Where’s Leland?

For nine years Leland Barker and I have worked together on the Bear 100, watching it grow in size and stature much as a child. Make no mistake: Leland is the dad, and I’m a mere uncle, but a very proud uncle at that. We are both headstrong and driven, which is why Errol “the Rocket” Jones has been a welcome and necessary cool head on our committee as we have experience the thrills and bumps of growth.

Three years ago I began to join Leland on his tradition of starting the race an hour early to help with course marking and aid station issues. It is unorthodox for most of the race committee to actually run in the race, and more unorthodox for committee members to start early. But it is invaluable to visit every aid station to give encouragement and take any necessary corrective action towards volunteers or runners. Our running the race also means that any change we make in the race will be felt directly in our legs: we don’t make changes lightly. (Leland and I automatically disqualify ourselves from being winners under this system, but neither of us have ever had the fastest time, so it has been a nonissue).

This year my big goal was to take much video and many photos of the front runners as they passed me. Too often this cohort of runners are too intent on going fast to take many pictures, and certainly none of themselves. I would mix this in with my own video log of the run.

Last year when Leland and I began at 5:00 a.m. I was not quite ready, and he left without me. Not that it mattered that much; he has always been about four hours faster than me, so I normally just saw him at the finish. This year, though I wanted to at least be with him for the first 100 yards, so I synch’ed my watch with GPS time the night before, and, after Leland pulled up at 4:50, we left at precisely 5:00:00.

The day boded hot, and would reach 85 in Logan, twelve degrees above normal. There was no need for a coat even in the bottoms of cool Dry Canyon. This was looking like Wasatch, where it got to 88 in Salt Lake (eight degrees above normal). Leland’s light flickered just ahead. He ditched his coat under a rock. That’s why I use a cycling jersey—pockets!

After three miles we were still together, and now could look over the lights of Logan, flickering below. After the big climb, we ran the south syncline trail, rolling along at 7800 feet. And there was Leland. I was right in his hip pocket. This made no sense. I was keeping my heart rate at or below 150, running my race and no one else’s. My plan was to keep my head on and my feet from falling off, and hopefully beat last year’s PR of 27:49. I had just run a 25:52 two weeks earlier at Wasatch. I was beat and I knew it. But here I was with one of the best ultrarunners in Utah.

And so I did what anyone would do. I kept videoing him. I mean, there wasn’t anyone else. Not yet, anyway. I know something was afoot when I pulled into Logan Peak aid station 23 minutes ahead of last year. That was phenomenal, and I did NOT feel like I was working hard. Leland was a minute ahead, and I figured he would now put the hurt on and be gone.

The next 90 minutes were filled with thrilling downhill and a beautiful sunrise, waiting for the leaders to reel me in. But with my new downhill technique (vertical audacity), my 8:00/mile pace was now putting me a good 40 minutes ahead of last year. How much faster was Geoff Roes, the favorite, than Ty Draney, last year’s winners, who caught me before the next aid, Leatham Hollow aid station? Dunno.

Leatham came and went, and I blew through there on my way to Richards Hollow, enjoying the quite cool canyon breeze and the accompanying cattle drive. I got to Richards, now 50 minutes ahead of last year, and who do I see leaving the aid station? Leland. “Hey, Leland!!” I screamed. He waved back.

This was weird. I was still in his hip pocket after 20 miles. I followed his advice he had given me earlier on the trail and downed four ibuprofen (every 20 miles) for leg pain, and then got my nutrition packs from my drop bag. I was still on the gu-every-20-minute plan, plus Hammer Perpetuem drink. Yummy! Richards was beautiful. The drought is over, so the waterfall was flowing.

Twenty minutes out of the aid station, there’s . . . Leland! He was clearly cold (where’s that jacket?) and was holding his arms tightly around his body. I watched my heart rate and ran my race, and then it happened. I passed him. Now, this just isn’t done. I honestly thought he would take off at the sight of me. But, as the friends we are, we exchanged greetings, and I asked him if we was OK. He said he was good.

And then I was in front. I was running most of this stretch now, as the climb got very gradual after the waterfall. I figured Leland would catch me on the downhill in Cowley (Mile 30), and as I descended through the incredible red and yellow-leafed trees on the dirt road, I expected a blowby. I was disappointed in that the only thing blowing by me was a truck, which briefly blinded me with dust.

