Western States 2023

Posted on June 30th, 2023

Words & Photos: Filippo Canetta

I've never complained about how these went before, because in the end they're just runs, but this time I really can't shake it.

I'd built my castle with care.

I'd been training ever since I found out I'd been drawn again in the lottery, after eight years.

In January I'd tried for the best time (unsupported FKT) over the 76 km of the Fisherman Trail, along Portugal's stunning coast, finishing the route in 8 hours and 16 minutes.

I was prepared, I'd run decently at the Pastrengo 6-hour race (February), at Ultrabericus (March), at Via degli Dei (May), and I'd sought out the heat in the Marche region at URMA (June). All courses on runnable terrain, similar to Western States. In the final weeks, I tried to run more at altitude, to get used to what the early kilometers would demand. I'd even found snow, during a spring that never seemed to turn into the usual scorching summer I'd been hoping for.

Since January, through countless sacrifices, I'd run over 2,000 km and 60,000 m of elevation gain, with a few weeks reaching 180 km and 5,000-6,000 m D+, not as much as a few years ago, but a solid number given work and family commitments.

I had the experience of Western States 2015 and Spartathlon behind me. I'd learned how to fight the heat with ice and hydration. I'd prepared an ice bandana for my neck, my Endurance Cap ready to fill with ice, light clothing (Wild Tee Road and Race Collection), two handheld bottles starting from Robinson Flat. I'd learned that the real heat hits in the canyons, not toward the end of the race, like I'd assumed eight years earlier.

I'd made so many sacrifices to train, to avoid causing too much strain on my family, to eat well, to stay off alcohol.

I had so many friends following along, and I wanted to give them something back for their undeserved faith in me.

I wanted to run solo, no pacer, no crew, so I wouldn't get thrown off, and wouldn't have to worry about people being there just for me, starting out calmly and doing better in the canyons and over the final sixty kilometers than I had in 2015.

I had several goals I would have loved to reach.

First of all: the age group record (50-59), beating the 18h 14' set by Steven Moore back in 2019 (not a particularly hot year). The category record gets written into the race's official history, and years ago, it was a shared dream of mine and Davide Grazielli's.

Second: try for the second-best time, "just" 19h 17' would have been enough.

Third: try to beat Davide's own 19h 53'.

Fourth: beat my 20h 22' from [Western States 2015](https://www.wildtee.it/it/stories/western-states-endurance-run-n15), where I'd taken a wrong turn and lost about 25 minutes.

Fifth: at the very least, finish first in my age category.

I let myself believe I could reach at least one of these goals, and instead, I made a total mess of it!

I was only worried about the heat, which, in the end, never really showed up.

At the pre-race briefing, they announce there'll be a lot of snow up in the high country, meaning the first 40 kilometers will likely be slower than usual. Temperatures will be mild along the entire route. The damage from the massive Mosquito Fire will make itself felt, with a lack of vegetation across the middle 16 miles of the race. In short, a few complications, like in any Ultra, but nothing dramatic.

Given all this, I start entertaining the idea of going for the first two goals.

At the start, the air's cool, but you don't quite feel that usual genuine, old-school atmosphere of American hundred-milers, sponsors are everywhere, the start has been moved from its historic spot to make room for new ski lift infrastructure, every competitor around me looks super kitted out, and the crowd seems more focused on filming than on soaking up the historic moment.

I get into the corral, turn around, and see Dakota Jones standing behind me, I nod toward the front, suggesting he should really be up there, he just smiles back, as if to say he's fine right where he is, too much going on (media-wise) up front.

Thankfully, we're off, I love this moment when I no longer have to worry about anything except the race itself, because it's finally starting.

Dakota takes off, immediately chasing down the leaders, you can tell he's in shape, he'll battle Tom Evans for first place until he has nothing left to give.

The climb up to Emigrant Pass (here, everything has an evocative name), even along a ski slope, is always fascinating. After about forty-five minutes I reach the pass, the crowd cheering, people who climbed up in the dark just to watch us pass, is always a warm embrace that touches the heart. I turn around and see the colors of dawn, the sun starting to light up Squaw Valley. From there, there's no going back, only forward, toward the west.

