looked at the yellow banner hung across Manitou Avenue. Welcome, Runners, it said. I called Gary. “It’s snowing. I don’t think I can go.” Again, silence. “Listen, you need to get to bed and call me from the start line in the morning.”
In my memory, that race ten years ago, the first time I did the Ascent, went well. But I also remember feeling strong in that first mile after the A-frame, so much so that I was able to run and pass runners who were walking or stopped — and then, in the second mile, to bonk a little bit and be grateful for the Balance Bar that helped me keep moving. By the time I heard the cowbell at the top, its ring seemingly a lot closer than a mile or two away, I knew I would make it, exhausted as I was. And my time — 4:20 — is still my best, a testament to all of the training we had done. Though it’s a midpack sort of time, I’m a midpack sort of runner, at least among ultra standards.
Even before I called my parents, I called Gary. Although I had projected a five-hour run, he of course knew better than I did what my time might be and thought it would be closer to 4:15 or 4:20. “Annie was just saying, I bet Jill’s going to call any minute, and then the phone rang,” he said when I called him from the top. “You did good.”
Ten years later, I’m still running.
And I’ve grown even closer to Pikes Peak. It’s now only thirty-eight miles from my doorstep.
One more move back to California, only months after my first Pikes Peak Ascent, and then it was back in a few years because Colorado is where I belong, to another Boulder-based job. Then, in a twist of fate that I’m finally realizing is the way the universe works if you just accept it: I, a city girl, despite my love of the mountains, moved to a Northern Exposure–style tiny town for a man — specifically, to the relative flatlands of Pueblo, elevation 4,700 feet, south of Manitou Springs.
* * *
On a recent Sunday morning in March, I was up at six a.m. for the drive up to Manitou to run with the Incline Club, named for the Manitou Incline, an old cable tramline adjacent to Barr Trail and Pikes Peak, originally built in 1907.
The Incline Club’s tag line, “Deviate from the horizontal,” and its motto, “Go out hard, and when it hurts, speed up,” both accurately describe how intensely challenging it is to climb up — while others run by you — each rail tie, for one mile straight up, over which you gain 2,000 feet in elevation. Lucky for me on that day, the run was on Longs Ranch Road, but on those days that the destination is Barr Camp, halfway up the Peak, the slower runners in the group might go only half that distance.
Of course, the “slower runners” in this crowd just mean that they aren’t world-record holders. They would still slay any weekend warrior — any day of the week. And though I typically am more of a lone ranger sort of runner, training on my own for much of the summer for Pikes and other summer and fall races, I’ve begun to enjoy the camaraderie and inspiration these runners provide.
They are also incredibly humble. “Pikes Peak was in my backyard and I decided to just do it,” said Sharon Greenbaum, fifty-one, a longtime Incline Club member who first ran the Ascent at age fifteen and has done it twenty-six times. “It’s a great outlet to have and it’s a special relationship,” she added as we ran up the trail. It was nine degrees when the twenty-five or so runners showed up at Memorial Park in Manitou that morning.
Though I had cut off the bottoms of plastic Walmart bags to slip my socked feet into before putting them in my running shoes — a low-tech but effective tip from a mountain biker, it had kept my feet warm and dry in the past — on that morning it didn’t seem to be working. My feet felt like they were in a deep freeze. Worse still, the metal screws that I had drilled into the bottom of my shoes, following Matt Carpenter’s how-to’s on his Web site, were poking into my feet. This was new, too. But not wanting to complain among the runners, who in their fifties and sixties had done the Ascent and Marathon up to thirty-five times each, and not wanting to appear clueless — or tired — I kept going. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I had forgotten to put my orthotics in my screw shoes, meaning I had no padding whatsoever for ten icy and challenging miles.
On the way out of Manitou, as I was thawing out in the car, I realized how much history I had in this town, from the Pikes Peak Inn where I called Gary the night before my first Ascent to the now-shuttered 7-Eleven where I tried to sleep off what I thought was just post-Ascent exhaustion in 2009 but ended up being a bad case of dehydration that landed me on an IV in the ER.
