Wasatch 100 (subtitle: runners are strong, cyclists weak)

This is one of those ones I’ve been talking about for years.

The Wasatch 100 is a running race held every fall. It’s been going on for decades and is regarded as one of the hardest 100’s. 100% of the route is open to bikes. Some sections are frequently ridden. Others… not so much. I’m not sure anyone has ever ridden some pieces of it.

My older brother is responsible for my interest in the route. We’ve long been curious about the question of which is faster: running or biking. Or, more importantly, can the route even be done on a bike?

Back in 2001 my brothers started at the beginning of the route. They pushed their bikes up to the ‘Chinscraper’ bowl. They lost the “trail”. They slid around on snow fields and eventually ran out of water before finding any viable route. Though they had GPS, they did not have a GPS track to follow.

A highly detailed GPS track became available some years later, and I have studied it too many times without acting on it. This summer I decided to put the big talk to rest and actually attempt the thing.

The doubts were many. I read reports that claimed Chinscraper was a class three (hands required) scramble. Others talked about overgrown deer trails that were impossible to follow. Everyone talked about how much climbing there is. The claim is 27,000′ in 100 miles. My brother recalled having to push his bike nearly the entire 3000′ climb just to get to Chinscraper. Many of the sections I actually knew intimidated me as well. The Sessions Mountains are no piece of cake. Even the ‘easy’ parts are steep and full of leg crushing climbs.

Geoff Roes set a smoking new record last summer, at 18:30. I knew there was no chance of touching that time, but I hoped to be semi-competitive within the runners. I thought I could finish somewhere between 20 and 22 hours. But I really had no idea.

My Dad kindly offered to drive me the half hour to the start line. “As early as you want to go…” he said. At 4:30am I gave him a hug and hopped the locked gate to ride over to the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. Under cover of darkness I pedaled through the foothills, gaining elevation on mercifully mellow trail. I knew these would be some of the easiest miles, and the warmup was very welcome.

It was alarmingly warm — no sleeves or warmers necessary. I hit the junction with the Great Western Trail, mentally preparing myself for a long hike.

But no! My GPS showed switchback after switchback, and I rode the first ~700′ of vertical without so much as unclipping. “I can get used to this climb,” I thought, hiking up a short pitch. I didn’t have any further runs of 700′, but I did ride a lot more than I expected.

As usual, expectation is king. I am sure I walked a lot, but I don’t remember anything too bad. Memory altered by pre-existing notions — how interesting.

I do remember flipping my bike up and rolling it in front of me several times. I was only getting a small taste of the overgrowth to come, at this point.

I passed a small pipe spring, but still had plenty of water. Soon after the trail turned south, finally, and I got my first views of the Chinscraper bowl (see pic above). “No way I can get a bike up that” was the obvious thought. Anxiety building, I tried to stop looking up, tried to focus on the task right in front of my feet.

I stopped and looked down, not up, as the sun broke through the deep canyons of the Wasatch, writing giant V’s on the city below. Some houses wouldn’t see sun for an hour after their neighbors. My world stayed blue and dark, as I traversed the western slopes. A brief contour led to speed, cooling wind and a small hunters camp. My bike was now useless. It was time to climb.

The GPS track was right on, following a sometimes distinct trail up to the rocks. Now I was intently looking and studying. It didn’t seem that bad.

Looking down from Chinscraper

I had to make some careful, deliberate movements, especially with my weak ankle. It would have been nice to ditch the bike and be able to crawl up, using my hands. But I didn’t feel like I was in danger, it was just really slow. Plant the bike, take a step, move it up, take another step. Check the footing, lift it up and place it again. Repeat.

I sighed in relief at the top. The first 9 miles had taken 2:45. Ooof. Now for the last 91!

Glorious alpine singletrack, oh how I worship thee.

The sun graced my skin only at saddles, as I zoomed from one steep descent into the reciprocal climb. The trail was narrow, overgrown, precipitous. It was nasty, dangerous and oh-so-heavenly.

Miles were not going fast, but I didn’t really care. Landis spring filled my bottles. I continued my ridgeline vision quest, occasionally stealing glimpses of the Francis Peak “golf balls.” Snow forced minor detours, and climbs forced more bike pushing.

I was happy to pop out onto a road. Ahead was a fall line climb on the road, but I laughed at it, mocked it. I’ll take 200 of those over the kind of climbing I’ve dealt with so far.

I wrapped around the golf balls, finally putting my heavy wheels to good use.

I suffered to get here with my bike, but it was all worth it. The road switched surfaces to smooth graded. The whole of the Great Salt Lake was before me, and I hurdled towards it at 30 mph, free of gravity at last.

