This is Who I Am: Tahoe 200 Endurance Run Race Report

“There is something magical about running; after a certain distance, it transcends the body. Then a bit further, it transcends the mind. A bit further yet, and what you have before you, laid bare, is the soul.” – Kristin Armstrong

“Repeat after me,” the Race Director of the Tahoe 200 Endurance Run, Candice Burt called through the megaphone. “If I get lost… hurt… or die… it’s my own damn fault.”

We dutifully repeated her words, half laughing, half hoping we didn’t get lost, hurt or die. I don’t remember how the race actually started—a word, a sound, a collective heart beat—I just know we were moving up the slope at Homewood Mountain Ski Resort, heading into the unknown. I positioned myself at the way back of the pack, such that I was within a group of the final 10 starters for the race.

What happened between those opening footfalls to the final ones is not easy to put into words. This race owns winding, twisting branches of living, learning, and simply being that connect us up through the trees, into the sky, and down through the earth, into the center of our souls. At some point, the branches embrace you tightly, and you belong to the forest.

These are my TRAIL PEOPLE

I spent most of the first day falling in and out of step with various other racers, each with a pleasant story to share. As we were able to reunite with crew until mile 62.9. these trail buddies were an important part of our collective success.

In the late afternoon of the first day, I fell in step with Matt. He was looking for a “night time trail buddy,” and so was I. There was safety in numbers when it came to lions, bears, or accidentally falling off a cliff. Matt was an army veteran, and a police officer, so I basically hit the lottery for best night time trail buddy.

I told him as such, to which he quipped, “I thought you were going to wrestle the bear.”

At one point during our traverse together, Matt informed me that if you put “trail” in front of almost any word, you improve it. For example:

• Trail running
• Trail snacks
• Trail dirt
• Trail rocks
• Trail [insert almost any other word here)

With that sort of banter, and a few shared trail farts, Matt and I became official trail buddies.

We arrived at the Wright’s Lake Aid Station (mile 44) in the dark hours when time lost meaning.

I saw my trail comrades (see what that “trail” does there?) in various states – from the eager and willing, to the dejected and defeated. I put myself in the eager camp.

I went to the food tables to see what was cooking. They had pancakes. I ate 3 of them, slathered in syrup. I grabbed a fourth one, put it on a paper plate, folded it, and put it in my pocket for later. I love food-in-the-pocket.

I surveyed the scene as I munched.

These are MY TRAIL PEOPLE. I smiled; the syrup ran down the side of my chin. We were dirty. We were cold. We were sore. AND WE WERE LIVING.

We didn’t know what was waiting for us in the night, lit by the orange glow of the Harvest Moon. But, we were ready to find out.

We left Wright’s Lake with our guts and hearts full. The next aid station was mile 62.9, Sierra at Tahoe, where I would re-unite with my crew for the first time since the previous morning: my husband John, his parents Jeannie and John, and my friends and pacers: Lindsay, Mike and Tim.

Trail Feet

It felt like a long haul to get to Sierra, because it was: 19 miles with about 3500 feet of gain. What a relief to see the lights of the aid station, twinkling just up the hill!

We are HERE!! I saw John, smiling.

“Hey!!” Right behind him was Lindsay, “What can we get you?”

They walked me to our area, where they had prepared a cozy and festively-lit scene. I sat down, put my feet up, and with that, the pit stop crew sprang into action.

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New socks. Trail Toes Lube. New shirt. NEW DAY.

I cleaned my feet, and changed my socks at every opportunity due to the dust. Prior to arriving at Sierra, we went through 2 sections of rocky, uneven, jutted, and impressively dusty rubicon trails. We stepped, and a POOF! of talcum-powder fine dust engulfed us. Now, multiply that single step by 200+ runners with 2 feet. I was coated. My legs looked as if I were wearing black stockings, so thick was the grime.

I was unfathomably dirty. I LOVED it.

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While all of this foot cleaning, and re-lubing and re-socking took time, it was worth it. Spoiler alert: I finished this race without a SINGLE blister. I had beautiful trail feet.

