Dropping to my knees, I roll onto my side, and then flat on my back. my chest expands and contracts rapidly, hyperventilating. An unhealthy wheeze escapes my lungs. I begin to wonder if maybe this isn't my day. It's time I got off this beast. Slowly, I get up and then begin my fall off the mountain.

After running Bighorn and Hardrock, I knew that Leadville was chancy. Matter of fact, I had decided not to do it. But a few people who knew my buttons started pushing them. I was easy prey. So, I entered and made my plans. Why not?

It was going to be tough. I had no vacation time left to give, so it would be a fast in and out, with zero acclimatization. My two weeks at Hardrock are 4 weeks behind me, putting me back at ground zero. I can run at altitude reasonably well and I can run a good pace now and then, but I can't seem to run fast at altitude. Without acclimatization, my chances are pretty thin. Also, the 30 hour cutoff along with the agressive intermediate cuts will force me to go out quicker than I usually do. The combination of cimcumstances seem to gang up on my weaknesses at the cost of my strenths. Still, I am confident that I will find a way. I usually do. I always seem to be able to adapt, to recover. I have to believe it. To think otherwise is to fail before I even begin.

Arriving on Thursday, I feel comfortable at Leadville's 10000ft elevation. It'll feel different once I start running and again when I start to climb, but that'll have to wait until Saturday. Check in and drop bags go according to plan, and Joyce hooks up for crew and pace chores. I spend the day eating well, drinking a good bit of water, and getting plenty of sleep: a simple plan with no stresses or hangups.

I've failed my first test with simple mathematics. I have 2 water bottles and 1 flashlight, but only two hands. My pants have large front pockets, but the full water bottle doesn't work well there. Next, I try the flashlight and 1 bottle together, but my arm gets tired quickly. I try the 2 bottles together, but it's hard to drink. Every combination still leaves no free hands to take my salt or pick my nose. Eventually, I finish one bottle and shove the empty in my pocket. And then the sun comes up and I stash the light, leaving just 1 water bottle and freedom. What an idiot! Butch Allmon and I go out fast and back off just a little when we reach the lake trail. Butch stops to wizz every few minutes, which gives me chance to try another combination that might work. Its a good thing that sunrise eventually solves the problem because I never do.

We reach 13 mile May Queen faster than I normally would. Oue pace in insane, and it is short lived too. I feel good, but so far, it has been flat. The jury is still out when we start to climb, but the verdict arrives soon enough, and judgement passed on Sugarloaf. Bad news comes with a whisper. A roughness in my breathing, a wheeze that slips out with each exhale, a very slight rasp. T'is not a good sign. The 2000 pound gorilla is aboard. Quietly, I back off right then, trying to go much easier with less effort, but it makes no difference. I'm trying to determine if Butch is waiting on me or if he's struggling also. I tell him to let me be, but he's waited on me before and seems content to do so again. My breathing seems to be getting rapidly worse as I go. We walk up Sugarloaf together, talking up old times, and making plans for new ones. A couple of old fools who know better and care less. We'll take what the mountain give us, and odds are good it will be bad. A tingling in my fingers confirms the thought. The powerlines crackling overhead confirm the beginning of our descent, and where I usually get back even with this type of course. We do run much of the downhill, but not with the same flair as usual. The last mile leading into the Fish Hatchery is nasty ol asphalt that we share with a few cars. I don't care much for paved road, but I have run a bit of it, so I'm surprised how much it seems to bother me. Even though the people in the cars are friendly, I'm irritated by their presence. I must be real low on calories. We're still well under the cutoff, but the telling signs are evident that all is not well.

Joyce is waiting on me, and helps with my drop bag. I trade one of my water bottles for the lightweight Rogue Camelback. I've been drinking well, but my stomach is bloated and uncomfortable. My salt caps have been at regular intervals, same as usual. I could be eating more, but I'm doing ok. Been drinking plenty of water. I begin to wonder if this is another symptom of edema. Usually, when my stomach goes south late in a run, it's after dark and I switch to soups and broth. I ask for a bowl of hot oatmeal with false hope that it'll help. Joyce walks out with Butch and I, handing us a tortilla sandwich with avocado and tomato.

