I’m
not sure when my obsession with Angeles Crest 100 started, but I was enamored
by its long history, folklore-epitomized difficulty, and mystique of being in
the San Gabriel Mountains. AC100 is a 100-mile (161 km) race with an elevation
gain of 21,810 ft (6,648 m) and loss of 26,480 ft (8,071 m). Between training
camp in May and a weekend in June, I had seen the course in its entirety. I
knew that the course would be tough, challenging my inexperience with heat,
altitude, and technical downhills. The hardest section would come in the last
25 miles.
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| AC100: Wrightwood to Altadena in the San Gabriel Mountains |
I
spent the week before the race in Boston at an American Heart Association
conference. This was not ideal because the days were long, and I didn’t get a
chance to take care of my body. I tried to get as much sleep as possible, but I
really didn’t have any time to run, stretch, or strength-train.
My
return back from the conference was very stressful. The Uber I had called cancelled
on me. Then, the second Uber kept circling around SFO because there was
construction at the airport, and he kept getting lost. By the time I got home,
I had 1 hour to pack for my race before my sister, Amanda, and I headed to
SoCal. I haphazardly threw a bunch of things into the car and crossed my
fingers that I had everything I needed.
We
drove most of the way that night and stayed in a hotel about an hour away from
the start line. The next morning, I wanted to sleep in a bit longer, but we had
to get to the start line to submit my drop bags in time. I was getting excited
about the race. I checked in, got my bib number, and caught up with friends I
made at training camp.
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| Bib pick-up in Wrightwood PC: Ivan Buzik |
I
spent the rest of the day writing final notes to my crew, getting ice, and cutting
up fruit that I could eat during the race. While putting things in my hydration
pack, I realized I forgot to pack extra salt caps. Oh well, I will have to make sure I get them at the aid stations.
The
night before the race, I slept intermittently about 4 hours. I thought that the
exhaustion from the conference and the stressful trip back would put me into a
powerful slumber. Instead I was nervous about the day to come and kept thinking
about things I forgot to tell my crew who was flying into LAX that night.
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| Graham, Amanda, Annalisa, and Cameron at our cabin in Wrightwood PC: Honoka Eguchi |
At
4 am, my sister took me to the start line, we checked in, and waited for the 5
am start. I was just glad that I was toeing the start line without being sick.
I ran my last 100-miler with a cold, and I shuddered remembering how I couldn’t
breathe or eat during the race.
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| Starting the race at 5 am in Wrightwood PC: Honoka Eguchi |
Co-race
director Gary Hillard started the count-down, and we were off at 5 am. I had a time
goal of 27 hours, and my intent was to hike the climbs, especially in the first
25 miles, and run the flats and the descents. I needed to make sure I conserved
and felt relaxed until I got to Red Box (mile 60).
Even
though the climbs felt calm and relaxed, I was struggling with the running part.
My lungs were burning at an altitude of 7,500 ft (2,286 m), and I was not even
pushing the pace. I checked into the first aid station 9 miles in, realizing
that my time goal of 27 hours was slipping through my fingers.
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| View from Mt. Baden Powell |
The next push
was a 3.6 mile to the highest point in the race, Mt. Baden-Powell at 9,300 ft (2,835
m). Again, the climb felt solid but I could feel the thin air getting to me. I
knew I had to run the downs at a good pace to make up for hiking the long climbs.
As I descended from the highest point in the race, I tripped over a rock.
Thankfully, I didn’t fall but I could feel my calf being on the verge of a
cramp because I was lacking salt. I forgot
to pick up salt caps at the last two aids stations.
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| A significant portion of the first quarter is on the Pacific Crest Trail |
As
I continued on the technical downhill, I began to feel light-headed and the
lack of oxygen was remarkably apparent. I’m not sure whether I lost consciousness
for a split second or simply could not stay focused on the trail, but I tripped
over another rock, flew over the single-track, and found myself landing like an
X, face-down on the landslide below, clutching the dirt with my hands and teeth
so I wouldn’t continue sliding down to the valley below. I tried to push myself
up, but both of my calves and my right hamstrings were cramped. At this point
in the race (mile 18), the crowds had not thinned out, and the next three
runners flipped me over and pulled me up onto the trail.
“Can
you get up?”
“My
calves and hamstrings are cramped. I can’t get up.”
“Are
you lacking salt?”
“Yes.”
