Browned Avocados: Getting Tan at the Zion 100

I sincerely wish I could wrap up the entire Zion 100 experience, cram it into a jar, and carry it around my neck like how Bob carried Gill in What About Bob?

Because holy shit. There’s so much to say, so much I don’t want to forget.

And yet, there’s so much that I know I won’t be able to do justice. And so much that was so special, I just want to keep it to myself.

So here’s a bit about it with some appropriate humor from my favorite, Mark Remy, the Dumb Runner.

After 6 years of thinking about 100 miles, trying, and failing, I finally experienced it and I’m at peace knowing I’ll never duplicate it and I’ll never even try to top it.

I’m so grateful I picked this race for 2019, then deferred it to 2020, and then felt the tragic loss of it canceled one month before because of COVID.

Stupid 2020.

But in honesty, I wasn’t mentally or physically ready anyway.

But 2021? Now that’s a different situation entirely.

The 2021 Zion 100 felt right in my heart and soul. I protected it, kept it secret, and thought of very little else. Something inside me knew this was my year, my day, and my distance.

For those who don’t ever want to experience 100 miles, but have gotten married or been in a wedding, a 100 miler is a lot like a wedding. You plan and plan and plan and make lists and buy stuff and make more lists and ask your friends to do stuff for you and to travel and for advice and for help.

And when it’s over, you buy your friends gifts to thank them for all they’ve done like you do your wedding party.

I think when all is said and done, I had something like 6 or 7 spreadsheets for different elements of this: pace chart (thanks again Will), packing list, training plan, nutrition plan, event schedule, drop bag plan, etc.

I was ready.

Even when I started, despite nerves and what-ifs, just seeing the people out there running the flats and downhills, but walking the uphills, I knew, these are my people, this is my race.

When the sun came up and I could see the course markers were pink flags with silver glitter ribbons, duh, two of my favorite colors, this is my race.

And let’s talk about the sunrise on top of Gooseberry Mesa in Utah.

Holy. Shit.

I normally don’t bother taking pictures, but how could I not?

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So look. I already decided there’s no way I can write this chronologically without it being a million pages long and really boring, so here’s the deal:

This will be a series of random memories that I never want to forget.

Starting with how I unintentionally wound up doing 50 miles in road shoes.

On a tip from a Zion 100 veteran, I started in road shoes because 12ish of the first 18 miles are notoriously painful slick rock.

At some point, I intend to research whether or not slick rock is harder than concrete, but today is not that day.

My plan was to switch to my favorite trail shoes at Mile 18. I had a drop bag waiting there with said shoes and poles for a seriously steep descent down Gooseberry Mesa.

Only, the drop bag wasn’t there.

Fuuuuuuuuck.

I stood there aimlessly staring at the pile, willing that bag to appear under another bag and when it didn’t, I moved on.

My boss, who’d run the 100K distance in 2019, warned me about the descent off Gooseberry. Knowing how easily I fall down, he assured me I’d definitely fall down this hill. More than once.

I’m glad I didn’t because it was steeper than anything I’d mentally prepared for. And it was slick with fine desert dirt, so even the best trail shoes had very little grip.

Guys part of this hill is a 40% grade. And this picture doesn’t do it justice, of course.

It’s no joke.

One of the guys I’d been leapfrogging all morning exchanged some stressed downhill sarcasm with me and he let me know the steepest part was yet to come.

It was in that exchange that I realized he’d done this course before. Little did I know, I’d be soaking up his knowledge of the course throughout the rest of the day.

I survived that steep-ass one-mile decent somehow without falling and realizing with a fair amount of lingering dread that I’d have to climb back up it around 75 miles.

By the bottom, my road shoes had scooped up so much fine dirt through the meshy toe box, that I was starting to feel the faintest hotspots in my right heel.

And I maintain that road shoes or not, at 26 miles, I should’ve changed my socks.

Now I know. Dumb.

Anyway, I had a few lonely miles as I entered into the desert section for the rest (and the hottest part) of the day.

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This year, due to parking permit issues, the course had been rotated by about 20 miles.

I learned from my leapfrog friend that the desert section is usually done by the back-of-the-packers at night. And we were getting to do it in the heat of the day.

Hooray for this super heat-intolerant idiot!

But I had committed to taking those miles easy so as to not overheat and since my leapfrog friend was staying close in pace, I knew I was just fine sticking to my plan.

The beauty of doing this section in the light is I got to run past what I would later learn is a mountain bike course for psychopaths.

Seriously. You guys think running 100 miles is crazy? It’s not. Compared to this.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.

Nope.