More asphalt and traffic as we head towards Half Moon. Cars whiz by in both directions as we run & walk while we eat & talk. There's a lot of runners and a lot of cars on the road. A few miles, but way too much for me. I'd like to rip up this road and make it single track. My achillies flare up on me more on roads than it does on hills now-a-days, and I can feel it starting to talk to me again. At the turn off the main road, the asphalt continues but with enough shoulder for me to escape. Butch and I hook up with Mike Riggs to share the road, along with quite a few others. We should all be quite a bit faster on this flat surface but nobody in this crowd appears either fast or happy. Are we all cussing the asphalt road? The heat seems to be up a bit, making me wish for a good storm right about now. If I had any piss in my vingar, I'd pick up the pace to get off sooner than later. But, my piss and vinigar seems to be mush right now. Still dragging my legs, I watch as Butch manages an ambling run to pull ahead and slowly disappear. Mike also seems to have good energy, and has one heck of a fast walk. Watching him, I realize he's holding back, waiting on me. I tell him to unhitch me and get on down the road. I'm in a bad funk, and he dare not wait on me. This seems to galvanize him. He quickly changes gears and speeds ahead. He's a good friend and I'm proud of him, his power walk paying big dividends. I seem to be in a middle zone, somewhere between good and bad, Half awake - half asleep. Is this normal for altitudinally maladjusted individuals? I assume it must be and go on with my nutritional necessities. I still need to eat and drink, so I do. Half Moon owns a wonderfully shady road side pull in. I sit down and let two great kids assist me with my drop bag and cold drinks. I come out right behind Mike but again can't hang on. He's only walking but quickly disappears down the road. Even after the rest and food, I still can't make it happen. I try on a few good memories and test a few high energy songs in the back of my mind, but nothing seems to put the bop in the bee. I have no choice but to wait it out, as I have done before, but I do this while moving forward down the road.

We finally leave the road for a wonderful single track trail and I'm thinking this has got to help. It starts with a good stiff climb, but I like this and get into a rhythm as I climb. Ascending slowly, exhaling evenly, I pass a few others, and start to get that really good feeling back again. A hint of a smile begins to creep back onto my face. I pick up a rock now and again but usually just ignore them until one works itself into a position with the pointy end up. As much as I hate to stop, one of them does find that painful position, so I stop and remove it. Standing back up almost knocks me out. Seeing spots, I sit down and lean on a tree, breathing like a dog, rapid breath and edema rasp. The hyperventilation lasts much longer than I would have thought. A few minutes and then I'm up again, but moving slow again. I try to dial in a pace that allows me to move as fast as possible without stopping, a place where I can breathe without going anaerobic. The pace I eventually find will kill my chance of finishing if I'm forced to stay on it. Past the steepest part of the climb, I start running again. It aint too fast or pretty but at least I'm not walking. The trail and the woods through here are gorgeous: my favorite part of this course. A tad cooler here in the shade and it may be that my body cools down some, giving me more energy. I don't really know for sure what it is, but I am starting to have some fun again. The final section into Twin Falls is a long downhill and I think that I could sprint downhills even when dead, so I give it a try. There's eight of us bunched up in a line and we soon discover we're in reverse order to our downhill speed. As each one pulls over, those following go faster. In this manner, I slowly get faster and faster as each person steps aside until I sprint past the last fellow in front of me on the jeep road leading into Twin Lakes. I pass Butch on the final turn just before hitting bottom. I walk into the Twin Lakes station in time to hear Mike tell Joyce that I'm falling back and may be awhile. He's surprised to see me and I am too. I'd never have believed that I'd catch him, and Butch too! For the moment, I feel good. But the joy flies quickly and fades to something else. Still, my time is good despite my condition. I've made all the cuts so far with plenty of time to spare, but I know that my condition is rapidly deteriorating. My energy's been a rapidly descending sign wave that should flat line somewhere up on Hope Pass.

For the moment, Joyce sees me at my best, and sends me out without reservation. A light rain is falling as Butch and I walk out. Accompanied by a stiff wind, we cross the river marsh. The race leader passes us coming in, and we decide that it's impossible that he's in the race! The multiple stream crossings are stinging cold on our legs as the rain continues to fall. Even though I pull on my rain jacket and gloves, I'm still comfortable in shorts, and the water really does feel good on my legs. The open marsh turns to trees soon after the last water crossing and immediately begins to climb. Butch waits patiently on me a few times before he decides to turn me loose. He seems to be climbing well or least a lot better than I am. I try to dial in my best possible climbing rhythm but it's well short of pathetic. My cautious lazy pace cannot repair the difficulty of my breathing. My lobored ascent quickly spirals down to a crawl. Mike and Butch are long gone. Alone, I focus on my breathing and try to keep moving. But, it us hard. I have been trying to get my mind around it, but for nothing. I attempt to get out of my body instead now, going someplace else that is pain free and easy. I wonder about in my memories only to come back and find that I'm standing still. My toes start tingling, so I back off even more, if that's possible. More people are sprinting by in the opposite direction. I'm sure they're wondering why I'm standing still, if they even notice. I attempt to get out their way with little success. Hell, the sweat on my face is moving faster than I am. The Hopeless station comes with little relief and then the summit. Takes me four and a half hours to get from Twin Lakes to Hope Pass and I'm exhausted. A false BM adds to my discomfort and body confusion. I lay down on the summit and it's an enormous mistake. My breathing rapidly accelerates: a hard, heavy, raspy wheeze that lasts until I sit back up again. I need to get off the mountain and quickly.