I smiled, “I’d kill myself if I had to run down this…”

Massive road descent behind me, I followed flowing dirt tracks into meadows and mud bugs, eventually gasping in horror as the GPS led me where there was no trail. Hundreds of runners really go through here every year?

It was deer trail time, but first it was time to load up on water. The creek flowed strongly beside me, and for all I knew this would be the last I saw of it. It would likely be the last I saw of any water for 6-7 hours of riding, and it was starting to get warm.

So I stopped and treated 200 oz of water. Let’s just say that adding 10 pounds to your pack is not a good way to start out on this deer trail. Even taking 10 pounds out of your pack isn’t a good way to start it. Starting it, period, with a bike, is a bad idea!

I struggled pretty badly as my bike got caught on branch after branch. I slipped around on steep slopes, fought through fallen trees, hurt my ankle, and cursed up a storm as I encountered further streams I could have taken water from. I found the deer trail to be a lot more challenging than Chinscraper or anything thus far.

It might have been that my stomach had turned south just before it. Mild nausea wasn’t too alarming — I was sure it would go away. I felt like my pace had been reasonable, I’d hydrated and eaten well, so it was probably just a temporary thing.

Even still, my split for the ‘deer trail’ segment was twice as slow as the fastest runners. Even runners who finished in 30 or more hours covered it faster. The route is not bike friendly!

I emerged from the thicket, pushing my bike towards the first familiar spot on the route. The “Bountiful B” parking lot. To my surprise, there was a mountain biker there, sporting body armor on the back of his pack. He walked over as I tried to figure out the best way to get myself and bike through the man-made barricade that did not seem to have any opening. Clearly this was not a ‘real’ trail (as if I didn’t know that already).

“Where did you come from?”

Hmm, how to answer a question like that? “Uhh, Francis Peak?”

“But… how did you get from there over to here?”

“I took a deer trail behind those barricades?”

“Oh, I don’t know that one.”

“You don’t want to know it.”

His next question was, “How did you get to Francis Peak? On the road?”

“No… ever heard of Chinscraper?”

“I don’t know that one either.”

“You don’t want to know it.”

I smiled at my sarcastic answers, sitting down to mix some perpeteum in a bottle. He was off to rip some incredibly massive descent back into town. My fate was on the spine of the Wasatch.

The ensuing miles of dirt road should have been a section to gain time on the runners, but I barely matched them. The reason? My stomach was falling apart and I grew weaker by the minute.

At the “Sessions Lift Off” things were looking grim. I’d ridden this section as a part of epic rides with my brothers and I knew how relentless and difficult it is. But I got to climbing just the same, and through quality suffering I cleaned almost the entire climb. And I loved it, as much as one can when falling apart. The trail is wide open, well built, and just steep enough to be challenging, but not impossible.

The next descent found my hands in death grip braking, and a glance at the next climb was not encouraging. Drop 600′ only to gain it right back up, hike-a-bike style.

I will always have a special affinity for the Great Western Trail, here in the Sessions Mountains, but this was probably my worst traversal of it. I made pretty good time, but miserable time. I thought with the pace I’d run that I’d be enjoying this, but I wasn’t. I was in survival mode, and it was barely mile 30.

I was prepared to feel my body breaking, smashed and torn down on this ride. I expected it. So I was able to keep moving at a steady pace. I tanked water and ate only stomach friendly foods, but nothing was working.

For a couple miles the body shutdown was irrelevant. Choice ridgeline miles through tiny scrubs that make it feel more like 12,000′ than 9,000′. Views along the county line that stretch from the rural communities of Morgan County to downtown Salt Lake City. I always feel like I’m the first person to ever enjoy riding a bicycle up here.

Outside of the ridgeline, every climb was mostly hiking, even beyond ‘the brink’ and towards Swallow Rocks. My feet were dying, big toes going numb and ankle throbbing. I tried to ride as much as I could. After the rocks my bike decided to start pulling its weight. I contoured and coasted, bounced down red steps, and got pushed by tail winds along ridgeline roads.

My split from Swallow Rocks to Big Mtn was 2 minutes faster than Geoff (the rest were all slower). Yay wheels! That actually surprises me, because I was hurting badly. You see, I had an “aid station” waiting for me at Big Mountain, and though I felt like dropping out, I knew I had to make it there to eat something different, rest and re-evaluate. Time stretched on, every climb seemed out of place in my memory, yet somehow I was “fast.”

photo by Paula Morris

I didn’t expect everyone to come out! My nieces/nephews were there, and Paula had hiked up the trail to meet me, even though she wasn’t supposed to with her hip injury. I saw someone on the trail from way above, and I knew it had to be her.