I also got to run along the Virgin River, which meant seeing my favorite birds flying together (swallows and hawks). Never seen that before.

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I also got to see some horses, none of whom bit my boob.

Anyway, by the time we got to the Smith Mesa climb, a pavement road still in the heat of the day (barf), my leapfrog friend, Cory, and I had joined forces with a guy, Bryan from New York.

We settled into a comfortable pace and chit-chatted and I was grateful for the uphill to take the pressure off the growing blister on my heel. Fucking blisters.

But I got to learn that Cory had finished the Zion 100 each of the 9 years it had been around and he told me why the section we were about to connect with was called “Flying Monkey,” a story, I’m not sure I like very much.

The top of Smith Mesa houses an old government-run aeronotical facility. Years ago, they were testing ejection seats…ejecting them off the side of the mesa to see if the passenger could survive the landing.

They used monkeys.

And no, most passengers could not survive the landing.

Unfortunately, 3/4 of the way up the climb, Bryan had to stop. He’d been so excited to accept a popsicle from a family at the bottom of the climb, but now that popsicle was ready to say hello again.

We felt terrible. Our pace, for a guy from sea-level, who was probably very dehydrated, had been too much.

We continued on, hoping to see Bryan again, but never did.

Poor dude. I feel terrible that I’m partly to blame for him losing his beloved popsicle.

Cory and I split at the next aid station, but joined up again (thankfully) just before the scariest shit on the course.

Cory had warned me about this part and I, as a person who’s afraid of heights to a paralyzing degree, had been worrying about it for miles and mile as the sun went down and I was pretty much alone on the course.

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Just before it, I’d texted my crew that I was 2.5 miles out from the aid station to meet them and pick up a pacer (thank god).

Sounds quick, right?

Wrong.

This section is steep, with more stupid slippery sand and a lot of it, in road shoes, it’s narrow, and there’s a fucking 150-foot cliff.

My palms are sweating as I write this.

Also, like it or not, heights give me vertigo. Especially heights with a lot of exposure.

And again. Road shoes.

So we traversed a very narrow, slanted, slippery trail to where we could see the rope, but couldn’t quite get to it. I noticed the woman in front of us struggling through some fear as she lowered herself down the steep section and her fear added to my fear.

When I realized the only way to get to the rope was to slide on my butt with only very tiny rocks to maybe catch my fall so I didn’t plummet over the side of the cliff before reaching the rope, sheer panic set in and hyperventilating ensued.

Fuuuuuck.

I like how one of the other runners described it: a controlled slide with barely qualifying hand or foot holds to keep from sliding off the side.

(For the record, this section has gotten very eroded since previous years and the race director let us know it will probably be removed from the course in future years. Those people won’t even know what they’re missing!)

With Cory behind me, also panicking, and a guy behind him, also panicking, I was able to eventually get my foot secure on a tiny little rock enough to borrow a pole and reach for the rope.

Then I got to, with shaky everything, rappel down the side of the rock and was rewarded with actual solid ground and the chance to help Cory and our new near-death friend get through it themselves.

Again, photos don’t do it justice. Probably because the picture is missing the cliff off to the left.

Fuck. That.

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I knew I needed to let my crew know that the 2.5 miles wouldn’t be very fast, but I couldn’t risk the shaking and the vertigo to send the text (there was still a cliff next to me, after all).

This is when my avocados on my shorts turned brown.

All day, I’d been getting compliments on my shorts: lady avocados lifting weights. The shorts were white.

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And in light of the these two photos, I have no choice but to add this here:

I love wearing white on race day because of the added challenge to get it dirty.

And fuck yeah, that stupid cliff rose to the challenge.

I spent the next 50 miles fielding comments about my brown butt and thinking nothing of it. I figured, I had a nice couple of brown buttcheeks from sliding around and I wore that dirt with pride…since I almost died, after all.

It only took me another 40 miles do realize I could make a joke about how the avocados had turned brown overnight, which at Mile 90, delighted the other runners, my pacer, and me.

I also had no idea that my ideal brown buttcheek image of myself was completely off.

No, no, my buttcheeks weren’t brown, it was just my buttCRACK.

Before I started on race morning, I slathered myself with Vaseline so I wouldn’t chafe.

Vaseline + desert dirt = brown buttcrack

So I spent 50 miles proudly displaying what looked like a baby’s diaper blowout without realizing it.

And now that I know, I wouldn’t do it any differently.

I guess it’s pretty appropriate for me, of all people, to proudly finish a race looking like I’d shat myself.

Anyway, after the cliff, Cory and I declared that surviving that acrobatic miracle made us best friends for life.

