Trip Report: Imogene Pass Run (II, 17.1 miles, 5300 vertical feet), Ouray to Telluride, Colorado September 10th, 2005
J. Sphincterboy 1, about 1500 other participants
1Runningeeks, Fort Collins, Colo.
Prologue, Sept. 9th, 2004: At 11 miles, on the downhill toward Telluride, I began to feel the telltale burn of blisters developing under my heel calluses. At 12.5 miles, a very slight uphill provided the opportunity for my lower leg muscles to remind me that I hadn’t drunk enough Gatorade, and they began to cramp. I managed to ignore both problems for another three miles. My downfall was a spectator.
Now, it wasn’t his fault. He was standing astride his mountain bike, having ridden up the trail specifically for the purpose of cheering the runners, and his sentiment was appreciated. However, at the time I was going downhill fast and he distracted me. For a fraction of a second, I lost radar lock with the rocky trail, and that was all it took.
Whooof…a cloud of dust surrounded me, prone in one of the wheel ruts. My legs instantly cramped. You know how you sometimes see a football player lying on the field despite no obvious contact? And the commentator says something like, “He looks like he’s having some cramps.” That explains why he is writhing in agony and is unable to even get to his feet. It hurts like hell, and there’s nothing to be done about it.
Several runners passed. The first of them leaped right over me without a word. Two other guys (and the spectator) asked if I was OK. I lay there for the better part of a minute, then staggered to my feet. I walked a hundred meters, then shuffled into a gait resembling a run. I couldn’t stride properly—neither one of my calves was functioning—but it was faster (and less inglorious) than walking. Telluride, and the finish line, lay two miles ahead.
A finish time of three hours at Imogene is an informal but important boundary. It’s similar to the difference between playing on a college intramural team, and making the junior varsity: Over three hours, and you’re probably just out there for fun. You have to work at it, and pay a price, to go under three hours unless you’re a physiological freak, and if a sub-3 hour time doesn’t mean you’re the greatest, it does mean that you’re not a dilettante. With this in mind, I forged ahead, rounding the last corner, and seeing the finish line clock ticking away: 2:59:40…2:59:41…2:59:42…
Fifty meters to go…my heels were floating on a pond of collected fluid under the blisters, my legs moving unnaturally…in short, I felt like dog-meat. I saw the clock and sent a “full speed ahead” order to the engine room…it took too long to get steam up. I saw the final seconds tick away as I crossed the line.
3:00:00.0.
Fifty-first place overall. Nobody told me what you’re supposed to conclude if you finish neither over nor under three hours. But that was my time: three hours, zero minutes, zero point zero seconds. I think it was the fact that the race is timed to the tenth of a second that got me. I swore upon the sacred relics of the House of Woe that I would return next year, and the first digit in my time was damned well going to be a ‘2’.
4:00 p.m., Sept. 9th, 2005: I’m descending McClure Pass, near Paonia, when an odd-looking wall of cloud appears down the valley. It moves directly toward me, with remarkable speed, and suddenly I realize that the reason I can’t see any farther down valley is because it’s absolutely pouring rain down there. Continual spiderweb lightning spreads across the sky, and for the next 15 minutes even an autopilot wouldn’t have helped—the Jetta is flying blind through a vertical river. Through dense static on the radio, and between severe-weather warnings, I hear a forecast for southwestern Colorado that indicates more of the same for tomorrow, race day. Imogene is famous (or maybe infamous) for bad weather, and it looks like last year’s sunny skies were a pleasant aberration.
The Imogene Pass Run is probably the most well known short trail race in the Rockies, and is in the top rank of such races in the country. The first one was run nearly thirty years ago, the result of a bet between local runners: who could cover the 17-odd miles from Ouray to Telluride, over the Imogene Pass jeep trail, the fastest? Six men competed to settle the bet, and a tradition was born.
