“If you need help, blow your whistle six times. If someone hears your call, they will blow their whistle three times. The number for emergencies is 140.”
It’s 7:30am and I’m at the mandatory pre-race briefing. It has gotten underway in a somewhat comical manner. They’ve prepared slides with different sections of the course with important details like distance and vertical gain. All of the photos on the slides feature a bright sunny day with clear blue skies. From the large pavilion we’re under, I glance over my shoulder toward the start/finish area. It continues to rain. It’s 45 degrees down in the valley; 5,000ft higher, where we’re headed, it’s surely snowing. As a result, there’s enough nylon in the room to create a waterproof bubble over the entire town of Maria Alm. The presenters give details on each slide and then promptly say, “unfortunately, this part of the course is canceled”. I chuckle at the fact that the race organizers have taken extra care to prepare an alternate race route (the “B course”) in the case of bad weather but have not gone so far as to create a slide deck with its details (note: the B course was also used in 2023 but I believe because it was very warm). Not that it really matters anyway because the race starts in one hour whether you are aware of what the course is or not.
[Start/finish area for the weekend.]
The information that seems particularly useful in this briefing is related to what to do in an emergency situation. And the possibility of an emergency is not taken lightly around here. In order to gain access to the start line, you must pass a gear inspection to ensure you meet all of the requirements. This race has the most required gear of any race I’ve done: GPS watch with the course map loaded, trail running shoes (seems obvious, but they explicitly prohibit barefoot running and shoes without good traction), at least 0.5L fluid to start and a collapsible cup/flask, a rain jacket, hat, gloves, survival blanket, ID card, charged cell phone with ringer on and emergency number for event saved, whistle, and a first aid kit containing a triangular scarf, blister kit, small and large bandaids, at least 6 meters of medical tape, 1 gauze bandage, 1 wound compress, and tweezers. In addition to this, you’re given a GPS tracking device, and you must mark all of your gels, etc. with your bib number (so you can be DQ'd in the event that you litter on the course). I’ve also added a few items of my own: a buff, winter hat, waterproof pants, long sleeve shirt, hand warmers, and an extra contact lens. They repeat “the emergency number is 140”. I say this to myself over and over before ultimately deciding that in an emergency situation I’d probably have a hard time recalling it and instead take out my phone and put it in my notes.
[Most of the required gear that will go in my pack.]
The logistics of race morning were simultaneously slightly complicated and wildly simple. On the one hand, my hotel was approximately 150 meters from the race start/finish area. On the other hand, the timing of the pre-race briefing/not knowing how long it would go and the cold rain made figuring out when to do a warm-up a challenge. I would typically start a warm-up for a race like this about 40 minutes out from the start but it seemed likely the briefing could still be happening, and even if it wasn’t, it would leave me wet and cold with too much time before the start of the race. In the event the briefing took quite a long time, I didn’t want to be left with no chance to warm-up. In the end, I opted to do a “back-up” warm-up at 6:55am; I went out for 15 minutes and then back to my hotel room for a complete outfit change into my race gear before heading to the briefing. I then hoped to get in another 5 minutes with some short strides right before the race start, which I was ultimately able to do.
At 8:28am I tuck myself into the middle of the pack at the starting line. I avoid the instinct to count how many women are standing in front of me. I wait for the instructions I’ve heard many times before: 10, 9, 8…
[Pre-race planning.]
Don’t be an Idiot (Start - Mile 5)
Honestly just really good advice for myself everyday. But, clearly I’ve already proven myself to be an #AmericanIdiot because we’re a mile in and everyone around me has their poles out. Racing with poles over steep terrain is common but I don’t own poles and have never practiced with them so I’ll be going this race as a bipedal being. At the awards ceremony that evening, the race winner, Hillary Gerardi, will tell me “this was a poles race” and one of the first things I swear to do post-race is get a pair of pole and learn how to use them (shout-out to my parents for their “sponsorship” of buying me said poles).
In terms of what I actually meant when I wrote “don’t be an idiot” on my race plan, things are going well. What I didn’t want to do was go out too hard. It is (almost always) an easy thing to do: there’s an excitement in the air at the start of the race, your adrenaline is going, and you’re (hopefully) feeling fresh. Given the reality that I’ll be running for somewhere around 5 hours with an insane 4000 ft of climbing and descending in the middle, running too hard too soon could make for a very painful day. My goal here is to only run grades that I think I could still run at the end of the race.
