South Bay Cowboys

The mass of excitement swelled early that morning. Stepping out of the car and lightly jogging over to the Wrightwood Community Center for check-in, I could feel the weight of mixed emotions hanging over the runners, wandering around and nervously chatting. After check-in, I stepped outside again and the number of runners had doubled, as did the level of anticipation.

My own feelings mixing into the group were ones of uncertainty and annoyance. I had dealt with a worsening achilles pain for the past week, and I couldn’t help but allow the negative energy to seep into my mental state. This isn’t how I pictured starting my first 100 mile race, Angeles Crest 100, or as we call it, AC100. I doubted if I should even start, but I had invested crew, eager pacers, and a supporting family all putting their time into me. They were all smiles, projecting positive energy for a big day, while I wore a smile as a veil for my grimacing doubt. But this wasn’t just about me anymore. This was about my team, about all of the other runners I had trained with, whom I wanted to succeed, as well as this legendary race. I wanted to give an effort worthy of the legendary race I was about to begin.

I practiced a few meditation techniques to bring my mind back to the present and they seemed to help. The complicated logistics, planning, and length all faded away as I calmed. I stood there in the midst of 186 runners by the starting banner, simply ready for a run.

At 5:00 AM sharp, the race started, and the mass of runners proceeded out of the parking lot, bubbling with excitement. Yelps of excitement were released, chit chat between runners reigned, and headlamps bobbed up and down as clumps of runners followed each other toward Acorn Trail.

I found myself in a friendly group, enjoying the views and discussing our strategy for the start. I was relieved when the grade became steep enough to hike, because I wasn’t quite ready to run. I love the beginning of AC100 because you get 3.5 miles of hiking before committing to the run. It’s like a rollercoaster that slowly clanks up a climb before releasing you on the adventure. On the ascent we enjoyed a beautiful, golden sunrise over the Eastern mountains, which I was now tasked with running against if I wanted to see the finish before the sun began to lift up from the horizon for a second time during the race. To finish before the second sunrise was a stretch goal that I didn’t take too seriously, but the desire was lodged in my head. After enjoying the good company we hit the top of the climb and were released onto the Pacific Crest Trail, which began our 6 mile descent toward the first aid station, Inspiration Point.

I cruised the entire descent, and any minor climb, I hiked. My focus was to cover ground, be efficient, but do it in a way that minimized distress on my body. My effort was low, but I didn’t waste time. The descent went quickly, as I bounced between clumps of runners, all doing their own pacing. Spotting Inspiration Point in the distance stirred excitement to see my crew for the first time and gave me the feeling that this race had really started.

Inspiration Point was a rush. At 9.5 miles in, the field of runners had not yet thinned out, so the station was packed full of crew and spectators. I ran through the channel filled along both sides with the high energy of intense cheering. I spotted my crew, quickly exchanged bottles, and ran back out. In less than 15 seconds I was through the first aid station and back on the trail, mentally elevated.

In the week leading up to the race my mind would keep me up at night, racing through each segment of the 100 miles. I must have run the race ten times in my head during the week, following every footfall I had made while training those miles. As I ran the rolling terrain and descent over the next 4.6 miles toward the next aid station, Vincent Gap, I felt exactly how I imagined I would earlier in the week. My achilles pain was fading away, and my confidence was rising. I kept to my plan of cruising, low effort, no wasted time, and quickly found myself descending into Vincent Gap.

Vincent Gap is the gateway to Mt. Baden-Powell. The following segment is the longest between aid stations at 12 miles, one of the biggest climbs of the day, and touches the highest elevation of the course at 9,260 feet, a bit short of the summit. At this aid station, you fully equip to carry enough water and nutrition to make it to the next station, Islip Saddle. At this point, my crew had it down. We switched running vests, they put on my sun hat, handed me my handheld for heat management, and in what felt like under a minute, I was through the aid station and back on the trail.