Calling it a “tradition” is not to say it’s necessarily a good thing to run it. The race begins on Main Street in Ouray, and follows the jeep road up Imogene Creek past several defunct mine sites, and around and through a beautiful high-altitude bowl. The summit is 13,110-foot Imogene Pass, and then it’s all downhill for another seven miles to Telluride, past more mining relics, across snowmelt streams, and (sometimes) through a foot of snow. The good news is that the course only has one hill. The bad news is that it’s 5300 feet high!
The real problem with the course is that it’s short. If it were longer, the climb wouldn’t be so bloody steep, and one could more easily justify a slower pace and spend more times admiring the peerless alpine scenery. Unfortunately, certain individuals (e.g., the author) feel compelled to remain true to the original premise of the race: fastest runner wins. The race was never intended to be scenic cruise, and for most entrants, it still isn’t. In fact, a few years ago, the “cutoff” time (maximum time permitted to finish the course) was shortened from 7.5 hours to 6, because the race organizers felt that too many people were just out there having fun. This is a race, dammit!
I arrive in Ouray at dusk, and step out of the car at the community center to pick up my race number. The rain has just stopped, and the air is damp and frigid. In the dim light I can see fresh snow on the peaks surrounding the town. I have a quick supper at the local pub and drive a mile out of town to camp.
5:30 a.m.: By headlamp I dress, throw my bivy sack in the trunk, and drive down to Ouray. It is cold, but luckily the stars are profusely and gloriously visible. It looks like a good day. I shoulder my way in to Ouray’s only coffee shop worthy of the name, and sit down to a very welcome cup of joe and a large blueberry scone. My breakfast is not unusual—most trail runners have iron stomachs and have little difficulty with a sizable pre-race meal. The place is full, and by the time I finish at 6:45, there’s a line out the door. A single barista rushes frantically about to fill orders.
7:25 a.m.: I am by-God not going to dehydrate and cramp this year. I have already force-fed a liter of Gatorade this morning, and my Camelback is loaded with another liter and half. But as I stand shivering in the clear pre-dawn light, I am starting to wonder if it’s a little too much, too soon. I will be breathing heavily for the next two hours or so. The 1700 or so entrants at the starting line resemble (as does the starting line of any trail race) a convention of geeks, refugees, and people who were unpopular in high school. Contestants, as usual, represent an astonishing range of humanity: a slightly pot-bellied elderly man (who, inexplicably, is running the race without benefit of a shirt), skinny sponsored athletes in high-tech matching outfits, very fit-looking middle-aged women, mountain-girl types with well-used, salt-stained hydration packs. This year I am going with basic black: long-sleeved Patagonia top, jammers-type swim tights. Despite the fact that I’m not a morning person, I feel fast. I take a position in the first row of runners. It’s 7:30 and…we’re off!
7:33 a.m.: The course ascends a steep slope at the south end of town, and turns on to the Imogene Creek road. A hundred meters up the slope, I am already at maximum sustainable output: breathe in two steps, breathe out one. As I suspected, I didn’t allow enough time between breakfast/Gatorade and the start, and my stomach feels like an overinflated balloon. My mouth is full of the nasty, metallic taste of the anaerobic threshold. I have to pee. Two hours of uphill to go. I feel like shit.
A mile and a half in to the race, the grade suddenly slackens, and there’s actually a slight downgrade for a few hundred meters. I resist the urge to slow down and rest and concentrate on turning my legs over, keeping the circulation at a maximum and flushing out the accumulated lactic acid. My stomach feels no better, but my legs feel great and it’s obvious that my worst opponent today will be myself. I pass a few people on the downhill, cross the creek, and resume the long, long uphill to the pass.
8:20 a.m., Lower Camp Bird: Things have settled in to a rhythm. Through long years of training, I have developed an ability to gauge just about exactly the critical point at which my speed is sustainable: any faster, and I eventually vomit. On the uphill part of Imogene, this speed isn’t very fast. The lower Camp Bird aid station is just about five miles in to the race, and it’s taken me just over fifty minutes to get there. In most races, ten minutes per mile puts you in the back of the pack; at Imogene, you’re near the front. I still feel bloated, but otherwise not bad for someone who’s been running uphill for most of an hour. The trail has changed a bit: it ran close to the creek for the first five miles, sometimes cut from the north wall of the canyon. Here the trail heads briefly northwest in a couple of switchbacks, and the surface changes from maintained gravel to rough dirt, rocks and slabs. And (of course) it gets steeper.