“I tell runners that when we get crazy conditions, that’s what we live for,” Bart Yasso told me about his experience running Pikes. Yasso, an editor at Runners World, is known by many as the “Mayor of Running,” and more important, totally understands both the dedication and insanity needed to complete this kind of race, having done five Ironmans, the Badwater 146 through Death Valley, as well as the Antarctica Marathon and the Mt. Kilimanjaro Marathon. “I’ve had runners come to me before the race for advice, and I always tell them to leave their watches in their motel room,” he said. “You need to respect the mountain and to really be a part of it. If you think of it as you against the mountain, the mountain will always win.”
In 2008, a severe storm closed the race and sent hundreds of runners who hadn’t made the cut-off at the A-frame back down the mountain. We did nearly eleven miles up in freezing temperatures, snow, and lightning — only to do eleven miles back down. Or as Gary said when I told him, “You did a twenty-two-mile training run.”
The next year, in a total reversal of weather conditions, we had a cloudless blue-skied day, much warmer than usual, which at altitude can be just as dangerous. In the last two miles of the race, upon hearing that cowbell at the top that I will always associate with Pikes Peak, I got so excited and pushed so hard that I was greeted by two guys from Search and Rescue when I crossed the finish. Not that I felt any worse than I did when I pushed hard on a training run. Maybe a little more tired than usual. But they obviously knew better. I kept saying I was fine — and I sort of was — until a nap in my car in Manitou and bottles of Gatorade weren’t making a difference.
A few hours later, I was in the hospital, hooked up to an IV, where, wrapped in heavy blankets, I received six bags of cold fluid to bring down my core temperature. The doctor let me go only after my kidneys checked out, diagnosing what was likely a combination of dehydration and acute mountain sickness, both dangerous and potentially deadly.
“You’re competing against the mountain, and you need to have a love and respect for it,” said Race Director Ron Ilgen. “This means you have to respect the weather and how quickly things can change.”
Of course, in a race like this, there are always injuries — anything from a twisted ankle to altitude sickness to broken bones, concussions, and severe lacerations due to falls on the downhill portion of the Marathon — to yes, even death. During the Marathon in 2005, the year Gary and I had to fight our way up the mountain in a storm, an experienced marathoner died of what was thought to be a heart attack. In 1993, a runner died during the Ascent.
Though there are many warnings — on the race’s Web site, as well as on a large brown Warning sign at the Barr Trailhead — that these are physically demanding races that require rigorous training and a check-in with your doctor, as well as a signed waiver — there is always a risk. But Ilgen says that this is likely what makes the race continue to fill up so fast, especially in the wake of such dangerous weather. “After 2008, we had registration go through the roof,” he said. “There’s something very dramatic about it that I think just captures the imagination.”
And like any challenge, your success can always be thwarted in less dramatic ways that were likely preventable. In 2011, when I first ran the full up and back — the Marathon — I came close to my best time going up and then cramped up a few miles down, dodging lightning and pelted by rain, passed by other runners (many asking if I was okay), and clutching the back of my leg, which had gone into a constant, painful spasm.
“There’s a doctor at Barr Camp,” a fellow runner said. The back of my thigh spasming, I cursed myself for my lack of downhill training and my addiction to wearing high heels when I wasn’t in running shoes. Then I saw two Search and Rescue guys on horseback.
“You okay?” one of them asked. “Yeah, I’m fine, just didn’t put in enough time training on the down.”
A few miles later, limping into Barr Camp, I implored the doctor not to pull me from the race. “Pull you from the race?” He looked surprised. And after he heard my tale and a nurse rubbed my leg down for a few minutes, “Here, all you need are a few Advil. Get going.”
* * *
“My husband and I would take the kids, get them settled by No Name Creek with a picnic lunch, and go up to Barr Camp,” says Arlene Pieper, now eighty-four and the first woman to complete the Pikes Peak Marathon — or any marathon — in 1957, fifteen years before Kathrine Switzer was the first woman to run Boston in 1972. “It was a special day then, and more so now that I come back every year and start the races,” she said. “What a thrill to look out and see all these people getting ready to run.”