Unfortunately, he got hurt and dropped and I didn’t get to see him again.

Soon I saw three familiar figures in the the distance. Will, Steve, and Scott were a sight for sore eyes.

As they gave me escort into the aid station, I figured my they’d call bullshit on my cliff story, but they said they’d been watching in disbelief for two hours as people’s headlamps slowly scaled down that cliff.

This was also when I found out Steve and Will had shared miles with Cory in 2015 when Steve ran the Wasatch 100 (two weeks after he finished Leadman–sorry Steve, I won’t stop bragging about that until I’m dead).

The CSU boys delivered me to the aid station, to my chair, and to Shelley.

Shelley. Bless her.

She crewed on a sprained ankle. She always had wipes and socks at the ready when I arrived.

See? Every single picture I have from seeing Shelley, day or night, she’s holding either wipes or socks.

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When she knew I was hurting, she’d say, “remember, the buckle.”

And she always said, “we love you” as I headed out.

Get yourself a Shelley and never let her go.

Once, I was cleaned up, road shoes exchanged for trail shoes, and headed for the next adventure, Steve asked me how much Cory told me about himself.

I cheerfully reported the flying monkey story and that Cory had become my course guide and one of my best friends.

Then Steve told me who Cory is…and why a guy at an aid station was fan-girling all over him “Ohhhh Fast Cory, Fast Cory, I heard you were out here today, how exciting! Did you know that your dog and my runner’s dog have the same name?”

I remember wondering how the hell this weird guy knew so much about Cory’s personal life.

Well, in the ultramarathon world, Cory’s famous.

HAH! Who knew?

A couple years ago, Steve read the book Nowhere Near First. I remembered loving the title, since I’m a notorious back-of-the-packer, but didn’t pick it up myself.

I had no idea that I had been sharing miles with its author.

Buy his book. I dare you. If you click on his face, it’ll take you straight to Amazon.

I’ll wait.

And now, because Cory is famous, I can’t get through all his fans on social media so we can be best friends forever.

So give me a second while I write only to Cory…

Cory, if you ever read this, I’m excited to read your book.

And I want to be friends in real life not because you’re famous, but because you were one of my favorite parts about the Zion 100 and we almost died together and because you shared miles with two of my favorite people in 2015.

And I also love talking to other writers.

Thank you for putting up with all my cussing. I should really work on that.

And thank you for being such a great companion for those first 50 miles.

And I’m glad you got to see Will and Steve during your race. I know they were thrilled to see you.

All the best,

Rachel

…Okay, I’m back.

So if Cory brought joy and happiness to the first 50, the Fort Collins Girls brought joy and happiness to the second 50.

At packet pickup, we had been behind a car with Colorado plates. And not just any Colorado plates…Adopt A Shelter Pet plates.

I have a special love for anyone who has these plates because the money from those plates is some I’ve won for the Cat Care Society via grant writing (my ultimate favorite hobby).

Next, I noticed the corgi puppy sticker in the back windshield.

I decided then that whoever drives this Honda Pilot is my people and I hope we would somehow meet and become friends in real life.

In the middle of the night, on the top of the Guacamole Mesa, somewhere around 65 miles, my hope became reality.

Steve and another pacer started the usual chit-chat, while course-finding on more slick rock, while another runner and I tried to keep up on horrifyingly blistered feet.

Not long before, this section of the course had an unwelcome obstacle that none of us were prepared for:

A water crossing.

Oh, and a bog crossing.

Fuck.

That’s right. A desert race…with a water crossing.

Surprise!

Who doesn’t love a good Oregon Trail joke?

I chose to enjoy the nice cool water on my feet, since my they were starting to go to the dark side. But I also know that wet feet cause pruning, which add another fun element to blistering.

So by the time I met the Fort Collins Girls, we had blisters, pruned feet causing more blisters, and what I later discovered to be “moving blisters.”

Moving Blister (noun): when an existing blister receives just the right pressure at just the right angle and decides to expand. Suddenly.

Blisters normally take their time, but moving blisters just happen, spontaneously. It’s a feeling I’ve never had before and won’t soon forget.

Thankfully Steve’s a seasoned 100 runner and was able to explain what was happening to me.

It takes about 5 minutes of significant pain, but eventually, the pain fades and normal movement resumes.

Okay, so back to meeting the Fort Collins Girls.

Steve started the small talk, “Where are you from?” “Where in Colorado?” “Oh, I graduated from CSU, did you go there too?”

And by the way, small talk or not, I typically don’t ask for names unless the people are really special because I probably won’t remember names anyway.

