Fighting My Demons at the Mt. Diablo 50k

[Foreward: This blog entry contains some adult subject matter (the gory horror movie kind). If that’s not your thing, it would probably be best if you skipped this one, and instead caught the cheery scenes of the Bay to Breakers.]

On Saturday, I joined 250 trail runners for a hot run at the Mt.Diablo 8k/25k/50k in Clayton, CA. This monster of a 50k climbs nearly 9,000 feet in a two loop course in the dry and exposed Mt. Diablo State Park, and is considered the toughest of the races put on by Pacific Coast Trail Runs. I had brought some personal demons of my own to this Devil Mountain, and they would prove harder to outrun than the fastest runners of the day. Despite the challenge (or perhaps because of it), we would all cross the line stronger than when we started.

(Looking down on the San Francisco Bay from Mt. Diablo)

I had debated all week whether it was a good idea for me to race on Saturday, due to the fact that I was emotionally not in a good place. On the previous Monday (Memorial Day weekend), I had witnessed a cycling accident devastating enough to haunt my every thought. I don't have a lot of experience with that kind of trauma up close, and it shook me pretty hard. What little sleep I had in the following days were filled with images of blood and broken bones, jerking me awake in the cold sweat every half hour. I know it’s not a good idea to race when both your emotional and physical foundation are weak, but I was desperately hoping that the trails could somehow lead me out of this state of shock, like they had led me to salvation before.

An Introduction to My Demons

The previous Memorial Day Monday had started out innocently enough. The weather was wonderful, so I decided to put in some miles on the bike and head out towards Portola Valley. As I was coming down Sand Hill Road, I heard an accident about 300 yards in front of me and looked up to see a lycra-clad body rolling to a stop in the intersection. A small truck had turned against traffic and struck a cyclist coming down the hill at full speed. I jumped off the bike to help, along with about a half dozen cyclists and drivers already on the phone to 911. I knelt beside the cyclist and quickly understood why most people were keeping their distance...she was a mess.

Her skull and face were fractured. Her arms were both broken, lying lifeless on the pavement even as her shoulders rotated up to reach out to us. Her slow gasps for breath were gurgling from blood pooling in her throat, complicated by a broken jaw. I knelt beside her and tried to hold her head still, but parts of her skull felt like broken eggshells and it was freaking me out. I tried to keep the teeth and blood clear from her mouth so she didn’t choke, but it would pool as fast I could clear it. Each breath she took was more labored and less effective. I felt myself going into shock just witnessing it, and as I got dizzy and took a few steps back to regain my composure, another person stepped in and took my place. Then I realized that most of the people standing nearby were doing the same, stepping aside long enough to get a clear head, then stepping back in to assist in any way possible. We were trying to help, but honestly I've never felt so helpless in my life.

I found a cell phone in her bike bag and randomly called speed dial numbers to try and get her name. The first number was “Annie”, who turned out to be her teenage daughter. The cyclist, Deborah, had gone out for a solo ride from Menlo Park like she had many times before. Annie could sense my panic, but all I could say was “your Mom has been in an accident”. Soon after, I handed the phone to arriving police, shared the info I had, and watched the EMT’s and Woodside Fire Department intubate Deborah and load her into the ambulance with disturbing efficiency. As they pulled away, my ears were ringing from shock. It felt like I was watching myself in a movie. I got back on my bike and rode to nearby Ladera Oaks to shower off the blood that caked my hands and legs. There I would be told that a cyclist had died on the way to the hospital, but I was still too numb to react. An hour later, I would be sobbing uncontrollably on the side of the road as the emotions caught up to me. A disturbing way to gain respect for Memorial’s Day, that’s for sure.

The Race on Mt. Diablo

So I found myself at the starting line, exhausted but glad to be among friends doing the thing I love the most. Rob Evans had car-pooled over with me, and it was good to talk to him about the previous weekend. Rob is a trained psychologist, and was able to give me a lot of insight into “acute stress disorder”. I also knew that he would be keeping an eye out for me on the trail.

(Jeff Browning and Garett Graubins prepare to do battle)

There were lots of familiar faces at the race, including Bev and Alan Abbs, Garett Graubins, Brian Wyatt, Kate and Keturah Morejohn, Wally Hessletime, Chuck Wilson, and of course, Race Directors Wendell and Sarah Doman. Everyone was looking forward to what this race could dish out. Garett was here to defend his Mt. Diablo 50k win from last year, but was the first to point out that Jeff Browning (multiple winner of the Big Horn 100, here in training for the Hardrock 100) and Western States winner Graham Cooper were going to be tough competition. Bev Abbs, in top form for States and complete with Sunsweet wingman Alan, was going to be the one to beat in the Women’s division. We all lined up at the start, and at 8:30 charged up the first of two laps to the top.