The first 4 miles feature two climbs: the first more gradual - about 1200 ft in 2 miles - and the second more steep - about 1400 ft in a mile. The first climb feels good. We cover a mix of pavement, gravel, and singletrack. The footing is solid and I’m in a long line of people that are moving consistently but not very quickly. It sort of feels good to be “stuck” at a slower pace. After a short downhill on some gravel, we hit the base of the first “real” climb. Some of it takes soft singletrack under the trees but most of it is through this strange rock/pebble not quite stream bed but also not quite boulder field swath of mountain. Every step is energy sucking. And it’s confusing. You think you’re going to be stepping on solid ground, but as soon as your foot makes contact, you sink, like you’re on a beach. Oof. I try to take the most direct path up and try to stick to hoping from one big rock to the next.
I actually pass a few women on the way up, which is also confusing. Historically, I’ve considered myself a much better downhill runner and a comically terrible hiker. Usually I will get passed on an up and do the passing on the downs. However, for the better part of the last year, I’ve been dealing with some aches that have made uphill work feel better than downhills and while I’m feeling 100% now, it has left me feeling a bit timid and lacking some of the downhill confidence that I had.
Someone dressed in a winter Yeti costume marks the point at which we turn back down the mountain. From here we drop 2200 ft in about 2.5 miles down a mixed paved/gravel road. I look to my right and see the treacherous path we’ve just ascended and wish we were pummeling down that instead. It’s easy to run fast when you’re dropping 1000ft in a mile on a road, but it’s also easy to wreck your quads. I try to find a razor thin line between braking and trashing my quads and running too fast and doing the same. The women I’ve passed almost immediately pass me back and are long gone.
Survive (Miles 9 - 11)
Apparently I don’t give myself a plan for miles 6-8 but it might as well just be an extension of “don’t be an idiot”. White blank space is fine too as it’s a good chance to recenter before the climb that lies ahead. Back down at 3000 ft above sea level we have our first aid station – I fill a bottle here. I’ve taken two flasks with me; one that was full at the start and a second that has Skratch powder waiting in it. At this point, I haven’t quite finished the first bottle. One of the advantages of these weather conditions is that your body isn’t screaming for hydration. But to be clear, at this point, I am absolutely soaked, a combination of sweat and the perpetual absorption of the unending deluge from the skies. There is probably more water locked into what I’m wearing than in my 16oz flask.
From the aid station, we start to go up again. At first, gradually. Then, we cross a bridge over a large stream and the real climb begins, a beautiful singletrack maze of switchbacks. We pass a white and yellow hut and from here on up, I’m in new territory (I’d run up to this hut the day prior to get a sense of what I was in for). Over these ~2.5 miles, we’ll cover roughly 3500 ft of climbing and then come right back down what we went up.
[Left and the hut and keep going up!]
I’m not alone, but I’m also not really with anyone at this point. There is a group just ahead of me; I work to catch up to the back of their group, hoping that some of their momentum will help carry me higher into the mountains. It does for a while, but then we pop out on a steep gravel road and I slip back a bit.
We’re passing through someone’s farm it seems and there are sheep everywhere. It’s adorable. They all remind me of Hudson (my cat). Some have bells that clank as they crank their heads in wonder of what is transpiring around them. Mental note: maybe Josh and I should get some sheep...after all, he has been referring to himself as a “farmer” lately (the result of installing a set of sprinklers and then proceeding to obliterate our well. 🙃)
We’re back off the gravel road and winding through a semi-technical section of single-track. The rhythm feels good and I feel like I’ve hardly noticed the fact that I’ve been grinding uphill for half an hour (maybe I don’t hate hiking?!). But I'm starting to notice that it’s getting colder. My mittened hands, which press into my legs just above the knee with each step, are pushing against skin that’s turning increasingly more red. Water squishes through the gloves and in my shoes with each step. Between the brush and the fog, there are glimpses of what awaits: tiny little dots move in zig zags through a blanket of white. They seem impossibly far away and so much higher on the mountain. If my words haven’t painted a clear picture of what this looks like, you can just watch for yourself!
When I note this section as “survive” I’m not thinking of actual survival, more of a I-don’t-like-hiking-so-just-get-through-it vibe. However, as we go higher and higher, the rain turns to sleet, which turns to snow. The footing gets very slippery - a glass-like path packed down by every step taken ahead. The lead runners have been flying by for some time on their way back down - and other than noticing Hillary, who is in the lead (by a lot), it’s really hard to make a tally of how many women are in front of me, so I have no idea where I sit but I guess that there are less than 20 women ahead. The pace is regrettably and unavoidably slower. My toes start cooling and then my hands. The higher we go, the colder they get.