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| Clear skies in the San Gabes |
Once
I was off the landslide, I regained control of my muscles. One guy gave me a
muscle relaxant for the cramping, and another guy gave me two salt caps. Meanwhile,
the conga line kept moving behind me with the occasional runner asking if I was
ok, and me responding, “Yes, keep going.”
I
stood up, and the three men who lifted me from the landslide urged me to slow
down. I spent the next few minutes assessing the damage, spitting the dirt out
of my mouth, and processing what had just happened. Ok, good. Just superficial abrasions on my left knee, stomach, and my thighs.
Adrenaline
was rushing through my veins, but I was tired. Just get to the next aid station and things will turn around.
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| Coming down Islip Saddle with my torn shirt PC: Ivan Buzik |
I
ran into Islip Saddle (mile 26) on a mission. “I need salt!” I told the volunteers.
I bummed as many salt caps as I could from this aid station.
In
my rush to get in and out of the aid station, I ran past Annalisa and Amanda. I
backtracked to the sounds of their voices yelling my name.
“I
had a really bad fall.” I showed them the scars on my belly and my knee.
“I’m
really struggling with the altitude, and I ran out of salt,” I started crying
in frustration.
“Just
breathe, and don’t think about the past, just think about this point going
forward,” my pacer, Kevin, said.
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| Putting sunscreen on my dirt-covered face PC: Amanda Mullins |
I
was covered head to toe in dirt, and I was so happy to clean up with a wet
towel. I ate my smoothie and fruit, put on sunscreen, and got loaded with ice. As
I took off, I looked at my watch. Ok, now
I’m 45 minutes behind schedule. Let’s shoot for a 28-hour finish.
I
made it to the next two aid without any hiccups. Friends from training camp, Felix
and Cody, were keeping me in good spirits along the way. I gave Pikachu a
high-five before getting to Cloudburst Summit (mile 33).
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| Heading to Eagle's Roost (mile 28) PC: Honoka Eguchi |
The
heat was starting to take a toll on me, and I knew I was pushing the pace on the
~10 mile road section. At Cloudburst, I met Annalisa, Amanda, and Kevin. I put
on my trail shoes here and loaded up with more ice. I knew I was spending too
much time at the aid stations, but after the fall at mile 18, I was keenly
aware that I needed to take extra time to take care of myself.
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| Getting ice from Annalisa PC: Amanda Mullins |
On
my way to Three Points (mile 38), I heard a lady singing at the top of her
lungs, “Can you feel the love tonight?” It was Frannie from training camp coming
up behind me in all her glory. Then going through the yellow gate at Glenwood, I
saw another friend, Heidi. Approaching Chilao, I ran into Kevin from my
training weekend in June. It was fun knowing that I was sharing the miles with
friends.
Mt.
Hillyer (mile 41) to Chilao (mile 45) was a really tough section with blazing
heat over large boulders and many off-shoots disguised as trail. I couldn’t
wait to pick up my pacer, Cameron, at Chilao. While I ate my fruits and
smoothie at this aid station, Graham made sure I got loaded with ice.
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| Climbing into Shortcut Saddle PC: Graham Erwin |
The
section to Shortcut Saddle (mile 51) was technical at times, but I made it to
this aid station with the new 28-hour finish goal still within grasp. Now, my
quads were beginning to feel spent, and I realized that I was starting to crash.
It was beginning to get really hard to run downhill, and Cameron was starting
to get bored with my slowness. I asked him to run ahead of me so that he wouldn’t
run into me during my frequent stop-and-go spurts. The sunset was really
beautiful as we descended into West Fork.
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| Sunset from Red Box PC: Graham Erwin |
At
Red Box (mile 60), I knew that I had a long night ahead of me, but I was
determined to get to the finish line. My quads were shot, and I could barely
run. I asked Graham to relay the message to the rest of the crew that I was
going to get to Chantry Flat (mile 75) much later than anticipated. I wanted to
scrap our original plan and have the crew wait at home, but I felt like we were
not communicating. It had been a long day for Graham, and it was reasonable
that my suggestions were not clear.
 |
| Crawling into Red Box (mile 60) PC: Graham Erwin |
Anna
from training camp got me chicken noodle soup and cleaned my wounds from my
fall at mile 18. I felt defeated and was regretting my pace earlier in the day
that put me in this condition. Cameron offered to continue with me to Chantry,
but I needed to get in the right headspace to chase cutoffs the remainder of
the race.