I finally reached Cowley more than an hour ahead of last year. I looked back up the road for a glimpse of Leland’s Mountain Valley Trout Running Team t-shirt (hand-drawn, mind you). Nothing. It was a quick stop (I spent a total of 48 minutes in aid stations for the race)—grab the gu and a banana and go.

I left the station, and wham! The outside of my right knee felt like it had been stuck with a nail. Iliotibular band? Patellar tendinitis? My diagnostic brain went into overdrive as I backed off the downhill slightly so much. OK. Wasatch hangfire. Bound to happen. Is it a low tire, or a wheel bearing, or a broken axle? No way to know unless I keep running. Uphills were pain free. So I climbed, looking back over my shoulder for Leland. Nothing.

At the pass I tested the knee on the downhill. Not great, not bad. As I merged into the single track I made 9:00 miles. Down 10%. Still fast enough. The pain subsided after about a mile, so now it was going to be a drama for the rest of the race, me and my Millenium Falcon knee (“Hear me baby, hold together.”).

Ten minutes later, running down the phenomenal colors of Ricks Canyon, I hear something behind me. It was . . . Leland! “Hey, Phil, take a picture!” It was Leland and Geoff, now the leader. Leland was clearly pacing off of him. I barely had time to get out the camera and take a quick vid of Geoff zooming by. “Great run,” he said. He looked very fresh and comfortable. Five minutes later Nick Pedatella came by in second place, just motoring.

Soon we finished the “bee run” through Ricks (hornets get forage and moisture from the cool trail surface in the shady sections of this trail, hence its name. No one has ever been stung; everyone minds their own business), and into the aid station we came. The day was warming up, and I had already drained three bottles since Cowley. I topped off all four bottles at Right Hand Fork and turned back up the trail.

Leland was now about five minutes ahead. Astonishing that I was still with him after 36 miles. But this next section would be a real test. The canyon is sun-exposed, and the heat was getting on. It was a grunt, but at the top I turned it on down the road. Knee test #2. OK. 9:00 miles again, and now that muscles and other “stuff” was hurting (including a bit of tummy), the knee was not that big a deal. Soon, I could look way across the broad valley and see a lone runner in white. I assumed it was Troy Howard, who had passed me halfway up Willow Canyon. Nope.

It was Leland.

As I left the road and angled back to the other side of the valley on a trail, I yelled to him over the sagebrush, “Leland!! Woohoo!”

He must have thought, “Will no one rid me of this meddlesome assistant?!”

Sorry, oh king, but this assistant was still with you. For now.

After crossing Temple Fork stream, I debated jumping in. It was HOT. I opted instead to soak my shirt, a trick I learned in the Grand Canyon. Nice. (Turns out that later more than one runner did some Jacques Cousteau action in the beaver ponds.)

I pulled into Temple Fork an hour and a half faster than the year before, and just did the gu and banana thing. Karl Meltzer was working the station. I told him I was executing “his” plan, and he said, “Broth.” “What?” “What about the broth? Gotta do broth,” he replied. Check. Bad data. Lost that part when I heard about his plan. The dangers of hearsay.

I told Karl I was surprised to be with Leland, and he confirmed that it often took Leland 50 miles to warm up. That confirmed my suspicion that I would not be seeing Leland any more. After soaking down with a cool towel, off I went into Blind Hollow.

Last year lush Blind Hollow was mercifully cool. Now, 1.5 hours earlier, NOT. The sun still got into 50% of the canyon, and it was not hot, but not cool. The heat of the day was not lifting. I worked the uphill as best I could, and then saw a figure through the trees. As I got closer I saw who it was.

Leland.

He was placing his “Leland poops” on the trail—little bits of flagging he would break off from the rear pouch of his fanny pack. He had a long tail of flagging now, so I took a vid. As I caught him, I remarked, “Nice tail.”

We joined up just at a critical junction to Hansen Ponds, and some cows had obviously eaten the flagging. I thought it was vandalism, but Leland set me straight. I went ahead a bit to confirm if there was comfort flagging on the trail, while Leland marked the junction. I had been dueling with my gut this whole time. Not fighting. Just dueling. I was eating, I was drinking, but I was working, too. Leland told me later he thought I was working harder than him, but considering that we were together, I think we were working about the same.

As he caught up with from marking the junction, he told me that he had gotten really sleepy, and pulled over for ten minutes to take a nap. So, in order to catch the guy he needs to sleep? I didn’t feel much like an athlete at that point.