So long before I knew these gal’s names, we determined that they live in Fort Collins, the pacer went to CSU for vet school, that she knows my best friend Maggie, and that…

Drumroll please…

She is the owner of the Honda Pilot with Colorado Adopt A Shelter Pet plates and the corgi puppy sticker.

Mic drop.

Steve became an honorary member of their crew and drove the beloved Pilot from the aid station to the finish line for them.

Oh, and their names are Lindsey and Cassady, by the way. Like I said, only the very special ones get their names lodged in my brain.

Lindsey paced the whole second 50 with Cassady, which meant I got to introduce both of them to each of my pacers, all of whom are CSU grads.

Yes, I did that on purpose. Just kidding. No I didn’t.

Okay. Time passed, as it does, and I was nearing The Big Dread: climbing back up that bullshit hill.

I had Scott with me for it, which is perfect since he loves climbing hills.

He was armed with stories and dick jokes to keep me occupied, but wound up telling me the story of getting his first job and how it led him to Shelley (a favorite of my Scott and Shelley stories).

Scott, a dedicated storyteller, only paused his storytelling to greet the other people we met on the hill.

Many of whom weren’t in the mood for a cheerful greeting.

“Hello! Beautiful morning! Where are you from?”

One runner, having an obviously terrible time with the hill, asked me if she could push Scott off the hill backwards.

I said no, obviously. After all, her pacer was the one blasting music way too loud from a portable speaker for all to hear, whether they wanted to or not.

My pacer was in his element, happy as a clam, and thrilled to be part of everyone’s day.

He got to see the sunrise, he got to see all the sights, he got to be part of my day, and see the part of the course with the best hill. (Scott and I both suffer from FOMO when we crew races, so I completely understood his cheerful joy.)

At some point, I got to introduce him to the Fort Collins Girls and say for the second of three times, “this is my pacer…he graduated from CSU too.”

He also got to see me hyperventilate trying to cross another sloped, slippery stupid drop off section.

But again, I didn’t fall and I didn’t die.

So that’s good.

Scott was happy as a pig in shit. He told his dick jokes, he raced ahead of me on the road to do his pushups for veterans while I shuffled along, and he conveyed text messages to me from my crew and people at home.

The end of Scott’s section, around Mile 80, felt painfully like it should’ve been the end of the race.

Why?

Because it was right next to the finish line.

But no. Instead of going right to the finish line, Will took me left.

Down, down, down. Past not one aid station, but two.

This last section was torture. The road went down four miles total. At the second aid station, we had a twisty, slick rock 7+ mile stretch on ground beef feet.

And we were chasing cutoff. (We were ahead of cutoff by 10 whole minutes, to be exact.)

My heart sank. Chasing cutoff was not part of the plan.

I had been looking forward to a nice, cheerful 19-ish miles with my good friend Will, where I could tell him all the things I’d seen since the start.

When I’ve paced Will at the end of his 100s, we tell stories, we tell jokes, and Will lays down and puts his feet up several times.

Here’s Will in the last 10 miles of the 2016 Run Rabbit Run 100. Level: Expert.

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As pacers goes, Will is not me.

When push comes to shove, Will is a militant pacer. We got our cheerful chit-chat out of the way on that stupid downhill road and then he let me know the expectation:

To fucking move.

This is when I figured out that no matter what the state of the skin on my feet, I can mind-over-matter a hell of a lot.

I got really quiet and just decided to pretend my feet were fine.

And once or twice, Will turned to me and sincerely apologized for how it had to be, but I told him I knew why he was doing it and it was okay.

We hadn’t traveled all that way and I hadn’t gone that many miles to finish outside of 36 hours.

It. Wasn’t. An. Option.

Needless to say, we passed a fuckload of people. And Will told me we weren’t to let anyone pass us, which we accomplished except for one (but we passed him again later).

Deep in the pain cave, and fighting the very real fatigue of heat exhaustion (my eyes were closing against my will), I followed behind Will, trying not to hate him.

At one point, I heard him say into his phone, “You’ve been on your phone for three of five hours. Get off, NOW.”

That’s the Will I know and love: pacing the end of a 100 miler in Utah, while being a dad to the boys in Colorado.

Eventually Will caught wind of the fact that I was overheating and we slowed some. I told I had been worried I was gonna pass out, but I didn’t want to slow down.

So he took that knowledge into the next aid station with him. I headed for the port-o-potty and he headed for the grilled cheese.

Will and I have a strong belief that pacers should take full advantage of their free range at aid stations and while I wasn’t wanting solid food, I told him to eat as many grilled cheeses as he wanted.