The next three miles are, for me, the most difficult psychologically. It’s steep (almost too steep to run), I’m tiring, and the pass isn’t even yet in sight. And there’s a long way (up) to go: my wrist altimeter says just over 10,000 feet. A few runners ahead of me walk the steeper bits. I am tempted, but keep my legs turning over. There will be time to walk later. Gatorade. PowerGel. Watch for loose rocks. Don’t think, just move, breathe.
8:55 a.m.: Upper Camp Bird: Last year I required an hour and twenty-five minutes to get here. This year, after a spring and summer of disciplined interval and pace training, I need four minutes less. Fatigue toxins have addled me a bit by this point. I think a four-minute improvement is great! The next moment, I think that I spent hour upon painful hour of track intervals only to gain a lousy four minutes. I have finally absorbed the morning’s excess coffee and Gatorade, but…now I really gotta take a piss. Having worked so hard, for so long, to cut four minutes off my time, I am horrified to contemplate sacrificing a quarter of the improvement for a mere bodily function. I’ve seen it before: runners urinating without stopping. And I was always mystified: how do they do that? I give it a try and find that, if you have to go bad enough, it’s not very difficult. A little messy, maybe…I do the deed and look up to see the snowfields of Imogene Pass shining in the sun. The day has dawned with the seamless, cobalt sky and crystalline air unique to the Colorado Plateau. I feel great. Bring it.
It is a beautiful day in a beautiful place. Imogene Pass lies at the crest of the great ridge between the Uncompahgre and San Miguel River drainages. The range is built of distinctive, reddish rock (of what type I don’t really know, maybe sandstone of some kind?) which has fractured into dozens of peaks in varied shapes: flatirons, domes, pyramids, blocks, sawteeth. The upper Camp Bird aid station is close to treeline, and we splash across Imogene Creek one last time and begin the day’s real work.
Shortly after the creek crossing, I walk for the first time, up a very steep pitch covered in loose, river-cobble sized stones. Two miles, and nearly 2000 vertical feet to the pass. For a while, the trail is just gentle enough to continue running, but more and more people are walking. I pass a few, but not very quickly, and finally get to the point where I’m moving no faster than those walking. I switch to the “mountaineer’s walk”: bent at the waist, hands on quadriceps, using the upper body to give a slight assistance by pushing downward on each stride. I don’t feel that it’s any easier, but I’m using different, previously unused muscles, and resting my lower legs at the same time. A few people move by me…but only a few.
The last mile to the pass is brutal. This is a jeep trail, after all, and it’s steep as a ladder. Everyone, even the race leaders, walk this part. I push with my arms, head down. It’s here that I feel the real benefit of all that aerobic-threshold training: I breathe as deeply as possible, and feel just a little extra volume at the bottom of each breath. Instead of trudging, I’m walking—not fast, but steadily and athletically.
9:20 a.m., Imogene Pass: I round a final switchback two hundred meters before the pass, ascend a short, gravelly slope, and head toward the pass on a surprisingly gentle, well-graded stretch of jeep trail. I resume running and by the time I cross the pass, I am back at full speed. There is a large group of aid-station volunteers, paramedics and rubberneckers at the pass who have journeyed up from both sides, and they cheer as lustily as the 13,000-foot air will permit. I roar past in full stride, striking the “animal” pose, glare fiercely at the workers, and give a Ranger yell:
“hoowAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGggggggggggggggghhhhhhheeeeeyoouuu!”
I am now five minutes ahead of last year’s effort, and things are looking good. If I can keep from crashing and burning on the downhill, I’ve got it made. I decided long ago to run more conservatively on the first couple of miles of downhill—that’s the steepest part, and if I retain some strength for the gentler grades farther down, I’ll keep some speed. That’s the theory anyway. I’m only OK on the uphill, but the downhill is my forte. Nobody passes Korfmacher on the downhill!