He finally motored ahead, and once again I assumed I would not see him again. There was still 50 miles to go, after all, and a dozen times I have had a good first 50, or even 60, and then blown apart in the night. I didn't do that this year at Wasatch; could I get the same magic here?

The downhill in Tony Grove was manageable for me knees. Dial it back 10%, everything OK. The aid station at Tony Grove had just resolved an issue with the campground host, which they handled with aplomb, and I congratulated them for their diplomacy. Multitasking. I put my racer hat back on and moved out.

I was still climbing very well, and as the sun lowered, I could feel some energy coming back. I made at this point a tactical resolution. Soon I would be running the gradual five mile downhill from the White Pine summit to Franklin Basin aid station (mile 61). If I could make 10-11 minute miles, then 24 was possible, both because I would bank time and because I would prove I could do it. If not, then a sub-26 was more likely. I hit the summit. Take in the view (Wow!), take a vid, and then Go! Mile 1, 10:43. Mile 2, 10:32. Etc. I blew through that stretch beyond my wildest dreams, and hit the aid station in sunlight.

Cory Johnson came up in his cool duds and said, “You are having a super day!”

“Cory, I am having an out of body experience. I don't know when it’s going to end, but I hope it doesn’t end before the finish,” I replied.

Jamie Remkes, the wife of my buddy Tom Remkes, was also there, and complimented me. I told her it was my nutrition plan.

“I think training might have something to do with it,” she responded, smiling. Oh, OK. But now there was work to do.

“Leland just left, and told me you weren’t going to catch him again,” said Cory. Oh, really?

Cory kicked my butt out of there after promising me that he would direct my two daughters, who were supposed to crew me at Franklin, that he would send them up the road to the next aid station with good instructions. The fact that they did not show up worried me. I knew I was going too fast for them to get to Tony Grove on time, but now worries about 1-15 and Logan Canyon, a very treacherous road, dominated me. Had they been in an accident? Was everything OK?

These thoughts flitted through my mind even as I ascended Steam Mill Canyon and saw, over the sage, a lone figure in an orange jacket across the broad canyon bottom, switching back up the trail.

Leland.

I almost called out to him again, and then thought, Meh. Let’s see what happens.

And I was hauling, running a lot of the uphills. The sunset itself was not visible, but a pink glow suffused the golden aspen landscape, dominated by a half moon. I took vid as I drunk it in.

And I kept moving. Before I knew it I was on the Steep Hollow road, ever so grateful for the excellent course marking I was seeing on the trail stretch of Steam Mill. Bruce Copeland’s reflective markers, which we were using to replace a lot of glowsticks, were working very well. The race was, like me, clicking on all cylinders.

I was able to keep up 10:00 miles going down the road, which was beyond my wildest dreams. It was becoming a dream night, and the sun had barely set. Soon I could see the aid station’s tiki torches and smell the dutch oven rolls.

As my light flickered through the trees, I heard a strange noise, which I recognized. I make a very loud “Pop” falsetto noise, sort of like a submarine’s active sonar ping, that is my trademark with my kids; they know it’s me, and it actually works to orient them if they are trying to find me. They try to simulate it, and it’s charmingly febrile. The noise was Maria, making her best attempt. I responded with a resounding, “Pop!”

Pandemonium reigned. My two teenage daughters started screaming and going nuts, and before I knew it my bottles had been taken and my drop bag was in front of me and all kinds of food were being offered. I was so relieved to see my daughters I forgot to check in. After being chided by the radio personnel and apologizing, my younger daughter said, “I love you, daddy!” Where that came from I did not know, but it was strong medicine, and I took it.

As for the fantastic food, my nutrition plan was strict—no extra food! Body can't take it. But just this once I wished I could break the rules. No way.

So, my girls had come all this way to see me for four minutes. But they knew the drill, and, besides, they told me later that Steep Hollow was the coolest aid station they had ever crewed and that they had a blast there.

The next half mile was downhill on the newly regraveled Franklin Basin road. I flew. There was no other way to describe it. I felt great, and even though the grade was not very steep, I leaned forward and stayed at a 10:00/mile pace.

Next came the river crossing. This could be a challenge, especially in high-water June training runs (cold!!), but now logs had been placed on the river to make the crossing smooth as silk. Yes!