In the early kilometers, I really enjoy following, amid a pack of women runners, the pink flags scattered seemingly at random over the snow drifts covering the trail. I should mention I didn't even spot the leading women, headed up by Courtney Dauwalter, who ran the race of the century, at the start. I quickly notice who's used to snow and who keeps sliding around instead. We pass Camille Herron (someone holding, like, seven world records) struggling to even stay upright. I don't push it, and let the women, more eager than me, pull ahead. I settle into my own pace, eating and drinking "by the book", and when the sun catches up to us and I start feeling hot, I stuff a bit of snow under my hat. In short, I do everything right, trying to stay ahead of problems before they happen.

I remembered this part of the race, and it's, simply, wonderful

"This is the Sierra Nevada, baby," I keep telling myself, the one John Muir described with so much love back in the early 1900s, and, luckily, has remained almost unchanged, untouched: perfect singletrack for trail running, the soft morning light, sweeping views of conifer forests stretching endlessly, patches of white snow, blocks of grey granite, trail running paradise.

I feel like I'm working a bit harder than usual for these early kilometers, but I chalk it up to still being well above 2,000 m of altitude.

I want to reach the forty-eighth kilometer at Robinson Flat, where I have my first drop bag, ditch the backpack, and switch to my proper "American hundred-miler" kit.

The aid stations and volunteers really are the heart and soul of Western States, and without a doubt, the best in the world. Everything runs like clockwork. There's a volunteer keeping watch who, as I approach, shouts out my bib number to another who tracks down my drop bag and hands it to me right as I arrive, sits me down, and asks what I need. I open the trash bag holding my bottles and hand them over, explaining I want water and ice in one, Ginger Ale and ice in the other, and ice for my bandana and cap. All while I put on my prototype vest in our new [Race fabric](https://www.wildtee.it/it/61-race-road-collection-uomo) and stuff gels and bars into the pockets of my [Bryce shorts](https://www.wildtee.it/it/pantaloni-e-shorts-uomo/274-573-bryce-20-grigio-chiaro.html#/1-taglia-s). They ask if I want sunscreen, if I'm doing okay, if there's anything else they can do. The moment I stand up, the crowd cheers, two volunteers tie the bandana around my neck, hand me the cap packed with ice, and both bottles. The whole thing takes just a few minutes, all done with smiles on their faces the entire time. I'm sorry to leave that wonderful atmosphere behind.

With the stop, I've lost my two lady friends, who've pushed on faster than me.

What follows instead is a stretch I don't remember at all, and one that doesn't even feel like part of the same race,

I keep following the flags, but I feel a bit alone.

How is it possible there's no other competitor around? Am I going too fast, or too slow?

The first doubts start creeping in.

I always say it myself: it's our brain trying to make us stop the moment energy starts running low. Yes, I always say it, but right now those doubts start creeping into my head, and those are exactly the ones that get you.

I'll admit it, I actually studied, something I never do, all the split times I'd need for 18h, 19h and 20h finishes. When you run a race for the second time, you feel more confident, and, naively, you slip into a bit of arrogance. I check my watch, and instead of reading 5h 30', it reads almost 6h, how is that possible, I've been giving my best, and I'm already half an hour behind??

My castle starts to wobble, and the numbers stop adding up.

I try not to let the discouragement get to me, I've run enough ultra-distance races to know that the numbers work themselves out later.

I don't want to let anxiety take over and speed up now, especially with the canyons coming up soon, the same ones I'd collapsed in from the heat back in 2015. If anything, I'm actually looking forward to fighting my past demons and getting there to face them head-on.

The ice bandana works really well, it practically freezes my back.

I'm not shining, but the first canyon and the climb back up to Devil's Thumb pass without major issues.

At the Devil's Thumb aid station, I do a quick refuel, I don't want to sit down like I did in 2015, deep in heat exhaustion, when they'd wrapped a wool blanket around me, kept in a bin of ice. I don't see the older gentleman who'd welcomed me that year with his baseball cap, and I head out as fast as I can.