The first switchback is the trickiest. It’s in deep shadow and always has some ice or snow. This year it’s ice, the clear black ice that, if it’s on a highway, causes your car to do pirouettes in the middle of traffic. I know it’s there, but I don’t know exactly where. The underlying dirt shows through and it can’t be seen. I locate a patch by stepping on it, but anticipate my slipping foot and glide past. Around the switchback…it’s a tight one and my speed gives me a lot of lateral momentum. Another hidden bit of ice, and my left foot slides toward the dropoff on the outside of the turn. I totter gracelessly, arms flailing, and miraculously don’t fall. I recover on the edge of the trail and emerge from the mountain’s shadow. It’s all downhill, and ice-free, from here.
There are three keys to fast downhill running. First, one mustn’t let one’s upper body move faster than one’s legs. (This seems obvious, but it takes years for clods like me to learn it.) Second, one must, absolutely, focus. This is all about discipline: switch the line of sight from two meters ahead (where the next two strides are going to be) to ten meters (where the next stump, loose rock, branch, boulder, rut, etc. is about to appear). Anticipate bad foot placements, remain light on the shoes; it’s nearly identical to mogul skiing. And third, never, ever gaze around. When in doubt, refer to key number two, lest ye strike thy foot against a rock…and spend the next six months on the couch.
(I did that once, in Utah, at night, fortunately close to the trailhead. I was late for some social engagement, and tried to make up time by going full-tilt downhill on a rough limestone-boulder-studded trail. My foot struck an embedded rock at the point in the stride when it was moving the fastest, and in an instant I was prostrate on the trail, with little stars and planets circling my head, blood all over my palms, and blue lightning bolts shooting through my leg. The pain was immediate, and astonishing. I broke my big toe, and was fortunate that it was no worse. It hurt, a lot, every time I walked for the next eight weeks.)
I focus. I deliberately dial back my speed whenever it seems too great. I know I am losing a few precious seconds here but I remind myself that I’ll lose a lot more if I fall. Nevertheless I pass three more people who are being more circumspect (read: smarter) than I about the pace. This is the part of the race, though, at which I genuinely excel. Fast downhill running rewards agility and upper body strength, two athletic attributes at which I work diligently. After two rough, stony miles, the grade slackens and things slow down. There’s a short level section near an aid station, and I again feel the incipient cramps. Gatorade! I need Gatorade! There’s still half a liter in my pack, and I grab the mouth-tube and force down a healthy drink. It tastes terrible by this point. I force down a few more swallows, and stow the tube.
10:00 a.m.: I am moving at what I think is a respectable pace on the now relatively smooth trail. There are great views of Telluride’s valley ahead, and aspen groves just turning to fall color. Even though I was pretty beat up by this point last year, I thought this was the most pleasant part of the course. The sky, defying the weather mavens, has remained untainted by cloud, and it’s even warm. I am just thinking, what a great day for a run, when some dude passes me.
Now, I’m not an excessively competitive person. Really. If someone I know swims faster, lifts heavier weights, gets a promotion at work, or cuts me off in traffic, I almost never feel the pangs of jealousy. I can even play bar pool, lose, and not give a damn. I even happily buy the next round. But with two miles to go to Telluride, I am seriously pissed off. The nerve! One part of my brain tells me I’m being silly. Another part of my brain tells me that he’s going to beat me to the mastodon kill, get all the good cuts of meat, win mating rights with the clan’s best females, and leave me nothing. I forget strategy, cramps, and even the three-hour finish time. To hell with that—I wanna beat that guy.
He’s moving fast, and I can only just stay with him, maybe a hundred meters behind, for the better part of a mile. Nearing town, the trail switchbacks and turns much more steeply downhill, and it’s now or never. A status report arrives from the engine room: there is just enough fuel left for a good hard charge to the finish and I ring up “all ahead full.” That guy is meat!
(The author acknowledges the histrionic and possibly absurd nature of the preceding two paragraphs. The author wishes to inform the reader, however, that he was under the influence of a combination of lactic acid buildup, fatigue, and testosterone overload, and was thus not fully in control of his faculties, nor entirely responsible for his thoughts and actions. So fuck off.)