Just like Acorn Trail, I was looking forward to this climb because the strategy is so simple. You hike. And I had trained hiking. Hiking was a reprieve when I didn’t have to think about running. Early in the climb, a runner behind me commented that she had been told to hike this climb, but she was finding it difficult not to run. I agreed with the advice, and responded that her body would thank her later if she left Baden-Powell to a hike. I proceeded to hop on the mental escalator and just made a consistent push, until I found myself up another 2,650 feet and at the saddle by Mt. Baden-Powell. This is one of my favorite views of the course, to the left Mt Baldy rises up, like a monolithic giant, and the right descends into further mountain ranges and eventually desert. And if you look for it, you can see the antennas of Mt. Wilson out on the horizon, past mile 80 of the race. Continuing down, off the saddle, toward Throop Peak, I began a cruising run. Though I felt fresh, I knew that even an easy pace would take its toll over enough miles. I kept my focus on efficiency now, and digging deep later.

The remaining miles from Mt. Baden-Powell to Islip Saddle are some of the most beautiful on the AC100 course. They’re alpine and covered in the history of massive, broken and fragmented trees. I feel like I’m running along the rooftop of the mountain range, and I really am. I proceeded on not so much a run, but rather a mountain expedition. I was feeling blessed to be able to be doing what I was doing at that instant and having the support from others to make it happen. Descending into Islip Saddle, I did a mental check of my current state. My achilles pain had completed faded away, I felt fresh, and heat was not yet an issue.

Islip Saddle is 26 miles into the race, and by this point the field of runners had thinned enough that the aid station was not yet bustling. I easily spotted my crew who had my ice chest and a selection of shoes laid out. I had played with the idea of switching into road shoes for the following road sections, but decided against it. Waving off the shoes, I equipped an ice bandana, switched my bottles, and asked them to have a ginger beer ready for me at the next aid station, Eagle’s Roost. Again, in what felt like under a minute, I was out of the aid station and now on Highway 2 to cover the short two miles to Eagle’s Roost.

In recent years, Angeles Crest has been required to modify the course to comply with permit requirements due to a recent National Monument designation and endangered frog species. The modified course has resulted in about 11 miles of road running on Highway 2. A challenge is that as the heat comes out, the sun reflects off the black asphalt, as well as off the white rock adjacent to most of the road sections, so this can be a hot part of the course for a runner. And by this point in the race, the heat was beginning to thicken the air. Fortunately, my many sauna sessions, and constant squirts of water from the handheld to stay wet, as well as the ice bandana pressed upon my neck, all negated most of the heat issues. I trotted along into Eagle’s Roost in quick time.

At Eagle’s Roost, I changed bottles and chugged half a ginger beer before taking off again to cover the 4.6 miles of road to Cloudburst Summit, at mile 32.7 of the race. I followed the rhythm of the road, running low grade inclines, and hiking any larger inclines. I think part of why I felt so good at this part of the race is because I was just following the motions of what I had done so many times in my head during the preceding week. Really, everything was going according to plan.

Coming into Cloudburst Summit, I saw my crew had just parked and were jogging over to my side of the road with the cooler. I laughed to myself, thinking I was racing against my crew to get to the next aid station. I switched bottles, finished the ginger beer I had opened at Eagle’s Roost, and took off again in under a minute, finally getting back onto some trail before hitting the final road section.

As the aid stations rolled by, I was continually impressed by my crew and their supreme efficiency on following the script but also giving me options. My crew was made up of a childhood friend, Eric, who has been there from every step of my life since childhood. I was thrilled that he was willing to come out and joining me on this adventure. The other crew was Johnny, a coworker, whose sincere interest and enthusiasm became a positive influence on the course. Johnny eagerly volunteered himself, and immediately became a critical member from his contributions. Leaving Cloudburst Summit, I felt ever so grateful to have them on my team, helping secure my success.

Back on some trail after leaving Cloudburst my legs felt alive again. I descended, hopping around rocks, and enjoying a break from the road. Finally coming back onto Highway 2, I wasn’t too disappointed since the section is mostly downhill to the end of the road for the day. In this section I clocked my fastest mile of the day at mile 35 in 8:36 minutes. In retrospect, I’m pretty happy about how controlled I was in the whole beginning of the race. Keeping descents under control early stopped me from destroying my quad muscles, which would have hurt the second half of the race.