I had debated about whether to accept ‘support’ before the ride. I considered this ride a proof of concept and recon ride, more than anything. Plus, the runners have aid stations roughly every 7 miles, and can have pacers for most of the route. So it seemed fair to me that I meet my family once or twice. The lack of aid stations had already seriously cost me in carrying that 200 oz up the deer trail, so I felt pretty justified in sitting down to eat real food and drink cold lemonade.

photo by Paula Morris

I just hoped I could keep it down. I was shattered, and the idea of hopping in the car was tempting. But everyone had come out to watch me ride, not drop out! Besides, I knew there was still a chance I could get my stomach back in order and finish this thing. It had taken 9 hours to cover these first 40 miles, but they were some of the hardest, at least in theory.

photo by Paula Morris

It was really cool to see everyone. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything that isn’t totally isolating and impossible to spectate. It was really a huge boost to have a cheering section. The kids even went for hike on the trail I’d come down, after I left.

Without the aid station I don’t think I would have made it much further. Thanks so much guys!

photo by Paula Morris

My brother joined in at Big Mountain, as well, so I now had a pacer. After suffering alone and seeing no one on the trail (only the MTBer at Bountiful B), it was nice to have someone to ride with. I had long been suspicious that I was too weak to ride things I should be able to. Riding with my brother it was pretty clear that my legs held plenty of strength, I just couldn’t access it for longer than 30 seconds or so before the rest of my body would want to keel over on the side of the trail.

photo by Brian Morris

We rode and hiked along the GWT south of Big Mtn. It was quite pleasant riding, easy by comparison to previous miles. My stomach gurgled and fought itself, but for the moment I could pretend to be a mountain biker.

photo by Brian Morris

We turned off to ride “ball bearing” or “baby head” ridge (your choice, it’s called both). This descent is not that friendly to bikes, as the pic of me gingerly walking down illustrates. At least it’s not aerobically challenging, but we were rarely going any faster than a good runner could smoke the trail. It was actually a lot smoother than I expected, but the overgrowth makes it impossible to keep any speed, and you ride the brakes almost the entire time.

photo by Brian Morris

We continued dropping into the heat of six thousand feet. The high in SLC was 96. It was warm on the Sheep Trail, but it never seemed stifling to me — credit living in AZ I guess. Maybe the fact that I was losing the ability to pedal easy slopes had something to do with it. Hard to generate any heat when you can’t hardly pedal.

I was glad my brother was here to witness the suffering and clue me in that it was even worse than I thought. He later told me that he had to grab the brakes to avoid ramming into me — on the climbs!

I collapsed on the side of the grassed over pipeline trail, knowing that I was too far gone. I needed a good day and this was not it. There was little chance of salvaging the day. I still had unknown trails ahead, so I continued the recon effort.

The W100 route uses some funky trails, to say the least. A little cairn marked the beginning of a trail that would parallel I-80, and from the look of it, was only ever used by W100 runners. I was fairly numb to impossibly brushy trails by now, and actually kind of enjoyed this descent, with all its nuttiness.

We crossed I-80 and it was immediately obvious how easily my brother could ride away from me. I was shelled, stomach still revolting, but I wasn’t ready to give in just yet. I’d had a mental image of a shaded spot next to the creek in Lambs Canyon in my head for the last three hours.

photo by Brian Morris

I reached the imagined spot, dropped my feet into the creek and began contemplating the error of my ways. I tried eating, drinking, nothing felt good. I knew I was done, but still wanted to make Millcreek, give my stomach one more chance to grow up.

I could barely pedal pavement. “Five minutes to shake this off.” We reached the steep trail out of Lambs and I cried “Uncle!!!!” No more. 8 hours was too long to suffer with this. Had it really been so long ago that I felt ‘good’?? I was also now running well behind a 20 hour pace. It had already been 13 hours, and I had only made it to mile 53.

My parents picked us up at I-80, and I was soon home, showered and completely fried. My stomach still hasn’t come back to normal, days later. The antibiotics I took are the current suspect for the stomach woes, and it was indeed a very strange stomach issue — unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I’ve been doing this sort of thing long enough to have a pretty good idea of pacing, eating and drinking and I can’t say I had any deficiencies anywhere. Who knows, though, there are so many things going on, and this is a bugger of a route. Even if it was the antibiotics clearing my gut of ten year old good bacteria I still don’t regret the decision. They were still worth it.

I’m really disappointed by this one. I was so looking forward to climbing the steep trails on the latter part of the route, seeing if I still had the legs to do it. I am now somewhat confident that I can ride the route in a relatively fast time, but until I do it, it’s just big talk, an unknown and something to daydream about.

In other words, I’ll be back.