I
left Red Box with a burning desire to finish, but it started to sink it that I
only had 16 hours left to cover 41 miles. Even though my quads were shot, I
knew I had to run as much as possible to keep my average pace low. Mallory from
training camp told me at the spaghetti dinner the night before that he would be
close to the cutoffs on race day. I didn’t register what he was saying at the
time, but now I was admiring his tenacity to get on the start line, fully aware
of the close calls to come – this feeling that suddenly hit me like a ton of
bricks. Do I have what it takes to chase cutoffs?
At
mile 62, I threw up everything I had eaten at the previous aid station and more.
The nausea hit me most unexpectedly. I kept sipping on my energy drink but
every sip made me feel even more nauseous. Maybe
I need more salt.
I
took two salt caps and washed it down with plain water. At mile 67, I threw up violently
again. The nausea was physically draining, and I was in survival mode just
trying to get to the next aid station.
At
Newcomb (mile 69), I saw a medic who had a melodious voice and calmed my
nerves. I told her that I threw up twice, and I can’t seem to get rid of the
nausea. I was also concerned about hyponatremia. First, she suggested that I
sit, and let my stomach settle a little bit. My oxygen level was 95%. “That’s a
bit low, but you’re fine!” she said cheerfully. “You’ve just over-exerted
yourself, and that’s why you’re throwing up. Sixty miles is a long way to go!”
Then,
she had me eat potatoes slowly and drink some soda. “What happens if I drop
here?”
“You
don’t want to drop here,” the medic said. Newcomb was a wilderness aid station
with no crew access. “If you drop here, you’ll have to wait with me until
morning when we close the aid station. You’re fine! Just take a nice stroll to
Chantry. It’s all downhill and a short climb into the aid station.”
Five
minutes after I had taken my last bite, the medic gave me permission to go. I
was at this aid station for 47 minutes. My race was over. I just needed to get
to Chantry (mile 75), where I would meet Amanda, Annalisa, and Kevin. I’d get
to go home.
The
next 6.6 miles was not as pleasant as the medic had made it sound. The
beginning of the six-mile descent was steep and technical. I was cursing the medic
at Newcomb, but as I traversed the descent, I could see Los Angeles and all the
beautiful city lights twinkling below.
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| LA twinkling in the valley below |
I
felt like someone recovering from food poisoning – tired, dehydrated, and strained
with acid in the esophagus. Even though I was going at a snail’s pace, I was
content. I’d be at Chantry eventually, and the suffering would be over. What did this mean for my future racing?
Would I be terrified of the AC100 course forever? I admired all the people
who passed me and were still running. Go catch
that cutoff!
As
I made short 0.6 mile climb up Chantry, I knew it would all be over soon. My
sister would drive me home on Sunday, and I’d get to sleep in my own bed. I
felt comforted by the warm and fuzzies.
“Asuka,
is that you?” Kevin asked as I approached the top of the hill.
“Yeah.
Sorry it took me forever to get here.”
“It’s
ok, we still have time to get you out of the aid station.”
I
burst into tears. “I’m not going back out there. I can’t even drink a sip of
water without throwing up. There’s no way I can finish this race without fueling.”
Annalisa
and Amanda nervously restocked my hydration pack as I argued with Kevin.
“You
need to get out there and give it your all. If you don’t put it all out there on
the course, you’re going to regret it. You’re going to see that second sunrise,
and it’s going to lift your spirits,” Kevin said reassuringly.
“Do
you want to change your socks?” Amanda asked.
“I’M
NOT GOING BACK OUT THERE!” I screamed in disbelief.
Before
the race, I had told my crew and pacers not to let me quit unless I had an injury
that was going to have lasting damage to my health or I was throwing up for
five consecutive hours. They were now holding me up to these conditions.
“Let’s
just go up one mile, and if you are still feeling terrible, you can just walk
back down to this aid station,” Kevin said.
“Here’s
some soup. Do you want to change your socks?” Annalisa asked.
I
drank the soup and changed my socks. In my terrible state of mind, I read the distance
to the next aid station wrong. I calculated that there was enough time to meet
the next cutoff as long as I went at a 30 min/mi pace. Kevin quickly nodded in
agreement without correcting me.
We
left Chantry four minutes before the cutoff. I was going to prove to Kevin that
he was wrong. My body had shut down, and even if I could make it to the next
aid station in time, there was no way that I would be able to keep my average
pace below 20 min/mi to finish the race. I had 26 miles left with 6,050 feet of
gain and 6,900 feet of loss. I only had 8 hours and 40 min left to cross the
finish line. I knew a good deal of the descents would be technical, and the
thought of going down those hills scared me.
