I Fell For the Whiskey Basin 88K Trail Run

At daybreak, a thin sky-blue layer on the horizon illuminates a curvy black outline of silhouetted mountains, and the whole scene replicates itself upside down in the reflection of a lake’s surface that spreads out bigger than a football field to my right as I run a dirt path next to it. Sparkling frost decorates every branch and blade of grass, and my breath in the freezing air swirls like smoke in the headlight beam. When is the last time I ran in an unfamiliar place at dawn? I can’t remember; it’s been a long time.

Tall, lumpy granite rocks known around here in Prescott, Arizona, as The Dells stand like clusters of spectators on a parade route watching us run. The sun rises enough that I can turn off my light, the air warms enough that I can unzip my jacket, and I begin chatting with someone ahead of me, a Bay Area guy named Paul who’s running his first 50-miler, and two runners behind me, Jeff and Holly, with whom I discover a connection that has to do with Telluride. We’re running over sand and crushed granite, with cacti at our feet and towering stands of ponderosa pine in the distance.

I have no idea where I’m going, aside from following course markings, because I’ve never been here, but I sense a familiarity that feels comfortable and overdue, as in, “It’s been too long since I’ve done this.” This meaning not just run a long ultra, but travel for adventure.

I used to do this more frequently—plan trips to destinations to explore, unplug from regular life for days or weeks (or even, a decade ago, for ten whole months). I used to call myself a world traveler with a travel blog. But that part of me has been shelved for the sake of homemaker and homebuilder. Morgan and I have been so focused on selling and moving out of our old house, building a new home and working to finance the whole thing, that travel became something we used to do and intend to do again one day, but not now. I’ve missed this side of me.

I have not run an ultra since the Quad Dispea last Thanksgiving weekend, which at 28.4 miles barely counts. I have not run 50 miles or longer since last summer’s San Juan Solstice 50 and then my Mile 66 DNF at the Ouray 100. Taking time off last winter, then focusing on preparation for running flat paved roads for the Napa Valley Marathon in March, made me feel ossified as an ultrarunner. I accomplished one super-duper training week in mid-March totaling 81 miles, which included a solo 32-miler in the Headlands and a tough 23 on Mount Diablo, but I was so wiped out the following week, I needed extra recovery.

So, I felt intimidated by the 50-plus miles we faced here on April 13 at Aravaipa Running’s Whiskey Basin 88K. I discovered this event because I am a fan of Jamil Coury and his race outfit, Aravaipa. I talked to Jamil a year or so earlier for this article I wrote for Trail Runner, about races that are unusual distances because the landscape defines the route. He told me about this Whiskey Basin Trail Run (named after Prescott’s famous Whiskey Row), which follows the entire Prescott Circle Trail that circumnavigates the town of Prescott. It’s called “88K-ish” but elsewhere on their website it says 90K, so I wasn’t sure of the exact distance, somewhere around 56 miles. Doing a giant loop, and seeing the view of the town at its center from different vantage points throughout the day, appealed to me.

I set a base goal of finishing, to prove to myself that I can still go the distance, and to log a much-needed training run for the upcoming Bighorn 100 in June. I set a stretch goal to break 12 hours because Ultrasignup predicted my finishing time would be around 11:46, and that felt like a stretch because Ultrasignup doesn’t account for my under-training or things like altitude (this event took place at moderate elevation, about 5200 to 6700 feet above sea level).

I drove from a budget motel to the start line at 4 a.m. to be ready for the 5 a.m. start. I felt grateful for my crappy cinder-block motel room when I saw all the runners who had opted to camp at the start/finish area’s park, given the freezing temperature. It was so cold! I knew it would warm to the high 70s by afternoon, so I had under-prepared for the start in the low 30s.

I joined a group huddled for warmth around outdoor heaters in the starting area, and said hello to the presumed winners, the couple Zach Bitter & Nicole (formerly Kalogeropoulos) Bitter. They had won by a big margin the prior year and would do the same today, Nicole besting her course record by 27 minutes. I’d met them both at prior events and was happy to see them here.

And Jamil was there because he’s doing Aravaipa’s Whiskey Man series, which combines the 88K ultramarathon with a 50-mile mountain bike ride and a road marathon in downtown Prescott.

