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SRRC Race Reports

Pikes Peak Marathon, Manitou Springs, CO—Sun., August 20, 2006
by Phil Holt

Spend more than a few minutes flipping channels on the television or thumbing through a newspaper, and it's easy to be skeptical about our apparent national obsession with celebrating the superficial and exaggerating the trivial. Calling the Pikes Peak Marathon "America's Ultimate Challenge" might seem like just one more case of hyperbole straight from the pages of a runners' magazine, but don't be mistaken—every inch of this race lives up to its description. Each year 800 runners are given a chance to challenge themselves at Pikes Peak. What is the test?

Rocky Mountain High

Pikes Peak vista through the trees on Barr Trail

The marathon follows an out-and-back course that starts in Manitou Springs, CO (elev. 6,295 feet/1,918 meters). After about a mile of paved streets, the course connects to Barr Trail and follows it to the summit of Pikes Peak (14,110 feet/4,299 meters). The net elevation gain to the summit is 7,815 feet/2,381 meters—about 1.5 miles if you're measuring straight up. Runners turn around at the summit and run back down the mountain to the finish in Manitou Springs. Humidity is generally less than 15% (much less above 11,500'). Air at the summit provides only about 60% of the oxygen that we enjoy at sea level. Runners experience the effects of hypoxia—euphoria, light-headedness, gasping for air after the least bit of exertion, nausea, vomiting. This is the real thing.

Critters like marmots abound on Pikes Peak

In an adventurous moment, I gave in to my friend Brian's carefully crafted enticement to run one of the most difficult races in the world. He said, "Hey, we should run Pikes Peak." I couldn't resist, and we found ourselves among the 800 people who managed to enter the race within the 23 hours before the field was full and registration closed. That gave me almost six months to ruminate over what I'd gotten myself into. I like running trails, but I'm not good at it all. We do run some decent hills in Loudoun County, but running up Thomas Mill Rd. really doesn't compare with running up a mountain. Navigating high-altitude switchbacks in a hypoxic daze seemed potentially unpleasant—especially with that whole vomiting thing. And I'm deathly afraid of heights. Everything about this race would be a significant personal challenge, too.

The Cog Train crawls to the summit

The day before the race, we took the cog train up to the summit to get a sense of what 14,000' feet would feel like. The air is really thin, and coming from Virginia only a few days before, I felt a little like I'd been drinking—lightheaded, somewhat euphoric, and unsteady—the two-beer effect. Brian and I went over to where the runners attempting the Pikes Peak Ascent were arriving. The finish line for the Ascent on Saturday is the turnaround for the marathon on Sunday. The clouds crowded right up along the summit, so we couldn't see out or down very far. This was a relief because it helped tame my trembling terror as I stood at the edge of the trail at the top of Pike's Peak. The weather forecast for the weekend was calling for cloudy with a chance of rain. I was fine with that. The fewer places I'd have to look down, the better. After a couple of delicious homemade doughnuts and a little roaming around, it was time to catch the train back down.

The Race

Brian (L) and me (R). Lit by the sunrise, Pikes Peak looms in the background

We arrived at the start on race day in plenty of time to find a convenient parking spot and no lines for necessities. The weather was perfect—cool and clear with a few scattered clouds. Conditions at the summit can change suddenly, but it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. As runners congregated in the starting area, it became apparent how much more uniformly people were dressed than at a typical road marathon. Aside from the usual varieties of colored clothing, water packs, hats, gloves, and sunglasses were everywhere. Pikes Peak presents unique conditions with temperatures at the summit as much as 40 degrees cooler than below. After we listened to a few final instructions about conduct on the course, a countdown and a single shot from a golden pistol started our trip up the mountain. Only the elite runners sprinted away. The rest of us jogged lazily through town conserving our energy for the test we'd begun.

The course . . .

The trail can be broken up into a series of distinct sections—an early series of switchbacks called the"W's", the long incline of Barr Trail up to a cabin at the tree line called the A-Frame, and the hike above the tree line to the summit. Each part of this journey offers unique sights and conditions.

Pine trees are pointy, letting the sun shine on Barr Trail.