Wobbly and Wiggly

Lindsay was up first to pace me. As we left Sierra, the rising sun colored the sky. After a night of running, the sun creates you fresh each morning. It occurred to me this is how we should do life.

Lindsay delivered me into Housewife (mile 70.5), where I switched pacers to Mike, who was going to take me from Housewife through Armstrong (mile 88.1) to Heavenly (mile 103.1).

It took the first 24-30 hours of the race to internalize the rhythm of the course, which is a series of BIG ASS climbs out of aid stations, then a series of never-ending switchbacks descending into an aid station. There are some exceptions, where you actually climb endless switchbacks into the aid station. Put that on repeat for 205.5 miles. Throw in dust, rocks, some nice smooth soft trail sections that feel like a foot massage, and amazing beauty. There’s your course overview. The end.

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The temperature rose as we worked our way up a series of climbs. I felt the heat in my face, my core. And, then, the anxiety crept in.

Back in July, I started the Vermont 100 on a humid near 100-degree day. I made it to mile 70 before I pulled for heat stroke. That was my first DNF, and the memory still stings. It’s hard for me even to type these sentences. But the context is important.

The DNF loomed and leared. I tried to push the voices out of my head.

I’m just hot. I’m just hot. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

The scariest part of the heat stroke at Vermont is that it came out of nowhere. I was fine – until the moment I wasn’t. I feared that unannounced visitor.

In a weak moment, the voices grabbed me and shook me. I lost control, and cried to Mike, “I CAN’T GET HEAT STROKE AGAIN. I CAN’T DNF AGAIN, MIKE. MY HEART CAN’T TAKE IT.” *insert seriously ugly non-happy cry*

He felt my head. You see, Mike is a doctor. Who better to calm and convince me that I wasn’t dying than a DOCTOR?

Without missing a beat, Mike replied, “You won’t DNF, then. Seriously – you are just hot. Let’s rest in the shade and get your temp down.”

I laid on a rock in the shade. The rock was so cool, and I laid my face on it. I ate some crackers. I drank some water. I stood up and was ready to diesel on.

This experience was Mike’s first time at an ultra event, and thus, his first time pacing and crewing. He had never seen an “ultra meltdown” before, and he didn’t realize this was something that I could–and would–bounce back from.

I realized, Oh, shit. I just lost it – and he probably thinks I’m a nut job who’s going to DNF. I gotta get my shit together. So I did. We went on.

I would find out later that once at Armstrong Mike commented to John, “I don’t know if she’s going to make it. She’s wobbly.”

To which John replied, “She’ll make it. She gets wobbly.” My nickname is Diesel, not Graceful, after all. To Mike’s credit, he never let on that he thought I was a goner.

We somehow made it to Armstrong, mile 88.1, with my wobbling and wiggling through the trail to get there. The stretch from Housewife to Armstrong was likely some of my slowest going miles of the entire race, as well as the worst I felt for the entire race.

Take Me to the Christmas Shop

I took my time at Armstrong to get my shit right. I did my foot routine. I ate 3 different meals – quesadillas (or as the aid station called them: Castle-dil-ahs), pancakes, and a burrito. I laid down for 10 minutes.

I looked at the sky as I laid there. I decided: I’m done with the fucking pity party. Let’s do this shit.

I drank a double shot espresso, got my shit together and told Mike, “Let’s get it done.”

Every step from there felt better than the previous. We climbed out of Armstrong, steady and strong. I focused on quick steps, and up and up and up we went.

As part of the race prep, I created information sheets for each aid station, with a quote for me to muse upon for the next section. This section seemed especially fitting:

“Winning has nothing to do with racing. Most days don’t have races anyway. Winning is about struggle and effort and optimism, and never, ever, ever giving up.”  ― Amby Burfoot

I was back from the dead, baby! I am diesel.

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What goes up, eventually comes down. This included the trail and an epic fatigue crash. As we went down the seriously never-f@3king-ending descent into Heavenly, I started to hallucinate a touch.

I saw lights in the distance. I said to Mike, “Are we going to the Christmas Shop?”

Mike looked at me. For the second time that day, I’m certain I seriously alarmed him. Instead, he responded to see if I was lucid, “I’m Jewish.” And, I said, without skipping a beat (and yes, totally serious): “I bet they’ll have dreidels.”