The first half unfolded briskly. I tracked the sun to sense where we were on the counterclockwise loop, figuring out when we transitioned from westward to southward. Early on, around Mile 10, we popped out of the trail and ended up on the shoulder of a highway, running a couple of miles on a main road and then through a neighborhood where modest single-family homes had kitschy desert-themed ornaments in drought-tolerant landscaping. I didn’t expect this section of road, but I decided to make the most of it and bank a couple of faster miles. An aid station in someone’s front yard provided cubed sweet potato on toothpicks, and that became my go-to aid station treat for the day.

We re-entered the Prescott Circle Trail and began climbing a “mountain” that really just felt liked a big hill. The climbs and descents in this race are gradual and do-able, only about 1000 feet at the most, each spread out over several miles. Sure the air is thinner due to moderate high altitude, but I’m not gasping as if in the San Juan Mountains.  

I realized early on that this route is easier—meaning, more runnable—than expected, its start and finish bookended by flat miles, its terrain never too technical, its slopes never too steep, so therefore I needed to run most of these 50-plus miles. OK, so I would. “Run what you can” became my saying for the day.

I reached the aid station close to the halfway mark, at about 26 miles, feeling confident and happy. I got there right when I hoped to, just a few minutes past 5 hours, averaging about an 11:50/mile pace. To break 12 hours, I would need to average a pace around 12:50/mile (which sounds very slow, but in tough ultras with lots of hiking and aid station stops factored in, 5 miles per hour or 12 minutes/mile ain’t bad). My plan was to average a sub-12 pace in the first half, then expect to slow down on the other major ascent of the day in the heat of the afternoon, but still maintain an average sub-14 pace in the second half so overall I’d average sub-13-minutes/mile and break 12 hours.

I was sticking to the plan. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and ultrarunners going awry.

What A Trip

I left the aid station munching on another sweet potato cube and spotted a foursome of gray-haired Sierra Clubber types hiking with trekking poles. I felt sorry for them, with all of us runners disrupting their hike, so I slowed down to a walk and said, “excuse me … I’m coming up behind you … nice day isn’t it? Sorry we are all elbowing past you. Have a lovely hike!”

One of them asked something about my running or my gear, I don’t recall what, and I turned my head back to politely say “huh?” but instead, in a split second, I caught a toe and landed smack on my palms face down in the dirt while my right thigh slammed across a sharp-edged rock. My “huh?” became a suppressed a “motherf***er!”

Four concerned wrinkly faces wearing wide-brimmed floppy hats from Eddie Bauer peered down at me, looking horrified. As pain shot through my leg and hands, I rolled over to sit on my butt and willed myself to keep my mouth shut and just get up and get moving. Wordlessly, I stood up, limped down to a creek to wash off my cut, and hiked as quickly as I could ahead of them, wanting to pretend that the regrettable scene had not just happened.

I felt somewhat shocked with disappointment, to have my race take such a drastic turn. I pride myself on not falling, always picking up my feet and lifting up my knees to avoid what I had just done. I had a 50K or about 31 miles still to go, and my right leg wasn’t functioning quite right. I assessed the cut and didn’t think it would need stitches. The problem wasn’t the bleeding, it was the trauma to the muscles around it, which affected my range of motion.

I took the following photos to show my family:

I could hike and glide, but I couldn’t run properly. My stride was low to the ground, my right leg not entirely responsive. So, predictably, I caught my toe again and almost fell, jolting all my senses and stoking anger and disappointment. I hate tripping and falling!

All of a sudden I found myself contemplating quitting. Was I doing more harm than good by continuing? Should I tough it out?

Wait a minute—I had prepared for just this type of situation. I had written a section in my book, “Know When to Tough It Out and When to Quit.” I dug through my brain to remember my checklist. Here it is, excerpted from my book The Trail Runner’s Companion (which you can order here):

“Yes” means you should drop. If the answer is “maybe,” then factor in how important the race is to you to finish and how risky it would be to continue.

• Are you risking life or limb, or might you need hospitalization (e.g. from renal failure or severe altitude sickness) if you continue? Answer: No.
• Is the problem significantly affecting your ability to bear weight on your foot and run symmetrically (e.g. are you limping), and does it worsen if you continue? Answer: Maybe.
• Have you been unable to digest any calories or fluids for several hours due to upset stomach, and do you still face four or more hours until the finish line? Answer: No, that’s not a problem.
• Are you in the midst of a less-important “B” or “C”-level race or long training run, leading up to your goal “A” race, and experiencing problems that likely will lead to injury? Answer: Maybe. This race is a training run for my 100-miler in mid-June. But it’s unclear, probably unlikely, this injury will be long term. And I need this training run.