I check my watch again, 9 hours 16 minutes have passed, 45 minutes more than in 2015, and 45 minutes behind my plan. The numbers still aren't adding up. I haven't stopped, I'm moving at a steady clip, not passing anyone, but not being passed either, and yet I'm progressing too slowly.

Every time I reach the bottom of a canyon, ones that were bone dry back in 2015, there's now a stream to cross, sometimes the water comes up to my waist. It feels like a good thing, being able to cool off. Luckily, I can count on my Dryarn [Rockies socks](/products/rockies-socks-grey-teal-unisex).

Crossing Eldorado Canyon, I finally pass one competitor, and spot one of my earlier lady friends up ahead, I try to follow her, but I feel myself starting to labor, and let her go.

A thousand thoughts race through my mind, I'm not focused enough, and to get through the canyons I'd dreaded so much, I stop fueling the way I had been.

On the climb up to Michigan Bluff, Kacy Lickteig passes me, apologizes for cutting through my path, and takes off running like a young deer up that hill. I'd noticed her very cautious start earlier, and maybe I should have realized it was actually a smart strategy, but it's nowhere near as hot as it was eight years ago, and by my own calculations, we should have been faster than last time.

Arriving at the Michigan Bluff aid station is always one of the highlights, everyone dressed up for the occasion, the crowd cheering like it's a stadium. The atmosphere's fantastic, but I don't want to waste time, I want to reach Foresthill as soon as possible, since I'm already running late. As always, when it's available, I grab some fruit. It doesn't feel all that hot, and in my rush I forget to refill my bottle with water and ice, unconsciously, and mistakenly, thinking maybe I'm saving weight, cutting the effort a little?

I set off again, but the moment I'm back on the dirt road, a wave of intense nausea hits me, doubling me over with dry heaves. I know that

my stomach is my weak point, and over the years I've learned to keep going even when it fights back with everything it has.

I feel like I've finally let it out, I start jogging lightly again, but deep down, I know the next 70 kilometers will be an ordeal, my castle starts to crack, and all my certainties disappear. I walk the climbs surrounded by the devastation of trees burned by the huge September 2022 fire. The destruction of that once-wonderful landscape is second only to the destruction happening in my stomach. I try to push forward at a reduced pace, but the moment I force even a slightly faster rhythm, my stomach clenches inward.

The thought of reaching Foresthill and seeing my daughter helps me scrape together a bit of dignity, and I reach it running (the road heads downhill there).

I leave one bottle in the drop bag, set off again with the Ginger Ale, even though it's lost the magic it had back in 2015, I grab a few gels with me, even though I haven't managed to keep one down in a good while. As I set off, a competitor with his pacer passes me, and I start regretting my choice not to bring one.

Andy Jones-Wilkins's words come back to me, saying that from here to the river, there isn't a single meter of uphill. I tuck in behind the two of them, but at the first climb that supposedly shouldn't exist, I have to walk, and I lose sight of them. Climbs that weren't supposed to be there feel insurmountable, even walking is a real struggle, I'm out of energy, and it feels really hot, I regret leaving that other bottle behind too. At Cal 2, I sit down for a moment, they look worried and offer me an antacid and some warm broth. As I try to drink it, a man who's no spring chicken shows up with his pacer, so I ask how old he is, and his pacer tells me he's turning fifty. My fifth goal flashes right before my eyes and passes me by too. I'll only find out at the end of the race that he was about to turn fifty, but hadn't quite gotten there yet.

Unsurprisingly, the antacid dissolved in the broth triggers an almost instant rejection, I duck behind a tree and throw up.

There's nothing else to do but keep going, slowly, but going. Of all the motivational phrases I'd memorized during training, visualizing the race's difficulties, not a trace remains in my mind. And yet I'd told myself a thousand times: "you'll see, once night falls the temperature drops and you'll start running again", "the course loses altitude and everything gets easier", "once you're through the canyons the heat's gone", "past Foresthill the worst is behind you". Nothing, it's as if my memory had been wiped clean!