Then, I snapped back to reality. No, those are just the lights of the town. The hallucinations are odd because you definitely see things that aren’t there, but then you also slowly realize they are not real. …Or are they?

Some time passed, and then Mike asked me if I liked Christmas decorations. I had completely forgotten about the whole Christmas Shop scene, and I said, “What? No. What makes you think that?”

No doubt in the darkness of the trail, Mike rolled his eyes and thought: How did I get stuck out here with a 2 year old?

I basically sleep-walked the descent into Heavenly, which had no less than 97 switchbacks to get there. At least, that’s how many I counted in the darkness, and after almost 40 hours of no sleep. Once in Heavenly, I ate a series of meals. John and Lindsay set the alarm for 90 minutes. I laid awake for a while, with my entire body throbbing. I had just come 103 miles – and my body felt every inch.

I never ran more than 102 miles. What would it be like? My mind raced as my muscles begged for mercy.

I finally fell asleep. Not for long, but it was AH-MAZE-ING. I woke up a few minutes before the alarm went off.

“Maria, are you ready?”

It was go time again.

Birth-Death-Rebirth

My athlete and friend, John Pierz, was also doing the race. (To prevent confusion with John the friend and John the husband, I’ll refer to Pierz as JP from now on.) As luck would have it, JP was leaving Heavenly the same time as I, in the dark of the early morning hours, each with our pacer: Amy with JP, and Lindsay with me.

Those pre-dawn hours were challenging, and I wound up taking a hard core 4 minute and 45 second dirt nap to gather my energy. The sun rose again shortly after, creating me anew yet again.

I ran, and then a little faster still. The freedom of living pulsed as we descended the switchbacks into Spooner Summer (mile 123.5). Legs, mind, and soul worked as one to deliver me to my next feeding. Throughout the race, I experienced several cycles of birth-death-rebirth just like this. Each cycle, I morphed a bit more deeply into a forest nymph.

I left Spooner with JP, and my husband John, who would pace us for the next 32 miles through Tunnel Creek (mile 140.5) to Brockway Summit (mile 155.5). The third day dawned with the promise of cooler temperatures, and whirling winds. My rebirth complete!

This was a fortuitous time to be reborn because somewhere around mile 144, we started up the most FUCKED UP climb on the entire course: The Powerline. Forget the forest nympth, I would need to be reborn into a mountain goat to survive this sucker.

The Powerline Climb began with a slim bit of trail, that went up into the clouds, underneath a powerline.

At first, it looked like a short, but steep climb. After the second false summit, the reality set in that we were climbing up, up, up to the very top. This was confirmed when we saw the bright yellow of another runner, waaaayyyy up in the sky.

The climb is about 1300 feet of climbing in one mile. At points, the ground looks you directly in the eye, as it stands tall in front of you. How steep? The average is about a 15% grade, but sections of that climb tilt to a ~30% grade.

But, the grade alone isn’t enough for this segment to earned The Most Fucked Up Climb Award. To unlock this achievement, please add overgrown bushes, loose dirt, and rolly polly rocks that leave you scuttling about. Some segments were so steep and unsteady we had no choice but to fast step or we would have slid back down.

I slipped, repeatedly. I cursed, repeatedly. My lungs burned. My muscles shrieked. I took brief moments of respite whenever the grade lessened such that I wouldn’t get spit off the side.

To fight the voices, I reminded myself that I signed up for this race because I wanted exactly this moment. I flipped my script, and whispered to myself: “I am grateful for this challenge.” Slip. Scrape. Curse. Then another reminder, louder now, “I am…[huff] grateful… [puff] for this challenge [wuff].”

Eventually, I uttered the sentence enough times that I believed it.

We finally arrived at a flatter section, at which point we deluded ourselves into believing it was the summit. How did we not learn this lesson?

We took pictures of the amazing view. We joked. I coughed black poofs of dust from somewhere inside.

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We started on, only to realize: nope, not the top. Mercifully, it was just a bit more to the actual summit.