Finishing the road pushed me out onto a final trail section before hitting the next aid station, Three Points, at mile 37.4. At this point, my race finally began to change from the pleasant cruising I had been doing up until that point. My stomach began to retch at the thought of consuming more concentrated liquid calories, and I finally started to feel a bit fatigued. Under other circumstances, this would have been the beginning of the end for me. But not today. Three Points is where my crew began to elevate their game to divert me from disaster.

Coming up the short climb into Three Points, I heard a new voice yell “Go Gavin!” Colin had been dropped off to join my crew and eventually pace me for the final 25. He immediately began applying ice, asking about my calories, and warning me about the next section. I complained about how sick I was of liquid calories and objected about the length of time I was staying at the aid station, as they prepared me to go back out. Dave, another friend out there to pace a different runner, chimed in that it’s important to use the aid stations. The strategy for the rest of the day was changing. I was no longer out for a morning run, I was now racing and surviving Angeles Crest 100. I yelled my thank yous and farewells and descended back out onto the trail to make the push to Mt. Hillyer aid station.

The push to Mt. Hillyer was consistent, but I was now feeling tired and refusing to drink the two soft flasks of liquid calories. I drank water from my bladder and otherwise was trying to get to Mt. Hillyer to eat something real. I was finally being challenged at mile 40.9 of the race as I came into Mt. Hillyer. I chugged a few cups of ice cold water and ate a few pieces of watermelon, before reverting to my old way of being in and out of an aid station. I charged on, but quickly fell to a slow hike as I made my way over the hills to the boulder descent toward Chilao Flat aid station.

Every mile of the course up until this point had a flow that I could follow, like a dance that if you know the steps, you can move over the ground effortlessly. This boulder descent was like the clash of instruments being dropped on the ground. I stumbled down, stubbing my feet on rocks, and every now and then momentarily losing the course until I could manage to see a yellow flag course marker again. The miles felt slow, inefficient, and my progress was finally meeting resistance. I was low on water, still refusing to drink calories, and unable to efficiently run. All I could do was push and push until I got to the road leading into Chilao where I’d get some fresh supplies and my first pacer.

Hitting Chilao Flat at mile 44.9, I was relieved. From this point on, every aid station would be another foothold to reset my systems and then push forward. Easy miles were gone. I greeted my pacer, Sean, ate watemelon, chugged water, and equipped my vest with bottles of water. After a few short minutes, I was out of the aid station with renewed energy from having Sean with me.

I met Sean late last year after having crossed paths on my lunch run a couple of times in a single week. He would be running North from Palos Verdes, and I would be running South into Palos Verdes. He finally reached out on Strava and after a few exchanges realized we were training for different distances at the Sean O’Brien trail races. We ran portions of the course in advance and quickly became friends. After hearing I was signed up to race in Angeles Crest, he quickly offered to help in any way. Being the first person to offer any kind of support, I asked him to pace me, which he eagerly accepted. What could have been a mistake of offering a new person I didn’t really know the job to pace me for 30 miles of Angeles Crest, ended up being a lucky move. His selfless, kind demeanor, his instinct to help suffering creatures, his awareness of calories and being on top of a plan ended up being exactly what I needed to pull me out of the pit I had begun digging for myself since Three Points.

For the first two miles out of Chilao, I ran with an irrational pep. On steep inclines, I joked about how amazing I felt, and would run a few steps up the steep grade. On flat sections, I briskly jogged, feeling full of energy. Everything was kind of a joke, as I ran along with Sean, my first pacer in any race ever. But then things quickly changed. At 2.5 miles into the segment, I began to slow, and Sean started telling me I should be taking in my calories and sticking to the plan. We soon realized I had somehow forgot my gels from the previous aid station. Other than a few bites of watermelon and half a ginger beer, my last real calories were before Three Points at mile 37.4. Now at mile 48, I had built up a significant calorie deficit and was hitting the wall… hard.