(Rob Evans and the Abbs chase down the lead pack)

Jeff, Garett, and Jason Reid (25k) set a quick pace from the start, with the Abbs and Rob Evans in a group just behind them. The pitch got steep fast, and it didn’t take long for all of us to be whittled down to a brisk walk. I was drinking my water quickly, and at our pace, it would be over 80 minutes to reach the first aid station. As the temperature climbed above 70 degrees, we all understood Mt. Diablo was dishing out a tricky day for us.

(Heading up the canyon)

Just when I thought I was suffering in the heat, Graham Cooper went by in his “heat training outfit” – black wool hat, gloves, black jacket, black shorts – with sweat pouring off of him. I guess that’s what it takes to win States! Rob Evans came by soon after him, looking strong and running the steep hills. We made it up the steepest climb and into the saddle, and were rewarded with the first aid station (mile 8.4). I was out of food and water, so I stocked up on both.

(Charging the hill)

As we headed up the next 5 miles to the observation tower at the top, I had some time to run solo. The runner’s high “clarity” kicked in, and I found myself more introspective than usual. The only distraction was the gorgeous views, and the front-runners already coming back. Jeff Browning and Garett Graubins were bombing down the hill, with Bev and Alan Abbs not too far behind.

(Rob Evans sails past me as he charges up the steepest section)

As I reached the top, I realized I was out of water again. Perhaps even worse, I could have been out of water for quite some time since my mind was so occupied. In fact, I was having trouble keeping my mind on the race at all. The “clarity” in my head was working against me, rekindling details of the Memorial Day accident that I had forgotten, or perhaps repressed. With each corner of the trail, I remembered something new – the smell of her breath, the screams of the driver, the broken hand moving on the pavement. I wasn’t over this trauma, not by a longshot...and I had no idea how much more baggage was about to fall out of my head.

I worked my way down slowly to the aid station (mile 16.7), where volunteer Mark Gilligan got me set up with salt, water, and sugar snacks. As luck would have it, I soon met up with Eric Chitwood from Galt, CA, who is also training for the Tahoe Rim Trail 100. Eric is a firefighter and worked for years for the San Mateo Fire Dept, and was a welcome perspective on my situation. I felt comfortable sharing the fact that I was having a hard time, and the stories he shared helped me understand that even professionals have to work through these things. “Just don’t try to shove it down and hide it,” Eric said, “you have to face it, talk about it, and know you did everything you could.” As Harry Walther joined in on our conversation, we pulled into the aid station at mile 16, halfway done.

I went through the motions at the aid station, and got back on the trail as Harry and Eric charged up the hill. Both were nice enough to offer sticking with me (which Harry graciously did for a mile), but I could tell they were both having a great race so I let them go ahead. I climbed up the hot canyon a second time, conserving water the best I could while fighting the dizziness of the heat. A few folks passed me, and I was happy to exchange even a few words. The alone time continued to take me to some scary places.

(Brian Wyatt ran a well-paced 50k at Mt. Diablo to finish 7th)

Around mile 20, Graham Cooper came by again in his sweat-inducing bank robber outfit. He sensed something was wrong, and was quick to offer up anything he had to help. That's quite a statement from a guy sweating a gallon an hour! I shared my emotional struggle with him, and he slowed a bit to talk it out with me over the next mile. I really appreciated how he listened and internalized what I said, and I could tell he knew that listening was the best help he could give. At the top of the crest, we wished each other luck and Graham charged down the hill.

(The rugged landscape)

I jogged for a few miles and realized I was out of water again. I hadn’t factored that all this fast-walking would take a half an hour longer to get to the aid station on the second lap, and it was much warmer this time around. But my thoughts were still consumed with Deborah, and the little details kept zooming through my head like butterflies. As the dehydration reached a new level, my walk became more of a stagger and it was difficult to climb the hill. My thinking was hazy, my face felt like it was on fire, and it was clear that I needed some help. My ears started ringing, and I heard the sound of the accident over and over in my head. I looked down at my hands and swore I could feel blood on them. But it wasn’t blood, it was vomit. My vomit. I don’t even remember puking, but the proof was all over my hands.

Now I was officially scared. Not only was I dehydrated, delirious, and cramping, but not being able to recall how exactly I got here meant I wasn't in the game. It’s amazing how fast that downward spiral can catch up to you when you aren’t paying attention. I found some shade and sat down to collect my thoughts. I have never DNF’d before, but was thinking it might be a good idea. I found comfort in the fact that I knew where I was, since it was the second lap. But it did point out one issue - the best place to get help was to keep going uphill another mile. I calmed down best I could, and started walking.