With that climb behind us, night time descended for the third time, and we trudged onward toward Brockway Summit aid station, mile 155.5. These night time miles were hard going, as the death cycle returned. JP and I hallucinated an array of delusions, including (but not limited to): the witch from the Narnia Chronicles, eyes and faces (EVERYWHERE), my cat Lily, and military drones.

Unlike the previous descents into aid stations, Brockway comes at the top of a climb. In my sleep deprived head, I didn’t remember the profile, and assumed it would be a descent, like the others. We kept going up countless switchbacks.

I got pissed off, convinced we were lost, and yelled at the faces in the trees: “Why are we going up?” They didn’t seem to know.

I began muttering to myself. I was cranky. I needed real food, and WHY WERE WE CLIMBING AGAIN?

Suddenly, the trail gave way to a road. I saw our truck camper, with my next pacer Tim standing next to it.

“Hey,” he said, as if I just run into him at the grocery store.

“OMG – YES! Tim! I need to sit.” I promptly collapsed into the chair.

“We have left over pizza…” I didn’t even let Tim finish his sentence.

“Give it to me.” Clearly, I left my manners on the powerline climb. As I shoved the pizza in my mouth, I explained the climb to Tim. My voice was hoarse from the dust, and it made the story funny, instead of tragic. By now, the story was funny. That’s the beauty of time, it makes the best of hard moments.

^^Video taken earlier that day, as I climbed to the top of Powerline. You can hear how hoarse my voice was. This is an approximation of the story I told Tim later in those night time hours.

I ate 3 slices of cold, crappy West-coast pizza, but in that moment, it was BEST pizza ever. John brought me more food from the aid station – I don’t even remember what, but I ate that too. Did it really matter what the food was?

IT EATS THE FOOD.

Sticking to the make-it-up-as-we-go-sleep-plan, I laid down. Lindsay and John set the alarm for 2 hours. I don’t remember another thing until that alarm went off.

Dude, you stink.

I emerged from the blankets and John said, “Dude, you stink.”

Everyone else in the camper (Tim and Lindsay) agreed.

“Yeaaahhh. Pretty bad.” Collective nod.

“So, I’m a shit stank 10?” I asked.

“Yup.” And so was born Team Shit Stank 10. So much goes into unlocking this achievement – and it’s probably best I don’t share those details.

Each milestone, the Forest Nymph inside grew stronger. Just as I loved the Rubicon Dirt Stockings, I started to love my stank. I accepted it as the cost of being a nomad, wondering the woods, turned off from the grid, unencumbered by the inconveniences of civilization – and living my life as an animal.

My pacer Tim served as the pied piper, leading the forest nymphs out of Brockway Summit through the dark night – myself, Derek (a trail buddy we picked up at the aid station), JP and his pacer Amy.

As with the previous night, the sleepies pressed against me in the pre-dawn cold. I said to Tim, “I need a quick dirt nap.”

“Okay, want to find a good spot?” He asked.

I looked around. Dirt as far as I could see. “This is a good spot.”

The referee in my mind called: “Ooooouuuuuuttttt!”

I woke just before the buzzer.

“Your internal clock is dead on,” Tim said. The rhythm of the earth was my clock.

Once again, the sky shifted color. It’s coming! I thought, with excitement. Within 30 minutes, the sky was lit. Time to be reborn yet again! We made our way back to Tahoe City, running happily as the views of the forest were lit by the warming sun.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Nestled into my chair at Tahoe City, mile 175.5, I went through my routine: 3 meals, foot love, quick 5 minute nap, double shot espresso. Let’s do this shit.

Lindsay was up again for her third and final pacing duty. She took JP and I for the next 20 miles into the 13^th and final aid station at Stephen Jones, mile 195.5.

Hi, ho, hi, ho, it’s off to the woods we go!

Not long on to the trail, we saw two women walking a dog. They were trying to remove the race signs at a key intersection.

Lindsay asked, “Hey! Those are for the race. Which way was the arrow pointing?”

The women were cranky. Maybe they needed some trail snacks? “Um, these signs have been here for a week.” And they went on complaining, as they held the sign. We just needed to know which way the arrow was pointing.

I lost my temper. “The race LASTS 4 DAYS. Are those signs ruining your life?” I may have said other things, but that’s probably not important (or appropriate) right now.