It's my kind of trail, but it's full of runners and they're all coming up hill at me. The narrow track has meager room for two bodies to pass. I fall a few times as I struggle past one after another. I know many of these people and they're on the 25 hour bubble, so they're all in a hurry to summit. Most are generous but some barrel right through me with nary a nod. Even on the descent my pace is pathetic and if I wasn't so wasted, I'd be embarrassed. There are so many people I can't get into a rhythm. Some move over to give me room while others don't budge, so I stop to let them by. I'm not sure who has the right of way so I watch each one and react accordingly. Is it the uphill or downhill folks, the leaders or the trailers? The only pattern I can discern are the smiling ones will let you by. My breathing seems ok on the descent but it usually is. Still, it takes me way too long to reach the road.

Quite a few cars are going both ways, filling the air with dust, so I move my bandana up to cover my nose and mouth. Makes it harder to breathe but it does keep out most of the dust. I try a few times to run the road into Winfield but manage no more than a fast walk. I only stop once when I see Butch to lend him a flashlight. He's going to need it and I have another at Winfield. The cutoff is 6pm and that's when I arrive. They're very friendly here and attempt to hurry me through so I can make the cut, but I don't want to hurry. It's starting to rain. I sit down and ask for my drop bag, but they can't seem to find it. I need warm clothes for the return and I have them in my bag but still no bag. I'm starting to get the shakes, but just a little. I have some food while they search. They're still trying to hurry me, but I know better than to go out without fuel and warm clothes. Kathy comes over to help and locates my bag. She's asking me questions that I struggle with the answers, so I go off to change my clothes, before I answer. She's trying to gauge my status and I'm not doing too well with the answers. She says I have three and a half hours to get back over Hope to Twin Lakes. I tell her it took me five and a half hours to get here. She looks concerned and scrunches up her face but doesn't say a thing. I haven't felt well all day and I'm pretty certain my pace won't improve any time in the near future. The rain continues to fall and my body continues to shake. I can still hear the rasp in my breathing and begin to wonder about my health. It would be so foolish for me to go on, get half way up the mountain and then lose control of my core temp. No way could I keep my body heat up at this miserable pace, not to mention at what point my breathing problems would become dangerous. I don't have a medical background, tending more towards what feels right or wrong, and usually ignoring it all and going on. But this time, maybe it's time for me to stop. I wonder! I roll it round in my mind for a bit, then walk over and have the medical team cut off my band. It seems the smart thing to do.

This is not my first DNF. My first one felt awful for a long time. The second one wasn't much fun but I didn't dwell on it for near as long. This time, I just feel empty. Maybe I'm getting good at this! I want to beat myself up but can't find any good reason to do so. I'm not confused or disoriented: Just tired, bone tired! I can't seem to breath. I'm sure it's just the altitude I hitch a ride back to Twin Lakes where Joyce is waiting for my return. When I get there, I'm not sure where to find her, but I do see Butch's wife, Donna. I climb out of the truck and immediately begin to shake uncontrollably. I rush over to Donna and ask if I can please sit in her car for awhile. She goes off to find Joyce and fifteen minutes later, Joyce is here and taking care. She tells me I have a high fever. Everybody we know is waiting on somebody else, so for the moment, we're stuck right where we are. Joyce eventually talks a stranger into giving us a ride back to our room in Leadville. A warm shower and a night's sleep does wonders. By morning, I'm still exhausted, but my breathing is better. Only a bit of wheeze remains. I suspect it'll be days before my lungs recover.

Mike came in around 2am. He's staying in the next room but the walls are paper-thin, so I could hear his breathing is about as bad as mine. Mike made it as far as 70 mile Half Moon when the edema slapped him also. Butch didn't quite get back over Hope when he started blacking out. He was sitting just below the summit when the sag found him and helped him over and into the Hopeless aid station. He ended up spending the night under the care of these folks, eventually getting off the mountain to Donna in the morning. Moogy caved at 77 mile Fish Hatchery. He tried to push his body past all the issues that eventually overwhelmed him. They had to cut his ring off because of the swelling, his leg was numb, and the edema also got to him.

Turns out, it was just a 50 mile training run at altitude. I have another race next weekend and precious little time to dwell on everything that went wrong. I have done better, but such is life. We learn more form our mistakes, I hear. I wonder about that. I had a great time hanging with Butch for most of the day and the weekend with Mike. Another grand adventure regardless the outcome. There will be many more, I am certain of that.

We skip the awards ceremony to wash our dirty laundry and then start our drive back towards Denver for our evening flight home to Austin. Even with a direct flight, we arrive home well after midnight. I was at work by 7am, trying desperately to keep up with my projects so that I could escape again on Friday. All week long is insane, including the unpack and repack Thursday night. Joyce and I drive back out to the airport again at 5am on Friday, arriving in Seattle around noon. George Hitzfeld is waiting for us at baggage claim. We drive downtown for lunch and then an hour drive out to Cle Elum for our hotel. Our travel plans go without a hitch.