Sean could see a dramatic change in my performance and offered me a gel, which I refused. Pacers are not allowed to carry anything for the runner, which is called muling, and I was not about to break that rule in my first 100. What should have been a fast descent turned into a stumbling, rock kicking slog, resulting in dirt and rocks accumulating in my shoes. I made a mental note to clean out my shoes at the next aid station. This downward stumble was followed by a steep crawl out of the canyon. To make matters worse, I kept looking at my watch and seeing the cumulative miles of 48, which slowly turned to 49, and thinking “are you kidding me? I’m not even halfway done with the race?” I also knew that even when I hit halfway through the distance, that would not be halfway through the total time of the race. Looking at my watch through the middle part of the race proved completely unhelpful. I was in survival mode, while pace and mileage did not matter.

Finally, I crawled out of the canyon, pulled myself onto the exposed lip of Shortcut, and was greeted by “Welcome to Shortcut, but sorry we ran out of ice” in an obviously joking voice. I responded “Seriously, I’ve had enough of this Shortcut, I’m heading straight to Red Box!” Somehow my humor never left me during the entire race.

My crew quickly lead me over to a chair in the shade and everyone began to attend to me. Ginger beer, fresh ice bandana, water, and someone’s Badwater buckle that kept dancing in front of my face. My head was spinning. Colin shoved some avocado wraps in my hand, so I finally got to eat some food. I also choked down some liquid calories provided by my crew. Somewhat renewed, I wanted to make the push onto Red Box. Though beat up, I was not ready to sacrifice my time to an aid station. Sean made sure I had gels, and we were out, jumping down into the descent toward West Fork, and eventually Red Box.

A few feet down the trail and I already felt the heat of the canyon wrapping itself around my legs. Every other part of me was covered in wet clothing, but my legs felt like they were pushed into a furnace. Tolerable. Sean and I descended at a reasonable pace, not as fast as I would have liked, but we were moving. We chatted with a few runners, but soon found ourselves alone again. Passing through West Fork meant a 6 mile climb up to Red Box. Sean kept me honest with my calories by putting me onto a schedule with gels. He knew I was behind on calories, and he made it his mission for me to catch up on food so that I could eventually see the end of the race. Every 20 minutes he made me take a gel. He promised a feast of food once we hit Red Box.

The next 6 miles were probably the worst of the race. What was 6 miles felt like 15. This section just would… not… end. And it wasn’t so much just the climb, but rather a combination of other factors. At 54 miles into the race, feeling as depleted as I did, scraping the bottom of the barrel, my confidence was waning. At that specific time of day, climbing out of a canyon, the heat was bubbling over me. I had forgotten to clean out my shoes at Shortcut, so every step felt like my feet were tearing up a little bit more from the sandpaper of sand and rocks. My stomach still did not want to take any nutrients. How was I going to finish the race if every mile felt three times the distance? I just kept moving forward. Fast or slow, the distance eventually gets covered when you don’t stop. After what felt like a death march within a race, I turned a corner and could spot the oversized stairs climbing up to the parking lot of Red Box. I had made it to mile 59.8.

A multitude of voices greeted me as I climbed into Red Box. Colin yelled out a welcome. My other friend Cheyne was filming on his phone. And the bark of a “Gavin, get on over” shot across the aid station as I entered. The aid station captain, John Chin, welcomed me and congratulated me for making it that far. He gave me a good, hard slap on the back, and promised me anything I wanted at Red Box to get me on my way and to the finish line. We made it to my crew who sat me down. Sean immediately found the food table to collect anything that looked good and calorie dense. I pulled off my shoes to release my stinging pair of feet, and they were filthy, with bruised, tore up toes and suspect nails. I didn’t really know what to do with my feet, so I changed my socks, shook the loose rocks out, and put them back on. Then I ate. Hamburger, three quesadillas, and two cups of coke were inhaled. Sean also picked up a cookie and an egg sandwich, but I was already itching to get on my way. Colin suggested taking food to go, so we found a plastic bag that we filled with quesadillas, grabbed some chews, and were off with a resupplied pack.