Going fast downhill is noisy. I chuff like a steam engine, feet slap heavily on the trail, the remaining stale, warm Gatorade sloshes in my pack. I spit, farmer-blow the contents of my nostrils, hack out some dust (I am a one-man toxic waste factory at this point), and put the hammer down. I pull over into the right-hand wheel track of the trail and blaze past my adversary, my legs turning over as fast as I can get them to go. My feet hurt, and the cramps are trying to make an encore performance, but there is no reason to hold anything in reserve now. Sweat, dust, and liquefied sunscreen runs off my nose and into my mouth. The sides of the trail are thick with brushy chokecherry and aspen, and for a while things are a primary-color blur: blue sky, green spruces, yellow aspens, red trail. My feet are hitting the ground hard now and there are only fumes left in the tank but now I can see the beginning of the paved street at the edge of Telluride and what the fuck there’s another guy ahead of me and I pass him and pound ahead onto the pavement and there’s people there and I’m moving really fast oh god my legs are trying to quit and I won’t let them sharp lefthand turn and there’s the finish a couple hundred meters ahead and people are cheering and someone says thirty-seven as I go by wham wham wham wham go my feet and…
tick tick tick tick
2:53:36
yeaaaaahhhhh
There is a sound of a great, heavy wheel gradually slowing down in my head, like the Millenium Falcon when its hyperdrive fails. A kid hands me a finisher’s lapel pin and I am tripping on the fast-finish headrush. (Like they say—we do this because it feels so good when you stop.) The two fellows I passed at the end of the race, who only moments before were mortal cave-man enemies, cross the finish and I shake their hands. Now that the psychedelic effects have worn off, I feel almost as though it was rude to pass them so close to the end.
Unlike last year, when I was virtually incapacitated by the finish, I have enough remaining will (if not the energy) to walk around, stretch, and even jog a bit on Telluride’s crowded main street. I’m trying to flush out the lactic acid, and it sort of works. I have two bowls of soup at the finish aid station, drink some water, and chat with other contestants. There’s some kind of problem with the official results, and for a long time none are posted. Finally, a few sheets of paper are posted with incomplete and wildly incorrect places, and are subsequently taken down. I repair to a pizza restaurant to eat, drink, and watch the season’s first football games. I am covered with dirt, dried sweat, and satisfaction.
1:30 p.m., Telluride: This year’s awards ceremony is something of a fiasco—no official results are yet available, and only a smattering of unofficial results. All 1500 finishers wait patiently in the sunshine, on grass damp from yesterday’s rain. The race director, John Jett, sporadically announces results as they are handed to him by another official. The winner, Ricky Gates from Boulder, has run 2:22. Dan Shaw, a fellow I know from the Mountain Shop in Fort Collins, has finished 4th in 2:30. A few age-group results are announced, and one of them is the men, age 40-44.
I knew I hadn’t run well enough for an age-group award; as happy as I am with 2:53, it’s not really a competitive time in this race. If there was any chance at all I’d get an award, it would be third in the age-group, and the first name announced is someone else. We applaud, he jogs up the steps to get his medal, and Jett announces “John Korfmacher of Fort Collins” as the second-place finisher in the group. For a moment, it doesn’t register…and then I think, my God, that’s me. I jog stiffly up to the podium, receive my medal, and jog bewildered back to my place on the grass. Was that for real? The sunshine beats down, and it’s a fine autumn day in the San Juans.
The record will show that the award was correct. By some amazing alignment of the planets, the men’s 40-44 group was less competitive this year than usual, and my finish of 35th overall is second in the age group to Mike Hagen of Colorado Springs, who finished 8th. I later notice that the 36th and 37th finishers, the two men I passed in the last mile, were both in my age group. Suddenly it seems like an awful lot of effort to improve by six and a half minutes.
And then I think, now, I bet I could have pushed a little harder on that steep bit just past Camp Bird, and if I hadn’t drunk so much coffee, and, well, maybe lighter shoes next year…
Could I go under 2:50?
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