At least you’re not climbing up a hot volcano in Mexico. As I inch toward the state where hypothermia becomes a real consideration, I find a lot of comfort in this thought. I’m also starting to do some serious calculations in my head about how much further I can go in these conditions. Fortunately I know that in a dire situation, I have gear I can utilize, but I don’t want to stop. Just as my mind is racing, I notice that runners who have been just ahead of me are coming back in my direction. Instant relief. (Note: looking at gps data after the fact, it looks like they actually turned us around a bit earlier than the route called for, I would assume because the weather was so bad… I guess too bad for even the bad weather route).
I seriously don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a race volunteer. I am also amazed that there is someone standing out here. The wind is whipping the snow around and this person is pointing for us to turn-around like they’re near steps from the summit of one of the world’s highest peaks but it’s too dangerous to take those final steps so they’re screaming for everyone to turn back before it’s too late.
[Somewhere near the high point of the race. Not sure why I am smiling.]
Find a Rhythm (Miles 12 - 14)
For the immediate part of the descent, you could slip and slide in the zig zag path you’d just come up, or you could slip and slide straight down. From photos and videos, it looks simple, like you just glissade down but then you realize it’s actually kind of rocky and these snow covered rocks still move so you can either destroy your backside or you can try and stay upright and risk your ankles. Needless to say, the first part of this descent is not particularly fast but at least we’re headed in the right direction.
Getting out of the snow and sleet feels like being thrown from a rocketship after an alien abduction. There is so much forward momentum and it is so much fun. The first singletrack section is the most like I’m familiar with in the Catskills and I feel very at home. Flow.
At the bottom of the descent is the next aid station. I ran out of hydration a while ago and I’m eager to feel fully refueled before the next 5-6 miles because I’m hungry, not for food but for competition. I drink some of their electrolyte mix and take a bottle of that to go. I also have them fill half a flask with Coca-Cola, which is certified trail running rocket fuel.
The Race Begins (Miles 15-17)
I can’t quite feel it yet, but I know what the 3500 ft of descending in the last 3 miles has done to my quads so it’s a nice change of pace to go back uphill. Coming out of the last aid station, we have our last big climb of the day. This one is “only” about 1500 ft in 1.5 miles, which means it’s more in-line with the kind of climb I can get back home on our steeper trails.
We start up a gravel road that’s more mild and I oscillate between running and hiking. I catch a glimpse of a woman in front of me. It’s the woman that was just behind me in the snowy photo (Maria Müller of Germany). We’ve been back and forth all day and she has been very strong on the downhills.
It’s time to race.
The gravel road ends and we’re going up some very steep singletrack. I’m getting closer. We pop out of the woods and into a field for the last section of uphill. I’ve just about caught up but have to stop and get a rock out of my shoe that has been bugging me for miles. I fall back a bit. Then I notice Maria is stopped up ahead, confused on where the trail goes. There’s a sign at a cow gate pointing left, up the hill, and you can see the next flag, but I see the confusion, are we supposed to go over the gate or stay on this side. As I get closer I realize we need to go over the gate then up to the left.
Throughout the course, there are a number of these cow gates. They come in various forms. A few are grates on the ground (we have some earlier in the race), a few are gates that you unhitch a latch and then push open, but most (and with a very dense concentration in the last few miles of the race) are like little step ladders with 2-3 steps on each side. Step up and over then down.
Maria doesn’t seem to notice the steps and I’m trying to yell to her to tell her but instead she scales the metal gate. Only when I go through does she realize there were steps. As I pass her, I say “see you on the downhill”, thinking that she’ll for sure pass me in about 3 minutes when this climb is over.
I don’t look back.
Up here, I notice it’s a bit cooler but it’s not until my feet are trudging through ice cold water that it really dawns on me how much higher up we are again. We’re on a bit of a plateau in the trees. It’s very rooty and there is a stream running where the trail is. Where there isn’t water, it is muddy. We’ve also merged with other races that are happening at the event. The effect of hundreds of other runners having been through this section over the past 24 hours is evident.
Another cow gate and I’m onto the final section. I’ve seen this portion of the course in its entirety as I ran it my second day in town (on a very nice sunny day). It doesn’t even feel like the same trail; it is so muddy. And these cow gates that once seemed like fun obstacles are now the mortal enemy, a weapon employed to cramp every muscle in your legs.
Weeeee! (Mile 18 - Finish)
I’m so close to the finish and I take stock of the fact that I feel pretty good. Sure, my legs are tired and it’s possible I’m one more cow gate away from crumbling into the fetal position on the side of the trail but I feel strong and mentally, I’m not thinking about getting caught, I’m thinking about getting to the finish as fast as I can.
