BTR 2014 - Whiskey Jerry, A Raramuri And The Marshmallow Man Walk Onto A Ranch...

The BTR Tribe

I woke up in my tent with a parched mouth and a terrible headache. The camp was still quiet, so I figured it was probably very early morning. Painfully, I turned over, opened the zipper door and fumbled out in the faint light to go get a bottle of water, kicking empty beer cans on the way to Sweeney’s car. My head throbbed and I couldn’t quite remember how the party ended the night before, aside from a vague memory of face-planting in the dark on my way to the Port-a-Potty.

Welcome to Born To Run, the Burning Man of ultra running.

This was the morning before my 50K, I couldn’t walk straight or mumble more than 3 or 4 relevant words in a row. Looking for some sympathy from fellow partyfaces, I stumbled to the Clemens camp to see if anyone had made coffee. Tyler handed me a Tecate, which I pushed back to him, gagging. “Are you nuts?!” I said, trying to keep my cookies. He broke the can open and handed it back. “It’s open now. Gotta drink it!”.

As more tent-zipper, groaning and can-kicking sounds arose, the camp slowly came to life on the glorious California morning of the Chamberlin Ranch. Everyone looked like shit, with some emerging out of tents that weren’t theirs, or others still buzzed from the craziness of the night before. If you’d taken a snapshot at that precise moment, no one would have ever believed you were among ultra distance runners, and some of the best ones at that.

Wheelchair-Racing-With-A-Wine-Drinking-Pacer
was not listed on Ultrasignup's event schedule.

I slouched down on a chair at Margarita’s camp with the most hung-over Josue Stephens I’d ever seen and we tried to slowly come back to life through excessive belated water drinking. On one of my first zombie pee walks to the Port-a-Potty, I came across one of my favorite running people. “Apache TONY!!! How’s it going, brother?” - The puzzled look on his face hinted that this maaaaybe wasn’t the first time I’d seen him during the past couple hours... “Hummm… you… don’t remember last night’s campfire much, do you?” he said, smirking. Oh man.

When your weekend of running includes half-naked men dressed like trees, archery runs, beer half-marathons and heavy metal mariachi shows, there’s no need to devise a hydration strategy or meticulously prepare your race-day food; your only job is to survive the party, surf the tidal fun wave and wait for the horrible Norteño music, 5:00 AM wake-up call and Luis Escobar’s broken voice over the PSA screeching “You have 15 minutes to show up to the starting line, dressed up and looking like a distance runner”.

Don't ask. No, seriously.

Seriously, though, what else could I expect? Born to Run 2014 was the literal gathering of everyone I love in the sport, with so very few exceptions that I could count them on the fingers of a single hand. Almost every person who’s made my life the homeless heaven it was this past year was camped out somewhere around me in concentric circles, starting from the “Mas Loco Village” established around La Mariposa’s car. It was a festival of love and a celebration of the running life.

Even our Raramuri friends were here, with Equipo Caballo Blanco running its first BTR-sponsored event. Despite grand fears that this whole freak show would terrorize them forever, it was delightful to see them walking around the camp, hanging out under the shade of trees and – yes, you read this right – smiling. They looked relaxed, perfectly at ease, in maybe what they might have interpreted as the gringo-style Tesguinada (traditional corn beer party) they are so familiar with as the landmark event before any big Copper Canyons running meet.

Surrounded by my whole tribe, I spent the rest of the morning trying to rehydrate and telling everyone who’d listen (read: nobody) that I wouldn’t drink another drop of booze until after my run.

BTR's idea of sticking to
a strict pre-race regimen

Since I chugged away my wise pre-race decisions at the Beer Mile just a couple hours later, I guess I didn’t deem it worthy to get my gear ready or to prepare a proper final meal before my 50K. I spent the rest of the afternoon sharing beers with Papa Jim and the Clemens Clan (kinda sounds like a rock band) and had a family-sized bag of chips for dinner with my friend Greg Lowe, while a very drunk Alejandro fell off his camping chair and was lovingly rolled onto a blanket in the shade. Then Metalachi showed up, so I *might* have had a couple shots of tequila and that god-awful Fireball crap, which seems to have become the official allwedoisrun poison of choice, while screaming along at “We’re not gonna take it” to the sound of distorted trumpets.