Now the climb up Peters Hollow, where I finally ate the banana I had been holding. Winding though the cattle-braided trail, I saw a light flickering ahead. Probably a lone hiker out for a relaxing stroll in the middle of the night. Yeah, right.

I could see his legs silhouetted by his light. Could it be . . .? I would have to wait to find out. Nature called, and after an interview with a bush, I was back on track to the Beaver Mountain summit. There followed a technical downhill into the ski resort.

The light guy drew closer as I reeled him in. There was no way it was Leland—he’s a downhill maven. But soon he was close enough to make out. There he was.

Leland.

Once again, an exchange of pleasantries, and for the next two miles he stayed in my hip pocket until we hit the highway, where he motored ahead of me on the slight uphill. We were both running. It was Godzilla v. Mothma, but I still didn’t feel much like Mothma. More like Shrek. But if Shrek could do it, I could do it.

Into the aid station, where my girls waited for me. Very fast. As I left, Maria said, “You realize that if you finish under 24, you will be fulfilling your children’s life long dreams.” Great. No pressure.

Watch check. I had 6:09 to go 24 miles. A tough chore for sore legs. After making my way through some newly constructed road, on I went up the grunt to Gibson Hollow.

Now some math in the middle of the night. I needed 3:49 less than the last year. I knew I could match last year’s pace, so the trick was to get that 3:49 cushion and then cruise. If I could buy another ten minutes into Gibson, I would only be 20 minutes from that magic 3:49.

Leland had left Beaver Mountain right before me. I had not seen him for 30 minutes, but then I saw a light ahead. Now I recognized the legs and jiggle.

Leland.

And I passed him. I thought we might run together, and we did for about five minutes, right over the Utah/Idaho state line. But I tracked my heart rate, and was slowing. I picked it up, and Leland fell behind.

I bought 17 minutes into Gibson—outstanding—and grabbed a banana. I got in and out of the aid station before Leland, but then, as I ran the very gradual up hill on the basin road, he passed me. I really thought this would be the last time. Another pit stop and a mechanical slowed me for five minutes—my GPS watch battery died, so I pulled out my spare and visited another bush. I could tell I was dragging, but the downhill into Beaver Creek rejuvenated me. I was still pulling 12-13 minute downhills, and there were only two climbs left.

Frost coated the grass at the Beaver Creek aid station. Nights at the Bear are studies on contrast; 34 degrees in the bottoms, 55 degrees on the ridges. I didn’t bother with a coat; I’d just take it off anyway. And I was working hard enough that the cold was not an issue.

I had now bought 3:39, and spent one minute in the aid station. Could I keep up my uphill pace for this last grunt? And how. I knew I couldn’t catch Leland—he was really on fire after Gibson—but it was glorious night, and I felt great. The alarm chirped every twenty minutes, and I would eat a gu or an EFS, and I would drink, and I would move on.

I am a worry wart. I really wanted sub 24, but even now, I wondered if a wheel would fall off. But the big climb to High Top went off without a hitch, and I was greeted with a dome of stars and the glow of urban Logan behind the mountains to the west. Montpelier, Idaho shimmered in the north, Pickelville in the south. Far off I think I could see Woodruff, Utah. A black void dominated the immediate east: Bear Lake.

The downhill off High Top is steep, and my knees reminded me of that. I was a little frantic, and repeated my mantra, “Let gravity do it. Let gravity do it.” A short uphill just pissed me off—I needed solid 14:00/mile pace into Ranger Dip Aid Station (Mile 93). Uphills need not apply.

A light flickered far behind me. Someone was reeling me in. So be it. Leland was ahead, and someone else was going for a sub-23. Good. Maybe I could take a picture of a fourth runner!

I passed reflector after reflector as I descended the road into the aid station, and the rocky technical surface gave way to smooth gravel. I picked it up. I wanted a four-hour cushion from last year’s time, but it wasn’t going to happen.

I finally got into aid station just after 2:00. I had three hours to go seven miles. I checked my fluids. It was cool, I felt good. No need to stop. I was going so fast that I had lots of surplus gu and EFS. I yelled, “75 in and out!” Carter Williams, a long-time friend, was the aid station captain. Carter was amazing. For years he had run Wasatch, like me, in the B+, just-under-30 category. Last year he vowed no more. He lost 20 pounds and trained smart. He finished Wasatch that year in just under 25, and this year finished in under 24. He was my idol. I didn’t know if he was at Ranger Dip until he came out and said, “Phil? Is that you? Wow, you are moving!”