We’d come up with a pretty solid, unspoken strategy that even if Will was busy at an aid station, that I’d keep moving and he’d catch up.

So I finished the world’s fastest port-a-potty poop, hauled ass out of there, hollered at Will a couple times that I was heading out, and took off down the road.

I’d look back every once in awhile to see if he was coming, but hadn’t spotted him yet.

Just to be sure, I asked an inbound runner to let Will know I’d started the loop and to catch the fuck up.

I’m glad I did that because….

Back at the aid station, Will was banging on a locked port-a-potty door, yelling my name, panicking.

He was sure I’d passed out inside.

He readied himself to break down the door and to see what he never wanted to see:

Me, passed out, and naked.

(Not sure why I’d be naked, Will, but whatever, it’s your story.)

Guys, this totally could’ve been me.

So about a mile out on the loop, I look up and see Will running like the wind, big smile, and yelling, “that’s about the most fucked up and awesome miscommunication ever!”

He thought my port-o-potty poop had lost us 20 minutes, which would’ve put us over cutoff.

Fair. A pacer’s worst nightmare.

Actually, worse than than that would be if I’d passed out in that port-a-potty, just 7 miles from finishing my first 100.

Will’s day had gone from terrifying to joyous in a matter of 20 minutes.

Anyway, the next parts sucked. I slowed down, but Will knew we had enough buffer time, so he let me do my own pace (which, truthfully, was as fast as I could go anyway).

All the mind-over-matter ran out and my feet were tender everywhere.

See? Who needs words to describe it when you have a picture like this one?

But we got to bullshit and joke and have some of the nice Will and Rachel time I had hoped for in the beginning.

Will’s son Hunter FaceTimed us several times during this section and even though I couldn’t say much, I was so happy to hear from him.

We popped out of that last bullshit loop and I knew I had 15 minutes to go 1.5 miles.

Hold my beer.

When I could see Steve at the top of the hill…or wait, is that Scott? No, that’s Steve…I knew I was home-free…

…even though he told me my pace was making him nervous.

Steve, you hold my beer too.

Will FaceTimed Hunter back, who got his momma and my dear friend Monica on the phone.

Then Will tried to get me to run (uphill), which I refused to do…

…until he said, “just do it…for Hunter.”

We rounded that corner, the one I wanted to take at Mile 80, but couldn’t, and I saw the slightest bit of soft downhill.

And Shelley.

I fucking ran, and cried a couple tears, and ran a little more till I crossed that crazy damn finish line.

With five stupid minutes to spare.

Take that cutoff!

And I got to pick a buckle. These buckles are handmade by a local artist. Each is unique. They’re made from plants along the course.

The buckle is another way I knew the Zion 100 would be my race.

I picked my buckle with a satisfaction I’ve never felt before–especially knowing, that unlike other 100s, I wouldn’t have to drag my ass back to the finish line on unwilling feet just for the buckle ceremony (thank you Vacation Races for doing it right that way).

And then, I sat.

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It’s funny how of all the times I sat at aid stations and in port-a-potties, this was the sit when my body knew it was done.

And immediately started cramping and shaking.

Thinking I’d be way too hot at the finish line, I didn’t pack any warm clothes in my finish line bag. Dumb.

Shelley, of course, sacrificed her soft, oversized sweater to my horrible stank and I was beyond grateful for it.

Later, Shelley would sacrifice her nose and her eyes to come help me in the bathtub.

Seriously, get yourself a Shelley and never let her go.

Actually, get yourself a Shelley, a Will, a Scott, and a Steve. They’re the

Best. Crew. Ever.

Also, once I was comfy, Steve asked, “Where are the Fort Collins Girls?”

Alas, not to worry, the Fort Collins Girls got there too!!

I want to conclude this epic saga with my favorite part:

After a strange bathing ceremony, which started in the bathtub, switched to the shower, and then ended in the bathtub again, I dressed myself and hobbled out into the living room.

As soon as I opened the door to the hallway, I could hear my crew telling stories and laughing.

They were telling their war stories over whiskey.

I heard “port-a-potty” and “brown avocados” and laughing and more laughing.

A 100 is different than any long distance race or run I’ve ever done because it takes a village. We ALL did the Zion 100.

It was like the cherry on top.

Anyway, I’m home now, which was its own adventure. (Since I couldn’t walk very well, I’ve officially gotten to experience air travel via wheelchair.)

And now I spend my days trying to stay awake and fed and hydrated. Bailey’s thrilled.

I’ll leave you with this. You’re welcome.