I felt better after eating. The time at the aid station was well worth it. The next four miles were downhill, and we picked up speed. Finally, my legs were opening up again, and I felt different. We made it back to West Fork in no time at all, and then efficiently hiked up the climb to Newcomb. I was back on track to how I had imagined the the race all week. By this time the sun had set and we entered Newcomb at mile 68.1 in the dark.

At Newcomb, my spirits were sky high. The more distance I put between myself and mile 50, the better I felt. I gathered a few quesadillas to go, chugged three cups of coke, and pulled Sean out of there for the descent into Chantry.

Though I felt good in the segment toward Chantry, there was no rhythm down Sturtevant Trail. I bumbled down the technical trail with no particular speed, but still made reasonable progress. In the dark, time seemed to stop existing. We just attacked terrain, one turn after another. Eventually we found ourselves on the road climb up to Chantry at mile 75, and my spirits were still high. I began saying my thanks to Sean for the role he played in the day, since we would be parting way at Chantry.

Chantry is the last oasis of an aid station in AC100. This is the last station a runner sees their crew until the finish line, and it’s also a popular station for dropping. It’s commonly said about AC100 that “The race starts from Chantry.” Being pulled back from the brink of my own self destruction, catching up on energy, and having renewed mental and physical confidence, that phrase was true to me. After hitting Chantry, all I saw next was a 25 mile race and then the finish line. It only took me 75 miles to get to the start.

At Chantry, I sat back down and ate some hot broth and shoveled pasta into my mouth. I took my right shoe off and took a look at my right toe, which was stinging. There wasn’t much I could do, so I put everything back on after shaking some more rocks out. I chugged a Red Bull and looked up at my second pacer, Colin, asking if he was ready to go. He confirmed we should get out of there. I extended my final thanks to Sean and my crew, and took the steps out of the Chantry and toward the finish.

Colin has been forged in the fires of mountain grit and experience. I cannot overemphasize how lucky I was to have him help with my crew and pace me for the final 25 miles. He’s completed AC100 twice, paced it multiple times, as well run and paced countless other long-distance races. He knows how to read a runner and use techniques to pull out the best performance. For me he turned the last 25 miles into a game of trying to cover the most miles in an hour, and hunting down other runners to move up in rank.

At this point, I also knew that Second Sunset was a feasible and likely outcome, unless I suffered a major blow up in the final 25 miles. At the start, finishing before the second rise of the sun was a stretch goal, but somehow I stumbled through the race efficient enough to have it within my grasp.

Leaving Chantry we began the infamous climb toward Upper Winter Creek close to Mt. Wilson. I had been dreading this climb since mile 50, with it’s almost 3,000 feet of elevation gain over 5 miles. On fresh legs, you can run a lot of the climb until the steep switchbacks to Upper Winter Creek, and we did exactly that. We ran most of the climb until the switchbacks, and hiked the switchbacks, making me feel like we were on nothing more than a training run. I felt good and had lost count if it was my 3rd or 4th resurgent wind for the day. In the middle of the switchbacks, we took a turn and came face to face with a deer, our headlamps reflecting back off its eyes. We stared at each other for a few seconds until Colin finally started clapping his hands to scare him off the trail. It was a brief, but comforting moment to see the deer at this point of the race. We proceeded with the climb up toward Dead Man’s Bench.

Dead Man’s Bench is a wooden bench at Manzanita Ridge on Mt Wilson, famous in the race for luring exhausted runners to take a seat, relax, and waste time. Approaching Dead Man’s bench, there was a photographer set up to document the struggle of passing runners. Feeling full of energy, I posed for a few photos, but then jumped up, eager to get on our way and make more progress.