I told him I was shooting for sub-24.

He smiled, patted my on the back, and said, “You’ve got this one stuck! Good job, good job!”

That was a real high point. I didn’t ask about Leland. I knew if I didn’t see him at the aid station, he was long gone.

The next 600-foot climb is the Ranger Dip liftoff. We call it, “Oh, you think you're done? You think you're done, huh? Wham!” It is a nasty, steep climb. I finally hit the gates of paradise, the top of the climb.

Now the real test of the knees would begin. No glow in the east yet; it was only 2:30, after all. The first part of this downhill was technical, but not too steep, pretty tame. Then it benched out, and actually rolled and climbed a bit for about a mile.

When I was kid I would swim at my grandparent’s cabin at Indian Lake, Michigan. There was a huge shelf of sand that extended .25 miles out into the lake, then you would hit “The Dropoff.” The Dropoff was legendary, and we envisioned monsters beyond its edge.

Now I hit The Dropoff at the Bear. The trail took on a 20% very technical grade for two miles. That’s 2,000 feet of descent. At the finish we were taking names for this stretch. Decency laws prevent me from sharing all of them.

I knew 24 was in the bag, so now I wanted to shoot for sub 23:43, my 100-mile PR (I got that at Rocky Raccoon in Texas). It was doable. I hit the new stretch of trail that took us over a small rise to Fish Haven Canyon, and then waded (blissfully) through Fish Haven Creek. Refreshing!

Now it was a two-mile run down the dirt road to the finish. I settled in at 13:00/mile pace. I really couldn't do much more. I really hurt.

A light flickered behind me. The guy I saw coming off High Top had arrived. I glanced behind and saw two runners; Luke Nelson and his pacer. “Hey, speed demons,” I said.

Then a third runner appeared in the gaggle.

Leland.

What? What was he doing here? He told me he had made a wrong turn out of Beaver Creek and lost ten minutes coming back. Wait a minute. Leland, the Bear Man, got lost? And this was on the portion of the course we had been using for eleven years. He was as astonished as me. He gave me that classic Leland sheepish grin.

So, he started to pull away. “Wait a minute,” I said. “We’ve bounced off each other all day and we’re not going to finish together? What’s up with that?”

“Hmm,” said Leland. “Well, OK, I guess.” His heart was clearly elsewhere.

“Alright, get on out of here. Just go,” I told him, smiling. I couldn't stay with him, and he was already frustrated enough with getting lost. I could tell he wanted sub-23, and I didn't have that in me. His light slowly faded as he ran forward.

I started to sing along with my fiddle music and made a vid. The night was still. The town slept. And I ran down the road.

I crossed the finish line in 23:02:48. It was an amazing experience. Leland greeted me, gave me a hug, and said, “Where did that come from?”

“I have no earthly idea. I just rode it out,” I responded.

Running as I did with such a fine runner like Leland was a gift. We are now closer friends, and I am a more confident runner. My La Sportiva Wildcats were a dream shoe, my food worked, and my wife’s support resounded in my head for all 23 hours. I dedicated my performance to her.

Oh, and did I mention that I fulfilled a life-long dream of my children? Cough.

Afterthought. Driving back up Logan Canyon Saturday afternoon, after I retrieved my car and dropped off Maria, Sophia, my younger daughter, and I were reflecting on crewing at the Bear and running in general. Maria said she far preferred crewing at the Bear—the aid stations were closer and easier to get to, and she preferred the scenery. I said to Sophia, “Next year you guys should come and crew the whole thing, and I can try to break 24 hou--. . . .” Silence. The foolish irony of what I was about to say made us both laugh.

I had worked for 15 years to break 24 hours at a mountain ultra, and now that I had done it, I couldn't quite believe it.

On a more somber note, the ultimate Bear Man, Tim Seminoff, who has finished every Bear since the 1999 inaugural, crossed the finish line 40 minutes after the cutoff. It was bittersweet as we interrupted the awards ceremony to greet our friend for the only time he has not officially finished.

I want to thank our incredibly deep and talented volunteer pool for making this year a great one. Despite a 50% increase in entries, things worked very smoothly. And I also want to thank the amazing runners, whose spirit and courtesy make this a sport I cherish.

See you next year at the Bear!