Switchbacks and steep grades dominate the first few miles along the east face of Mount Manitou. Apart from the elite athletes at the front of the pack, almost no one was running. The ascent was a combination of hiking, trudging, and very little running. The path here is the most developed and is relatively clear with occasional roots or rocks. In only minutes, we climbed far enough to look high across the rooftops of Manitou Springs along stretches of rail fence dividing the trail from the steep slope. The woods here are dense with tall pine and spruce trees, and the air was the coolest it would be all day.

The next three miles traverse over to Pikes Peak along much gentler grades including some downhill stretches to Barr Camp. Here the trail was wider, and we could run occasionally. The forest is still lush, but as time goes on, the trees begin to spread out a little, and the vegetation becomes sparser. By the time you reach Barr Camp, you have passed the 10,000' mark. Signs of hypoxia usually begin at around this point, though flatlanders (like me) will notice it more than locals. Brian had been out for a few weeks ahead of time acclimating to the altitude, so the diminishing oxygen didn't seem to be affecting him at all. From Barr Camp to the summit is still a 4,000' climb.

The trail turns into desert above the tree line

From Barr Camp to the A-Frame, an aid station at the tree line, the trail becomes much more rocky, and steep grades slowed my progress. It is along this stretch of the trail that you really notice that the trees are smaller and more spread out. Severe weather, especially lightning is common on Pikes Peak, and the grey, shattered trunks of trees that have been struck litter the landscape, looking like driftwood burnished by blazing sun, howling wind, blowing rain, and punishing hail. Weather is a concern for runners above the tree line because boulders offer the only cover, and that's where lightning typically strikes. Runners and hikers have been killed by lightning on Pikes Peak, and a marathoner who was struck (and survived) last year donated her scorched shoes, which were on display at packet pickup.

Where's the trail? Still a long way to the summit.

The last three miles from the A-Frame to the summit climb 2,000' entirely above the tree line, and it is the toughest part of the course. The views from above the tree line were spectacular in every direction. I can't say "breathtaking" because the air was thin enough to leave me gasping just looking down at my trudging feet. Looking up (and gasping), I could see runners snaking their way up the mountain toward the summit along the narrow switchbacks. The perspective was deceiving because people appeared to be picking their way among the rocks. Toward the east, you can see all the way to Kansas on a clear day, and race day weather was beautiful. It seemed like we could see the whole world from there. By this point Brian was about 10 minutes ahead of me. The switchbacks allowed us to wave at each other less than 50' apart, though I'd have to cover a quarter mile to get up the spot from which he greeted me.

Unfortunately, the effects of gravity don't diminish with altitude, so climbing the last three miles gets progressively more difficult as the air grows thinner. The grades are steep and the effects of altitude became more pronounced as we approached the summit. The thin air left me feeling increasingly unsteady. This turned out to be a big advantage as I approached the 16 Golden Stairs, a series of switchbacks along the face of the summit that are narrow, extremely rugged and provided me the perfect opportunity to confront my fear of heights. In a couple of spots, the only way to get to the next section was to clamor up a large tumble of rocks next to beetling drops.

I reach the summit—still smiling!

Thanks to a surge of hypoxic courage, I really wasn't too concerned about the height anymore. I was so close to the summit that nothing was going to stop me except for a plunge to the death over a precipice, which was not part of my race plan. I got to the summit and met Brian, who had been gradually switching into mountain-goat mode and was ready to make for the finish. He took off in a cloud of dust, leaving me to drink a little more water and take in the view. About half the runners around me were clutching rocks and vomiting. It was less troubling than it sounds because apparently Gatorade tastes the same way on the way up as it does on the way down. I didn't stick around to find out. It had taken me almost 5 ½ hours to reach the summit, so I headed right back to the trail to begin my descent.

Beautiful, but challenging . . .