Soon after the bench, we finished the climb and found ourselves at the top of the Mt Wilson Toll road, a section I had worried that I wouldn’t be able to run down due to wrecked muscles late in the race. However, that wasn’t the case. My decision to cruise downhills instead of run them in the first third of the race saved my downhill muscles enough to now use. I shifted out of my climbing gear, began jogging downhill and shifted up into a run. I was able to run with the L.A. city lights in the background. I felt alive. I felt amazing. We opened up the legs and descended all the way down toward Idelhour aid station, as Colin narrated the distances and shared stories from his race on the section.

After a string of faster miles, we rolled through a turn and came upon a sign proclaiming “Welcome to Idelhour Mile 83.75,” lit of up with a string of multi-colored lights. Idelhour felt like a secret enclave of night elves, hidden deep in the woods. Fortunately, they were welcoming and cooking food. I chugged a cup of coke as they made me a fresh quesadilla that I took to go. We were off to tackle the final series of climbs that led to Sam Merrill aid station. For how well the Upper Winter Creek climb felt, the climbing out of Idelhour began to tire me. I slipped back into my fatigued stiffness, so I tried to get back onto a gel regime to replenish electrolytes and get a caffeine boost. We climbed, and climbed, and climbed, and finally the lights of the Sam Merrill aid station could be seen up ahead at mile 89 of the race. Though tired, I was still moving okay.

I drank more coke, chugged water, but didn’t really eat anything. At mile 89 and all the major climbs behind me, I could really begin to sense the presence of a finish line, looming close. Again, we were off and began running down Sam Merrill Trail. The section was fast, until it got technical. After stubbing my toes enough times, I had Colin run ahead of me so I could follow his running line. This helped, but my yelping continued, as I stumbled my way down the rocky descents. “Just run” Colin said. Nothing else mattered. Now was the time to run. I took his advice and just pushed. I gave it my all, trying to hold the fastest speed I could.

The trails that followed, leading us to the final aid station at Millard Camp, all kept me a bit off balance with rocks and ruts, constantly tripping me up and slowing my pace. After a constant effort, trying to avoid direct hits to my toes, the trail opened up to a wider descent into Millard at mile 96.

My friends the Folkerts were working this aid station and had been following my progress during the day over the HAM radio, now expecting my arrival. Eager to see the finish, I yelled over my greetings, demanded a coke to go, and was out. Seeing them for a few seconds in passing gave me a boost, but we would have to catch up another time, since I had a Second Sunrise buckle to secure and a spot or two to move up in the ranks. Even though my feet hurt, I could still run. I later realized that we passed another runner who had stopped for a minute at the aid station. We glided up the hill out of Millard and began running again toward the next trail.

I was back to living out my mental projection, running again, but now in the final 4.5 miles of the race. I had pictured this. I had trained for this. I ran and just tried to keep up with Colin as he guided me down the trail, which eventually emptied onto a road leaving us about 2 miles from the finish. We passed another runner on the final trail, and then broke out into a real run after hitting the asphalt of Arroyo Seco Road. Next stop, Altadena. I was in the final moments of an ongoing journey I had started four years earlier. I was minutes away from finishing.

Finally, we hit the last climb out of the asphalt pathway to rise up onto the city streets of Altadena. I had complained about this climb in training, but we set my personal record for the short, steep ascent. My legs pumped like a freshly fueled machine. Everything was surging. I gave one glance over my shoulder to look for any sign of headlamps of the runners I had recently passed, but nothing was there. We were alone to charge for the finish.

Turning left onto Lincoln Ave., I began to tear up. Turning right onto Palm St, next to Loma Alta Park, I bit my cheek and yelled out in excitement. Finally turning left, onto the grass of the park, the finish line banner emerged from the darkness in front of me. Movement stirred next to the banner, and I heard my family yell out and my son run out to follow me through the finish. I raised my arm’s triumphantly and ran under the race banner, howling in disbelief and delirious excitement as I finished the 100.36 miles of Angeles Crest 100.

I finished in 14th place out of 186 that started, and 100 that finished, in a time of 24 hours, 26 minutes, and 51 seconds, earning a Second Sunrise belt buckle. The performance of the day far exceeded my expectations, and I drifted in elated disbelief following the race.