A black-and-white photo of that race start shows Pieper in a headscarf and rolled-up shorts, along with her nine-year-old daughter Kathy and her husband, who ran with her to offer moral support. “In those days, we had no aid stations like there are now, and my running shoes were actually just those sneakers you get from the five and dime. And about a week after the race, all ten of my toenails fell off!”
A few years ago, after a long search, the Pikes Peak organizers were able to locate Pieper, now living near Fresno, California. She had no idea of her place in running history. “I still remember it like it was yesterday,” she said. “You can be a wonderful wife and mother, but it showed me that if there’s something you really want to do, you should go for it.”
On that August day in 2005 that Gary and I were running the last mile of the Ascent through a snow and lightning storm, I was both scared and — somehow — exhilarated. The race had created a bond between us that would last through the years.
“Do you think we’re going to die up here?” I asked him as we kept going, but didn’t seem to be getting any closer to the finish. “Ask me when we get to the top,” he said. A few minutes later, the snow coming down even harder, unable to see much ahead, I went further. “You know, if we did die up here, it would be okay. I love Pikes Peak and you’re like a second dad to me,” I said.
“Shut up and keep moving,” he said. “We’ll be up there soon.” And he was right. The cowbell got louder, the Golden Stairs, sixteen step-ups to the top, were in front of us, and soon, unbelievably, we saw spectators at the snowy summit.
“Gary, Jill, sprint it in,” yelled out a guy who was so covered with snow I didn’t recognize him as Gary’s friend Dwight who was running the Marathon the next day.
For the first time in its history, a quick-moving storm had closed both the trail and the Pikes Peak Toll Road on the other side, so that snowplows could not make it passable for vehicles to get runners off the mountain. We spent a few hours at the snack bar at the summit, along with those tourists stranded when the Cog Railroad had to close down. It was like a war zone: runners on IVs, throwing up, and sitting against the walls — typical for a medical tent at the end of any difficult race but much worse due to the extreme weather. But Gary and I felt good. “Do you feel as good as you look?” one of the race doctors asked Gary. “Yeah, we’re fine,” Gary said.
We sat with Gary’s wife, Anne, a veteran of these postrace scenes, congratulating ourselves with high-fives, eating french fries from the snack bar, and caressing our new finisher jackets. We couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
A few weeks ago, I signed up for my fifth Ascent. Gary, at seventy-four, is still his same take-no-prisoners self. Diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 2008, he’s unable to run long distances any more. But he’s still training athletes — all with Parkinson’s — in his Parkinson’s Network, a Boulder-based group of boot-camp classes developed to increase conditioning, fitness, balance, and flexibility, all of which can deteriorate with the disease.
The only difference in how he looks is a tremor common to Parkinson’s. But he’s still the same.
“Remember how you looked around for me when we were stuck in all that lightning and I had stopped behind you to eat a salami sandwich?” he asked me recently.
I laughed. How could I forget? Never one for gels or Gu, Gary carried sandwiches, pretzels, and all kinds of stuff in small sandwich bags in every available pocket. Which is of course what I do now, too.
I recently looked at how my time stacked up in my forty-five-to-forty-nine-year-old age group for the coming race in August. Out of eighty-nine women, I’ll likely finish somewhere in the top third, maybe in the top twenty somewhere, maybe better. But with Pikes Peak, I’ve learned, you’re always where you should be on the mountain.
“You want to go out easy,” Gary advised me at that first race in 2004. “Easier than easy. You see the top from the start line? That’s where you’re going. It’s thirteen miles away and you’ve got hours of climbing ahead of you. Let the fools pass you; you’ll see them later on at the side of the trail or walking. Say hello when you pass them.”
* * *
Jill Rothenberg is a freelance writer and editor whose work has appeared on CNN Money, the public radio project Life of the Law, the San Francisco Chronicle, and Urban Moto magazine. Follow her on Twitter: @ejillrothenberg.