Soooo, as you can imagine, 5:00 AM came in crashing, with a vengeance. I’m not sure what was the hardest: finding my running clothes in the dark and something liquid that was not alcohol to fill my hydration vest, or keeping in an increasing need to puke. I managed to shove a Clif Bar down my throat and walked to the starting line. In the half-obscurity of the early morning, things looked like the police had just busted in the ranch and were rounding up a herd of half-drunk hobos to put an end to this debauchery. At least, I thought, everyone looked equally “ready”.

Somewhere between the Beer Mile and the rock show,
I was officially adopted by the Clemens Clan

I don’t know if I spaced out badly or if the shotgun misfired, but without much ceremony, we somehow just got moving out the gate and onto the course. And then something really weird happened. We started running.

Between awesome segments with kick-ass Jody and my buddy Jon Zaid from Nine Trails, the first loop felt like an easy 5K. Shortly after that, I played catch with Durango Mike for a bit, saw Benedict whizz by like there was nothing to it and then came across the radiating beauty of Amy, closely followed by the highly inspiring Dan. I completed my second third of the run with my girl Crista, chatting and joking the miles away until we crossed the gate for the second time.

I really thought things were going OK, considering, but it only occurred to me that I might be doing really well when I reached the last aid station before my finish, with about 10K to go. I got in to get food and was really happy to see Margarita… and casually smiled at Michelle and Bobby, who were- Wait. What the hell were Michelle and Bobby, by all means WAY faster people than me, doing at that aid station?

This one serves to prove there was actual running involved

After some moments sinking in the realization that maybe I should get my ass back on the trails and actually try and keep up with my friends, we all took off together and dropped the hung-over hammer to get this thing done, I guess, and maybe see who still had a cold beer or two? Margaret was in a lot of back pain, so our merry band stretched out a little bit on the last long downhill. I only started to feel the burn on that last 1-mile stretch where you cross the finish line, keep going a half mile out then turn back for the real finish because, in the RD’s own words, “You still owe me a mile”. The heat had risen and the shenanigans from the last couple days had left my reserves, well, depleted to say the least, but I still managed to drag my carcass to the finish chute. I ended up ahead of Michelle, who forgot to run under the gate and had to turn around, which is absolutely unfair. But really, I don’t think anyone was counting that hard.

After catching my breath a little bit, I started wondering if I could really have ran my best 50K ever, ill-prepared and badly hung over, or if this was all some sort of withdrawal syndrome, post-alcoholic hallucination. So I went back, looked at the clock and marveled at what I can only call the Born To Run magic.

6:16. Go figure.

Born To Run, C'est le Woodstock de la course d'ultra, un festival de la folle amitié qui nous unit et la réalisation incroyable que ça se peut, courir 50 kilomètres sur un lendemain de brosse :)

Red Rock Mountain Marathon : The Real Deal

Would you like a personalized engraved finishers medal? Artificial obstacles and pretend Special Forces Officers? How about a colorful custom gender specific tee shirt? Age group awards 10 deep? Spectators, awards ceremony and plenty of personal recognition? What about the respect and admiration of your friends and family? Sound good?

You will not find any of that stuff at the Red Rock Trail Run.



Do Not Attend.
As promised, this is an advanced run on a very difficult, remote, rugged and potentially dangerous course. This run is intended for experienced, self-sufficient distance runners only. Drop bags are not necessary. Drop bags are a frivolous waste of time and resources. Real ultra runners carry. Trail marking and support will be far apart and MINIMAL. No map will be provided.You will be completely responsible for yourself. If you are unsure or apprehensive, do not attend.

"Be nice,
or go home"

When you receive this kind of pre-race e-mail, you know you're in for the real deal. You know you've got to have your shit together. You know you're running a Luis Escobar event. The man's motto is «Be nice or go home».