(Google Earth view)

Kevin Swisher (a fellow TRT100 training ultra runner) soon caught up to me, concerned after watching me stagger from behind. I told him I felt drunk and thirsty, and he walked with me until I got to the aid station. Mark Gilligan was there again, and when he asked what was wrong, all I could say was “I couldn’t fix her. She was broken, and I couldn’t fix her.” Mark didn’t skip a beat and said, “Uh, yeah. Maybe you should try some potatoes and salt, and a whole lotta Cytomax”. I took a seat and started eating and drinking everything I could get my hands on. I felt better instantly. Kevin reminded me of a spot to douse my head in water just a few hundred yards away, and headed off.

Mark has a gift for finding the bright side in any situation, and quickly pointed out to me that this might be better training for TRT100 (Mark is also doing it) than a well-run race. If I could “get back to good”, then I was probably ready for anything TRT could throw at me. After seeing the training that Graham Cooper was doing, maybe Mark was right! As I gathered my senses and set up the hill after Kevin, Jeff Browning came screaming by at full speed leading the 50k. Bev Abbs was about a minute behind, saying Alan and Garett were right on her tail. They were all suffering in the heat, drinking as much as possible, but still going hard.

(Heading down from the aid station)

With new calories, full water bottles, a mini-shower at the spigot, and a mental boost from seeing the fast folks I started walking up to the top. If I could make it to the top, I was determined to leave any demons I brought on this race there for good. Rob Evans stopped to check in on me, and he was really looking strong, as was Brian Wyatt, Chris Garcia, and Charles Stevens. Each one of them flashed a smile, and boosted my spirits just enough to take a few more steps. I climbed for what seemed like an eternity, and when I arrived at the top, I unloaded all my remaining emotional baggage in one sobbing mess.

Then I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. It was Kevin Swisher, who had also reached the top, letting me know that everything was going to be alright. I couldn't believe how much it helped to have the hand of a near-stranger on my shoulder, but it was more than enough. Kevin set me straight by saying "Let's get this done. You can do it for her. Just let me know when you're ready to finish this, and we'll head down the hill together. I've got a couple cold ones with our names on them". Kevin was absolutely right. I bet Deborah would give anything to be where we are, at the top of Mt. Diablo with our legs seizing in pain. Pain is life. Pain is good. And beer is even better.

We refilled our water bottles at the top (should have done that the first time up), and headed back down. I found a good pace for the first time in the race, sort of a fast shuffle. It was slow, but it was nice to have a rhythm. The farther we went down, the less burdened I felt, and I realized I actually did leave some emotional baggage at the top. The view from the top seemed more clear. By the time we hit the aid station, I was running again. Super-volunteer Mark applauded my recovery and filled my water bottles with ice water and my hands with Jelly Belly's. He was great all day, and I couldn't thank him enough for his help.

(The clear view from near the top)

I "downhill shuffled" through the last few miles, refusing to stop until I found the finish line in 7:01:49. By crossing the line and being welcomed by my ultrarunning friends, I felt an odd sense of closure to the day. As we cheered on the fellow finishers, I felt my spirits rise with each round of clapping. Jeff Browning had won in 5:14, with Bev Abbs coming in 4 minutes later to set a new Women's course record. Garett and Alan stayed on her tail right to the end, finishing 3rd and 4th. Rob Evans had a stellar run of 5:47 for 6th place, with Brian Wyatt running an even race to finish a few minutes behind. Everyone was depleted, but smiling. If there was going to be a day I melted down, I'm glad it was here among my "people". To each of you that were there for me, you will always have my deepest gratitude.

(Kevin Swisher brings it home)

I slept all night that night, thanks to physically and emotionally draining myself to the last drop. The next day I heard the most unbelievable news - Deborah was alive! I had been told by police officials that a cyclist had died and assumed the worst, but it appears they had likely been referring to a different cycling accident. Deborah was in critical but stable condition at Stanford Hospital. Apparently she had no spinal damage and minimal brain impact, and was already on the road to recovery. Given what I saw, that was nothing short of a miracle. I felt much better knowing that Deborah and her family still had time together.

(This wild turkey came down the finisher shute in roughly 28th place)

Life is fragile, life is resilient. The body and soul can heal beyond our wildest expectations. I've left my demons on Mt. Diablo, and as Rob Evans said "got 7 hours of therapy for a $50 entry fee". So true! But I know it was my friends along the way who really helped me get through the day, and beyond my tragedy. The ultrarunning community means more to me than I ever could have imagined, now more than ever. I am grateful for all of you.

- SD