I decided to keep going, as long as my pain didn’t worsen. I needed this finish; I resolved not to be a quitter. The pain numbed out.

From Bad to Better

Once I took DNF’ing off the table, I got into “grind mode,” determined to get this job done. A couple times more, I tripped and almost fell—a sickening sensation, one that would lead to nightmares in the following nights with me waking up with a jolt, dreaming of experiencing the sensation of tripping and falling—but I kept running. Then, approaching the Mile 36 aid station, once more I tripped and face-planted again, landing on my banged-up palms. I have never been so clumsy in an ultra.

Although running became more challenging, it also became a charge. With Chumbawamba’s “I get knocked down, but I get up again” looping through my head, I became stronger with pissed-off doggedness.

And then gradually, as I made peace with the situation and settled into the later miles, I began to transcend discomfort and negativity. I felt increasingly pumped up with the sense that this is what I do. I find purpose and belonging out here. OK, so maybe I’m all by myself in a high-desert forest running 56 miles in a giant circle for no better reason than to order a pizza at the end, but at times out there, it feels purposeful and connected to something larger, like …. like … oh Christ I don’t know. Are you there, God? It’s me, Sarah.

In spite of or because of the fatigue that ebbed and flowed after Mile 35, I felt everything more acutely with senses awakened. As often happens in this ultra-induced transcendence, I become unfiltered, saying whatever comes to mind, or doing whatever feels right. For example, a beautiful specimen of a younger man came running on the trail toward me, his bronzed arms and chiseled jaw and sweaty skin making me bug-eyed with admiration. I told him point blank, “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” a flirty remark I never would make off the trail. He ran away while laughing awkwardly as if I were a friend of his mom’s.

I knew I was running well in spite of my injury, but I took extra time at the final two aid stations to eat, drink soda, rest my angry quad, spray sunscreen on my limbs and just chill out. I doubted my 12-hour goal was still possible, but whatever, I’d just do the best I could.

During the final segment, I thought about my desire to be “a closer” and pass others. I maintained grind mode, got past Mile 50, and wondered how much farther we really had—six miles, or maybe eight? I had a little over an hour to run 10-minute miles and break 12 hours if it were “only” 56 miles, but what if it were longer? The trail flattened out, becoming runnable, robbing me of excuses to hike. I resolved to run steadily each mile, taking only a little 30-second walking break when my watch beeped at the end of the mile. I closed the gap and passed several runners in this manner.

We could glimpse the start/finish area’s big tents from about three miles away. Those final miles, with the finish line in the distance like a mirage, felt so long. The final miles in an ultra always feel that way. So I decided to get it over with as quickly as possible.

It turns out the route measured a little over 57 miles on my GPS. But I got to the finish with time to spare for my goal—11:52! I didn’t care how I finished in relation to others—I beat my goal time by eight minutes! For the record, I was 9th female and 31st overall, good for top third of the 94 finishers and 27 DNFs.

At the finish, my filter still MIA, I asked a guy sitting comfortably between Jamil Coury and Rob Krar to move so I could sit like a queen between them. He kindly gave me his seat and took the photo below. It’s not every day I’m sandwiched between UROY and two-time Western States champ Rob Krar, who ran and won the event’s 33K division, and Jam-Jam. I admire those guys a lot and enjoyed hanging out with them and talking ultra, my version of hanging out backstage.

I felt so satisfied at the end to have finished, to have gone on a journey—and to complete those last miles running, not death-marching! I succeeded in depleting myself, but that’s what I wanted to do for this ultra-long training run.

I highly recommend this race and destination. It happened the same day as the much more competitive and sought-after Lake Sonoma 50, but this is a great alternative—not too hard in difficulty, not too high in elevation, occupying an odd space between 50M and 100K; in other words, just right.

p.s. If you go to Prescott, eat at The Raven Cafe,the best (and healthiest) eats in town.

p.p.s. In case you missed it, I have a campaign going to raise awareness and funds for America’s National Conservation Lands. If you love the wild areas of the West like I do, please read this and support my campaign, thank you!