It's hard to describe the feeling of relief that goes with starting the second, down-hill half of the race. Within minutes, everything seems easier. Heading down toward oxygen alone probably accounts for some of the excitement. The tough news, though, was that my descent was beginning at 12:30 p.m. on a sunny afternoon. While it was only about three miles back to the tree line, those three miles were still rugged, and the sun's relentless blaze baked me and all the bare rocks among which I had to navigate. My bottle of water began to seem small, and soon it was empty, too. As I picked my way through the stony desert below the summit, I began to fret. I was thirsty, having a hard time keeping up any kind of pace, and the cutoff for finishing was 5:00 p.m. I was over six hours into the race, and still had a little less than half of it to finish.

Every race presents its challenges, and this one had been a continuous grind from the moment we had set foot on the trail that morning. It seemed like such a long time ago. By the time I got back to the A-Frame, I was sunburned, tired, thirsty, hungry, and never so relieved in my life to see an aid station. I relaxed and recovered for a few minutes, sipping water and Gatorade, eating a few grapes, and having my lunch—some kind of weird hemp-protein bar that looked like something you'd run out of your way to avoid stepping in. It tasted a lot better than it looked, and after about five minutes, I felt revived. At least I was heading below the tree line to thicker air and shade. In my daze, I had been looking forward to some shade.

Don't fall!

The reality of the mountain became apparent quickly—evergreens are generally pointy, which means they almost never form any kind of canopy. The trail is the sunniest part—one more punch to roll with. I was heading into mid afternoon and feeling progressively more depleted. I was just beginning to indulge in a little self-pity when I heard agonized screams from down the trail ahead of me. I had already stumbled, but not fallen, about a dozen times, so I recognized the sound of those cries—a runner had crashed on the trail, and it did not sound good. The Barr Trail is easily runnable compared to the Appalachian Trail, but a fall will bring the ground up at you just as fast and hard either way. I was sure I was going to find some poor soul wedged among the rocks, but the screams subsided, and I saw no one for a while. I finally passed a woman holding her arm up in the air while an EMT jogged along next to her. She'd broken her arm and was still running!

Finished at last !

I knew that making the cutoff was going to take steady effort. I was very tired, and the downhill pounding was taking a toll on my legs. The few uphill stretches in the last few miles were a welcome relief, and I didn't mind running those at all. I finally felt my best along the last mile of pavement because I could run without the fear of tripping over rocks and roots. I was dehydrated, sunburned, and exhausted (in every way), but I'd beat the cutoff. It was hard to smile at first, but a sense of humor returned while I sat on a chair for a few minutes and debated with myself about whether or not to vomit right away. (I never did, though I felt like it would be a relief.) The nausea stayed with me for a while, but one can of Coke managed to cure it. Note: it has to be Coca-Cola for some reason. There's something in their formula that really helps. Other brands do not have the same effect. About ten minutes later, the injured woman with her arm now in a splint made it across the finish, too. Runners! What we won't do for a T-shirt.

Lessons from the Mountain

From the wall of Brian's Office

After showers and a few minutes to collect ourselves, we ended up in a private dining room at the Craftwood Inn for a delicious dinner that included various exotic critters like elk, caribou, venison, and antelope. My salad had cactus chunks in it. It was a unique way to celebrate the Pikes Peak experience. My only wear and tear was the sunburn—I got burned on the back of my hands, too!—and my quads were tender. Someone asked me, "Why would you want to put yourself through that?" It's the kind of question I should at least try to answer. Sometimes, while running along trails or back roads, it seems like you've stepped into a postcard. The beauty of Pikes Peak made the experience more like stepping into a poem, and I feel fortunate to have had an extra day's worth of poetry in my life. On the other hand, the race presented challenges I had to meet where I am weakest, and I could not pass up an opportunity to do something authentically difficult. I was frequently reminded during the race of a poem that Brian has posted on the wall of his office, a few lines about the rewards of confronting our fears. Running along a path at 14,000' is the very last thing on the face of the earth that would ever have sounded fun to me—ever. A few days after the race, though, I was thinking to myself, "I'd go back and do that. Definitely."

August 2006

* Pictures by Brian Fillman and Marcia Keene

The SRRC would love to hear about your running, racing, or crewing experiences! If you would like to submit a race report, to be posted on the SRRC website, please email srrunner@srrunners.org.