The women finally put the sign back. JP worked to calm Lindsay and I down. He succeeded–barely. But, this altercation got us jazzed, so we ran pretty swiftly for mile 170-something.

JP said, “Hey, when you look at the file and see my heart rate, remember that’s when you and Lindsay decided to drop the hammer.”

We eventually settled into a rhythm, with the memory of the course-destroyers behind us. It was a reminder of civilization, but we were forest people. We had to get back into the woods.

In the distance, we saw storm clouds gathering. Our crew said there would be weather coming, and within moments, it came: the rain began. We dutifully got out our rain gear, and kept moving.

As we climbed, the rain turned to snow.

And then the snow got thicker, cutting visibility. Within 30 minutes, the snow coated the trail, our backs, our minds. We stopped under a tree to put on our puffies, and check the course map on GAIA. JP and I put on waterproof pants.

We climbed hard.

As we got closer and closer to the summit, the trail became harder to find, but Lindsay blazed through. We picked up footprints. We tucked deeply into our hoods, to keep the wind-pelted snow from blinding our vision.

We climbed harder.

Fighting concern, not a single one of us gave voice to our fears. We just climbed harder still.

We made the summit of that particular climb, where the snow was about 3-4 inches deep. We regrouped and assessed our situation. Lindsay was cold, and I could see she was trying not to show us that she was shivering.

JP pulled an emergency blanket from his pack, which Lindsay wrapped around her wet legs. As we descended, we took up a trot, then a run. While the snow continued, we knew we would make it out of there. After what seemed like an eternity, the sun poked backed out. A collective sigh of relief could be heard.

We made it down the climb, to the road that takes us to the Stephen Jones aid station. But not without an energy cost. We were wiped out: physically and mentally. We took time to trudge along the roadway. It was cold, as the wind blew across Lake Tahoe. We were ready to be at the aid station, which was still a few miles away.

JP and I shared a brownie that I had shoved in my pocket a million miles ago. In that moment, it was the best brownie ever. But, in reality, it was crumbly and dry. Never matter: it was amazing. Friendships forged more deeply over snow and brownies.

We trudged on.

It’s finally time to go to the Christmas Shop

As we came into Stephen Jones, I saw Santa running with two dogs. Hallucination?

Those look like my dogs, I thought, and then quickly realized, they were my dogs. John had taken the girlies out for a little jaunt.

“Ho ho ho!” he called out. “Are you ready to go to the Christmas Shop?”

We had made our way to mile 195.5. Ten miles to go before glory.

“Hell yes I’m ready to go to the Christmas shop!”

Santa pushed me in that final section. We charged up the climb to Ellis Peak, where the snow covered the trail.

The trail eventually descended, so we ran. I could scarcely believe that I was somewhere around 200 miles, and I was running, feeling boundless – physically and mentally. The sun set for the final time, and the snow offered an ethereal light.

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“There it is,” John said, when the lights of Homewood Ski Resort appeared around a switchback.

I looked up. The stars touched the recesses of the universe, and the branches embraced me. I wanted to stay there, in that moment. In the weeks since the race, I regularly see this moment, still vivid in my mind.

Sometimes, we go looking for something and other times that something finds us. When I started the Tahoe 200, I didn’t think I was looking for anything. But it certainly found me.

I was home on those trails. I remember thinking: This is who I am. This is what I do. With each step, I became more of who I am, and it felt good to be her in those moments. It still feels pretty good to be her, soul laid bare, embraced by the forest, and ready for what comes next.

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The gifts of joy and gratitude fill my heart.

Thank you to race director Candice Burt and her team, as well as the volunteers who couldn’t have been any better!

Most importantly: thank you to my crew, who gave up civilization to take care of me while I morphed into a forest nymph. I endeavor to live in such a way that I deserve to have you in my life. TEAM LAKE TACO, TEAM PRETZELS, TEAM 12 INCH HOLES, TEAM CHRISTMAS SHOP, TEAM SHIT STANK – you were my everything. Without you, I would not have been able to feel the magic, and find this finish line. Who’s up next? I’m ready to crew!

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