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| Elevation profile of Angeles Crest 100 |
Kevin
cut me off, “No, no, no, no, no. You trained enough. You’re going to make it.”
You don’t even know me.
How do you know I trained enough?
About
45 minutes after we left Chantry, the sun began to rise. My body started accepting
food and water again. I guess circadian
rhythms do regulate the digestive system after all.
“Keep
your breathing relaxed, and just stay focused on taking care of yourself. Once
we get to the top of the hill, you’ll have a long downhill,” Kevin said
encouragingly.
I
burst into tears again. “I can still climb. It’s the downhills that I can’t do
anymore.”
Every
step of the descent was painful on my quads and knees, but I knew I had to move
if I wanted to make it to the finish line. I whimpered incessantly and cursed whenever I
tripped over a rock.
“Just
continue to stay relaxed, eat, and drink. Don’t worry about your pace. I’m sure
that once we get close to the finish line, you’ll be able to run some 10-min
miles,” Kevin said.
What? That’s your plan?
I can’t run anymore – can’t you see that?!
I
couldn’t believe that I was continuing on in this condition, but I just tried
to turn my brain off. Just make it to the
next aid station.
The
climb to Sam Merrill (mile 90) was hot and punishing. I was able to drink some
soda here and got some relief from the heat with ice. One of the volunteers
told Kevin that he met the cutoff at a different race by running for 2 days and
3 hours. Wow – how inspiring.
As
we got closer to Millard Canyon (mile 96), my body was overheating. The heat
made my muscles feel less stiff, though, so I could push the pace a bit more.
We had 5 miles left and a little over 1.25 hours before the absolute cutoff.
Now that I could smell the finish line, the adrenaline was suppressing the pain,
and I had my running legs back.
“I
really need to cool down,” I announced as I got to this aid station. “I just
need 5 minutes.”
“YOU
DON’T HAVE FIVE MINUTES!” a volunteer at the aid station shouted. “Do you want
a popsicle?”
As
I grabbed the popsicle from her, I insisted, “I can run now. I’m just overheated, and I really need to cool down. Just give me
five minutes. I can run. Right, Kevin?”
He
nodded nervously.
After
my pack, bottle, and buff were filled with ice, another volunteer goaded me on.
“Ok, it’s time to go!”
I
looked at my watch, and it had only been 3 minutes. “I just need one more
minute.”
“30
seconds!” the volunteer responded.
Really? You’re going to
cheat me out of 30 seconds right now?
As
I took off from this aid station, I noticed that my pack wasn’t jangling with
ice. Those volunteers forgot to put ice in my pack! I took a sip of water and
noticed it was cold. Oh no, the ice already
melted.
The
heat radiating from the walls of Millard Canyon was absolutely brutal. I
touched my shirt and noticed that all the ice I had put in my sports bra had
melted, too. Not even a minute had passed since we left the aid station. I
could feel the heat emanating from the dirt trail through the soles of my
shoes. Even though I was certain that I could finish when I left the aid
station, the heat quickly killed my confidence.
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| Getting to the home stretch in Loma Alta Park PC: Honoka Eguchi |
The
last four miles of trail before entering civilization was long and more
technical than I remembered. It wasn’t until I exited the trails and hit the
asphalt with one more mile to go that I felt sure I could complete the race. By
the time I arrived, many of my training camp friends were already at the finish
line for the awards ceremony. I crossed the finish line with 16 minutes to
spare. Only two more people finished before the absolute cutoff.
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| Getting to the finish line 16 minutes before the cutoff PC: Ivan Buzik |
I
could not have done this crazy race without my crew, Honoka, Annalisa, Amanda,
and Graham as well as my pacers, Cameron and Kevin. Through all the whimpering,
crying, and complaining of the heat, Kevin maintained his patience and kept me
focused on staying relaxed and not falling on my face. I will never know why he
believed in me even after I was fully convinced that my body had shut down at
Chantry.
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| My training camp friends at the finish line PC: Honoka Eguchi |
At
the awards ceremony, they presented plaques and buckles backwards from dead last
finisher to first place. As I approached the race directors when they called my
name, someone blurted out, “Isn’t that the girl who UltraSignup predicted would
win the race?” Damn straight, and I almost finished last, but I finished, even
after I thought the race was over at mile 75, and the finish was so much sweeter
for it.
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| AC100 finisher's plaque PC: Honoka Eguchi |
Time 32:43:28
Overall Place 153/155
Gender Place 24/25