I want to reach the river, but the course just keeps climbing, refusing to descend, all the way to Rucky Chucky. I've got a total blank, I don't remember this stretch at all. I finally arrive at the river crossing, decked out for the occasion, the crowd cheering wonderfully here too, though I can't manage to enjoy any of it. I lie down for a moment and want to let Irene know not to wait for me at the finish, to go to bed, since I'm running very late. I'm stretched out, watching competitors arrive at the aid station and set off again while I lie there helpless. I start feeling cold, drained of energy as I am, so I head toward the raft, this year the water's too high to cross the river on foot. They ask where my pacer is, so he can cross with me, but I don't have one, since I'd wanted to do this all alone, what an idiot! My ferryman is an absolute champion, and with four strokes gets me across, I tell him there's no rush, not to strain himself, since I'm wrecked anyway and won't be going far. I've gotten cold, I'm shivering, and from the drop bag with my headlamp I swap out my shirt, retiring my Race vest, which had performed brilliantly right up until now.

All my plans have fallen apart, the castle has finally, completely collapsed.

I can't do the math anymore, and even the silver buckle (under 24 hours) feels further and further out of reach. I haven't eaten anything in five hours, I try to make the most of feeling cool right now to push on toward Green Gate. I try everything, and sparkling water plus small sips of Coca-Cola seems to be the only thing that works. I must look genuinely terrible, because a guy offers to pace me all the way to the finish. In my state, I can't bring myself to put him through this slow agony, and I decline his incredibly kind offer. I really appreciated it, though.

It's still warm in the woods, and the moment I run, I start sweating again, damn myself for ditching that vest!

I want to shorten my ordeal, so I try running at least the flat and downhill sections. AJW's words keep echoing in my head, saying this is the most runnable part of the whole race. At ALT, to my great surprise, I run into Cesare, who lives in the US and volunteers at this aid station. I remember him, and his speaking Italian, from 2015 too. He goes above and beyond to help me, but I'm cooked, and I collapse into a chair, after a bit I feel a warm blanket wrap around my exposed back, and, wrapped in that kind of warm embrace, I fall asleep. I don't know how long I stayed like that, but I recover a bit of strength. I try eating some fruit, but even that refuses to stay down in my stomach. The very fruit that had saved me back in 2015 just doesn't work this time.

All I want is to reach the finish,

I've given up, and when I hear a competitor behind me, I stop to let him pass, instead of trying to hold his pace. At one point, about twenty kilometers from the finish, a shirtless, not-so-young man overtakes me, I figure he's probably in my age category, so I assume even third place there is gone too.

I've always found category podiums a bit off-putting, if you want a real ranking, there's only one that counts, the overall one, but as I've gotten older, I've started finding some comfort in that one too, as the years pile up.

I can't think straight, I don't remember all the difficulties I've faced and overcome across more than 100 ultra trail and ultrarunning races.

I don't remember how sick I'd felt at Grand Raid de La Réunion, how I'd bounced back and finished running like a madman, having a blast after 33 hours of racing. The finish line at Spartathlon feels impossibly distant right now. Even the struggles at Valmalenco, with that same stomach issue, haven't translated into experience I can draw on in a moment like this.

All that's left is the 24-hour goal.

It almost feels like I want to suffer more, instead of limiting my suffering by trying to reach the finish as fast as possible. I manage to pass one competitor with his pacer, but even that doesn't lift my spirits the way it normally would, spurring me to pick up the pace toward what's now a nearby finish.

Not even the good fortune of having Scott Jurek refill my bottle at Quarry Road, while Hal Koerner keeps cracking hilarious jokes, manages to shake me into action. Between the two of them, they've got 9 Cougars at home (the trophy for winning WS100), and I'm at risk of not even earning my second silver buckle.

I'm stuck in a negative spiral, a loop I can't seem to break out of. I try running the numbers over and over, but they never add up, no matter how I rearrange the pieces, the result is always disappointing. I'm disappointed in myself, in all the energy I invested, unable to turn it into a result I could be satisfied with. Not even the lap around the Placer High School track carries the liberating feeling I'd dreamed about for so long.

I finish my second, and probably my last, Western States, in 22 hours and 4 minutes, second in the 50-59 age group, 1 hour and 42 minutes behind my 2015 result.

I think it's clear by now that I'm not the least bit satisfied with how it went, but that's just how ultras work.

I still haven't figured out what actually happened in my 105th ultra.