The raw, gritty, real truth is, when you sign up for a Luis Escobar event, you're getting ultra running at its finest. Good, old school trail fun with like-minded people who won't frown on your pre-race strategy of beer, whiskey, hula-hoop or salsa dancing by the fire. You know you will be among the best crowd of grumpy, bitching half-awake ultra zombies at an ungodly hour in the morning, shivering before a race official who reminds you of the event's rules.

Hungover, pre-race zombies.

«OK guys. If you made it here, you know this is a difficult course. Follow the trail markings. If you see a white chalk line, don't cross it. If you cross a chalk line; turn around or you're gonna get lost. If you cross a chalk line and keep going, you're a triathlete.»

Go!

Luis convinced me to sign up for Red Rock the very next day after the Nine Trails Ultra, a nightmarish course designed to break your will and confidence somewhere along the up-and-down trails of the Santa Barbara mountains. Even though the run itself had me abandon at the half-way point crying for my mommy, I'd really liked the funky crowd I ran with and actually looked forward to meeting them again.

So after a long season of ultras and runs all over the Southwest, I thought it would be awesome to have my last official trail event of 2013 with my friends the Californian Coyotes. I packed my van full of Indio beer and drove from Phoenix to the beautiful Rancho Oso, following La Mariposa and Dave Bloom through a hellish rain storm for hours on end.

Since we were a day in advance, we decided to camp out at the aptly named El Capitan Beach, not too far. We got there too late to turn around when I realized that they charge FORTY-FIVE DOLLARS for one night of camping (I mean, seriously?!), so we relunctantly dished out the dinero and went to sleep. We woke up to a fresh, but sunny day out and spent some lazy hours strolling on the beach, cooking breakfast, napping and reading magazines.

Welcome to Mas Loco Town

We took off in the early afternoon to meet our friends at Rancho Oso, a beautiful property on the slopes of the Santa Barbara mountains. We got there about the same time Sweeney did, so we comandeered a great lot for all our friends to camp out together; we named it Mas Loco Village.

A couple hours later, the place was filled with laughs, hugs and bottle-clanging sounds as Crista Scott, Michelle, Bobby, Adrian, John and the Clemens brothers Chris and Tyler were pitching their tents and cooking a big communal dinner.

Way too much booze later, we slowly left the big campfire and many more friends who had joined the fun and we headed back to get some sleep before the big day.

East Coast,
West Coast
And North Pole.
Represent.

Californian nights in the mountains are usually pretty cold, but that one – and the following morning – were simply brutal. I found myself frozen to the bones, unable to warm up and I shivered all the way to the starting line, wondering how the hell Sweeney, who wore not much else then a pair of shorts and arm warmers, was not convulsing in hypothermia.

Dave Bloom, Tyler Clemens and I agreed that we would take it easy and start from the back of the pack. As soon as the go was given, however, Dave vanished ahead in his own version of slow, leaving Tyler, me and a fellow runner named Mary heading for the first big climbs together.

Tyler and Mary

It took some miles to warm up, but the arm warmers eventually came off somewhere along the first couple miles. The day was beautiful and the company great, everyone was in high spirits and looking forward to great trail running.

After about 5 miles out, there was a little orange sign with an arrow pointing... up. It was one of the little extras Luis had planned for us. An ultra-steep, 0.3-mile, 700-foot climb to a high ridge where volunteers were waiting for us with our finishers AKA amulet medals. The deal was, either you climbed, got your medal and presented it at the finish line, or you DNF'ed and had to mail it back to Luis – with your excuse for not finishing :)

The climb was great, the view greater and the volunteers simply awesome. I got my medal, a hug, good laughs and a fun scramble down. We picked up two other runners in our little group heading back on the main course, who entertained us with recipes and stories of cooking awesome pies and homemade cookies until we begged them to stop, drooling all over the trail.