Well, it turns out the fastest way to do that is to just slip and fall on your butt and slide through the fields across a muddy concoction on cow and horse dung that’s as slick as ice. The first time it happens without warning. I’m coming down a grass field just before the final uphill and my feet come out from under me. I land hard on my back and left shoulder and slide about 30 feet. Ouch. Wow, my left clavicle hurts. I hear the guy behind me take note of my fall with a “dang, that didn’t look good” expression. About 5 seconds later, I hear him go down. When I glance back, his feet are in the air and he’s sliding.
The last two miles I’m around more people than I have been since the middle climb. It’s hard to tell who is in what race but I’m focusing on anyone moving around my pace. A lot of people are walking so I assume they are in a different race. With about 1.5 miles to go, we completely top out. No. More. Climbing. (Also, this is one of the most picturesque places I’ve ever been… on a nice day, of course).
[A small body of water 1.5 miles from the finish with views of the mountain range we were in earlier in the day.]
I catch a glimpse of a woman that I know is in my race. She’s pretty far ahead but my instinct is to work to close as much ground as I can. I’m pushing, pushing, pushing. I think the gap is closing. We hit the last descent, a set of switchbacks through a field. I’m slipping but not falling again and again, and then I’m slipping and I’m falling, sliding, one last time. As I take my last mud bath of the day, I know I’m not catching her (she beats me by 39 seconds).
With about one tenth of a mile left, I pass my hotel balcony. A small stretch of pavement, turn the corner and I’m at the finish. My first skyrunning race is complete.
[Last meters of the race and my hotel room on the right (Hotel Pension Pinzgauer Hof Maria Alm).]
Onward
Shuffling off to my hotel room, I feel that I’m the muddiest I have ever been; somehow I think the layer manages to protect me from cooling off instantly. I’m tired but whole. Other than my left shoulder/clavicle, I don’t think I’ve done any damage. The aches that have plagued me for months don’t exist.
[Mud. Photos are hard to do it justice.]
After a shower, my next stop is food. I get something called “crazy fries” from one of the food trucks at the event. Pulled pork, coleslaw, and curry cream sauce all on top of fries. Five stars.
My last stop of the trip is the awards ceremony later that evening. It kicks off with 15 minutes of a marching band playing. Instantly, I am convinced that all races need this. I’ve finished 10th woman overall, and while I consider “placing” a very subjective measure because it is simply dependent on who else shows up, I’m admittedly thrilled to be in the top 10 (a standard number of points for the Skyrunning World Series are awarded through 20th… and I’m trying to collect as many points as possible!).
[Skyrace podium: top 10 men and top 10 women.]
The night continues with a band but with my eyes growing heavy and my quads growing more sore with every passing moment, I opt for sleep. Plus, Josh isn’t here so the chances of this (scenes from the closing ceremony at the 2022 World Mountain and Trail Running Championships in Thailand; worth watching all the way through) happening are low. But don’t worry, ya’ll, he’s off to Portugal with me and armed with unlimited data on his international phone plan. Stay tuned for updates from the other side of the Atlantic!
Additional Stats for my Running Nerds
Shoes: Merrell Long Sky 2 (took a chance and wore a pair of demos from the Merrell booth)
Rain Jacket: Salomon Bonatti Waterproof (a few years old, best piece of gear I own)
Hydration: 48oz Skratch (16oz pre-race, 32oz during), ~24oz Bix, ~10oz Coca Cola
Nutrition: 11x Precision 30g carb gels (1 pre-race, 10 during… ~240cal/hr, not quite where I’d like to be but I’ve been using Spring Awesomesauce for the last few years (#saucegate) and this was my first non-awesomesauce race so even though this is the low end of what I should get per hour, it was obviously significantly more than I have been getting.), some watermelon at an aid station
That race highlight video — just wow! Can’t imagine how any of your upcoming sky races can top that in terms of adventure. Maybe, hopefully, they don’t, lol. Best of luck tomorrow and get some more points!
Congratulations Shelly!!!
So happy for you to be in the top ten!
What a superb achievement!
You continuously amaze us with your perseverance and determination to achieve your goals in something you set your mind on.
Dad and I so proud of you, and yes, the poles will be delivered soon.
I enjoyed reading your report tremendously.
Your writing is so precise and descriptive.
Good luck with your next run.
Looking forward to hopefully watching you in real time and of course reading all about it.