Day-old sushi rice, cold coffee, and a 2:45 am alarm. That's how Drew started his day at Gorge Waterfalls 100k — and somehow, it only got harder from there. Here's his account of a grueling sixty-plus-mile race through one of the most stunning stretches of trail in the Pacific Northwest.
Drew: The abruptness of an alarm shrieking at 2:45am jolts me awake. I’m up far quicker than most mornings, but a dull nausea finds its way into my stomach as I down day-old sushi rice topped with Kikkoman, washed down by day-old coffee. While uninvited, the mix of nerves and nausea is like the quiet grind of a chain on a commuter bike, as familiar as an old friend, but best ignored.
I’ve never been a morning person, so getting to Karo by 3:20 requires some tricks. A quick cold shower, a pre-packed Aysén 32L race bag, and a bib pre-folded and pinned to the bottom of my half-tights. Making it down the geriatrically paced elevator and out to the damp garage by 3:26 (only slightly late) proves I haven’t been body-swapped, and I’m met with big smiles from Karo and Koken. Radiating warmth mixed with a jumble of pre-race nerves collide as we exchange hugs and good lucks for the racing ahead. We send Koken back to his warm bed—none of us knowing that he will take a commanding win and CR at his first race in an ACG singlet tomorrow—and we are off.
The next 90 minutes are a blur. Windshield wipers, lo-fi jazz, and the unique darkness of an Oregon highway before sunrise. Neon-vested volunteers kindly spin us around, parking full, which leaves us with a nice stroll to the start. The warm lights of a community pavilion, buzzing with bodies, bring me back to nights at warming huts next to outdoor rinks. As I step inside, my nerves are met with friendly faces. Some known, some new. Race kit handoff to Shae and her mom. Hugs from David and Tony. Tony, a pillar of the sport, is handing the camera to Sammy for his first 100k today. The last of the pre-race flask with Mortal goes down, and a quick slurp of my first SIS Beta Fuel. 17 more gels to come, if all goes well. A quick jog and a stop at the porta-john, and the headlamp is lit. Start line words from Deb, “Under leafy cover, as we put foot to soil,” and we are running.
And We Are Running
Out along a sidewalk we go, Shea leading. A shuttered Eastwind Drive-In goes by in a flash as I find Jesh. I weigh my desire to swap life updates, curious to hear of tales and couloirs in Anchorage, with the knowledge that energy conservation is the name of the game this early. Our flickering headlamps find trail for the first time. Patience, I remind myself, sitting in the back half of the top ten. Another SIS, another bottle of Mortal. The sparkle of the first aid station—voices, whoops, yells—and a spike of cortisol. I find Bumby and Chris, two legends who have become friends, a quick bottle drop, and the vest goes on. Back into the darkness, alone with the weight of eight gels and five packets of Skratch, enough for the next 27 miles. I bridge back to the leaders, I eat my first caffeinated Maurten, I chirp at Fred and Mike as I run through a creek. Blacktop and a few miles in the 5s. We are still running.
Our headlamps are stashed, and the pack thins from eight to five. The waterfalls that we are passing are melting my mind. I’m starting to work, but I’m still doing everything to stay within myself, to let miles quietly slip by unnoticed as I eat more SIS and keep the Skratch flowing. We hit the biggest climb of the day around 18 miles, not remotely HC category but still to be respected, and Jesh goes to the front. Much like the many hours at CCC last summer, I find myself following his footsteps with intentionality, both listening to the other’s breathing, the unacknowledged but well-understood testing has begun. We are now two. We are still running.
A steep descent, and I’m back with my people at the second crewed aid station. Six SIS, one Caf Maurten, one Precision, and four flasks explode out of my half tights, the empty remnants of good eating from the last ~3.5 hours. Chris and Bumby have a calm urgency as Jesh heads up the road. Two iced flasks are slid into my salt-stained vest, and gels are placed in my hands. I’m trying to focus, but I’m only catching fragments, “right where you need to be”… "a steady climb out”… ”keep eating”… but the mind is starting to shift. I’ve been patient, and now I want to start racing. For the next hour, I catch glimpses of Jesh, but just a taste. We are still running.
I am now alone, but not in the way one visualizes before a race. Jesh is pulling on the elastic, and I’m doing everything I can to not let it snap. For an indeterminate amount of time, I begin to toy with the pessimistic corners of my mind—doubts and unknowns sprinkled with sadness—and then I’m on the ground. Fragments of volcanic rock in my knee and hand break the trance. With the unpleasant feeling of blood dripping off my fingertips, I’ve regained my intention. I’m utterly present in one of the most beautiful places in the world. It’s time to work. It’s time to tap into a reserve of belief that tells me his is going to come back. We are still running.
Jesh and I pass each other on the last out-and-back on the course, and I start the mental clock. I hit the aid station, and Bumby reminds me that I’m not allowed off the hook that I set for myself days before. I’m not speaking much, but the gels are still going down. A good sign this late in a race. I head back towards Cascade Locks.Tick...tick…tick. Time is passing as if I’m a child watching a microwave. Quiet trails for what feels like ages. Then, a burst of friends. Lotti and Brett and Todd and Dov and Karo and Jordan and fellow Drew. The final aid station. Words of encouragement and a flask of Coke for survival. Keep pushing, stay on it, keep the negotiations at bay. Jesh is gone, but I’m still pushing. We are still running.
The Columbia River opens in front of me. DBo’s voice cuts through the air. The sweet relief of the finish. The fire of poison oak to come.
A beautifully simple sport.