The first aid station came pretty quickly. It was an important stop, however, because it was the only support we would be getting for the next 12 miles or so. The volunteers had done a great job of bringing more than the «water and not much else» promise we had from the race director, and I was delighted to pick up some PB&J's and a couple bite-sized Snicker bars. Awesome. As I was expecting mossy-green creek water and BBQ'ed squirrel, no need to say I was ecstatic.

We took off pretty quickly, but to my great dismay I had to let my friends go because of an urgent, unavoidable side-trail business. I was pretty bummed, but thought I could maybe catch up with my amigos later.

I got back on the trail and felt really, really good. Since the start, I had decided to heed to my friend the Red-Tailed Hawk's advice and eat 200 calories per hour, which means 1 shot of 100 calories every 30 minutes. Way more than I'd ever eaten, but it promised to keep me up, running and energetic for the whole day. I was determined to follow through and see if the strategy would work. So far, so good.

When the first switchback descents started, I found myself speeding down the trail with a grin wider than my face, dancing and dodging and jumping like a little kid. I came across many interesting features of a real, outback trail run; downed trees, muddy creek crossings and washed-out segments which made sure I stayed alert and focused.

I started crossing 50-mile runners, who were running the course from the other side first. Everyone looked really good, but this was early in their long day; still, it was awesome to side-step from the trail to let them pass, high-fiving and cheering. I realized I was on a runner's high while running, which both surprised and pleased me. I surfed that awesome feeling for long minutes, taking great joy in being outside, playing in such a beautiful environment.

The 12-mile segment, as expected, felt long and sometimes lonely, but rewarded me with beautiful landscapes and great running moments. My energy was steady and my feet felt great. It was difficult to eat every 30 minutes, but I managed to do it without getting disgusted by my food and I kept a positive attitude about it.

I emerged from the trail section onto a road, and cruised down at very decent speed to reach the second – and last – aid station. Since my early morning start, and knowing the trails from my previous experience, I had expected to run approximately 8 hours, double my road marathon usual time, if everything went well. Although I was wearing a watch, I wasn't bothered looking at it or trying to calculate; I just trotted along happily until the aid station, which was a little over 6 miles away from the finish.

When I reached it, other runners were there eating and chatting and I picked up a conversation. «Yeah, we're doing pretty well; if I can leave quickly, I might be looking at a sub-7 hour finish». «Really?!», I said, a bit startled. «well, do the math. It's about 6 miles away, and we're 10 minutes to 5 hours right now.»

My next idea came pretty quickly. «Well, then, let's get the fuck outta here!»

I picked a handful of chocolate-covered espresso beans (I shit you not; they had that, too!) and started a steep climb to the ridges. Quickly, I lost my fellow runner and was alone again, but that was fine. My legs weren't fresh anymore, but I had plenty of energy and was climbing steadily, then breaking into a nice little run on the downhills. I was really satisfied with my time.

The course climbed more than I would've liked, so it took me some time to go through the first half of the last stretch. When I finally emerged on the dirt road, I heard a quick-cadenced thumping behind me and was passed by a really fast dude, all smiles. «Yeeee-haaw! It's all downhill from here!» he shouted, over his shoulder. Man was I happy to hear that!

I let gravity do its work and picked up some speed. My legs didn't feel super solid but I had enough strenght to hold the pace. When I left the dirt road to enter the last trail stretch, I looked at my watch. It said 6:15. I really wanted to take a break, but the idea of a sub-6:30 was simply too sweet not to try. I kept going, fueled by my monstrous eating, and emerged at the finish line in 6 hours and 25 minutes! I was extremely happy with my run and even happier to reunite with my friends and a cold beer.

It was a great day to run among the coyotes, and a great day to be alive :)



The Red Rock Mountain Marathon and Ultra is another awesome race directed by Luis Escobar. For more details and sign-ups, go to www.allwedoisrun.com. But be nice. Or go home.



Courir Red Rock, c'est se brancher direct à la source de la course d'ultra. C'est laisser faire les artifices, les petites attentions et le chouchoutage, lacer ses souliers et s'élancer dans les trails, juste pour voir quelle genre de journée on peut en tirer. Juste pour voir quel genre de coureur on est.