A review of Trail Runner's "How to Run the Western States 100" by someone who has actually finished the race
Also, we* should discuss my guest-submissions policy
The Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run starts on Saturday morning in what used to be called Squaw Valley, California.
Many people are excited about this race. I don’t care at all about it, despite obviously appreciating the combination of fitness, brains and luck it takes to prevail. This is largely because the WS100, along with most other U.S. ultras and trail races, now seems to attract as followers and participants just the kind of infuriatingly entitled self-strokers convinced that abolishing names like “Squaw Valley” is a worthy substitute for doing something that materially helps a single living, breathing Native American person. The event also overlaps this year with the U.S. Outdoor Track and Field Championships, and although that doping circus no longer much of a draw for me either, I have to do something to try to remain somewhat placid between whatever orgasms I achieve, even if that usually means following distance running in a morose and blinkered state.
I also lack the experience to comment even half-sensibly on a race like this. My one ultramarathon finish was at a national championship, and I was second (there was money, but no podium), but as David Roche would say. 31.1 mostly flat miles on pavement is not the same thing as 100 mountainous, off-road miles, and the only person who showed up that day who was any good was the guy who beat me despite going off a six-loop course at least twice in the second half of the race. (A similar thing once happened to me while driving through Kansas City, but there was a drunk suspected whore in the car giving bum directions.)
The absence of a personal draw notwithstanding, The WS100 is an event of intense interest to plenty of runners and a high fraction of the respectable arm of this site’s readership. For that reason, I am posting a de facto line-item review from one of those Beck of the Pack readers of this article by Mr. Roche, still getting his chum published in the now-virtual-only magazine Trail Runner despite its parent company shitcanning something like 85 to 90 full-time staff recently.
The review in its native form was just the complete Trail Runner piece fortified with a series of withering annotations in angry red font. I’ve streamlined the production for Substack packaging and stripped out material from the Trail Runner article not reviewed or germane to the reviewer’s comments—I might be committing a copyright violation otherwise (not that I’d ever hear the sound of two scabby ass-cheeks clapping together over this) and no one deserves any more exposure to Roche’s prose than is “necessary.”
I have bolded selections from the original article that represent some of Roche’s forays into attempting to wed metaphorical with literal expression. I say “some of” because at times I really can’t tell if he’s talking about, say, a person who’s yeasty in some diseased way or someone who is in fact a first-degree relative of the Pillsbury Dough Boy (or whatever the dessert icon’s Wokish name is).
The review also includes some sincere tips for WS100 participants—as many of whom read this blog as do beings from the Dagobah system—at the end.
I’ve got a fever, and the only prescription is more coverage of the Western States 100 Miler! I am OBSESSED with this race. They say that both men and women average 10+ sexual thoughts a day, and I double that in daily Western States thoughts all year long. At least.
You should really see a doctor, and possibly a sex counselor for that. I would have thought someone so OBSESSED with Western States, with likely the talent to qualify, would have run it.
In the fall, I’m planning athletes’ seasons around qualifying. In the winter, I’m coaching at Golden Ticket races. All spring, my eyelid flutters with stress thinking about balancing the big training athletes need to excel with injury risk. And on race day, I watch as 364 days of meticulous planning gets hurled into a freaking buzzsaw.
I’m guessing you’ve never used a buzz saw, champ, as careful use of the tool involves guiding material to the buzz saw, and never hurling things into it. I hope you have your safety goggles on, sport. Don’t forget to mention the fluttering eyelids to your doctor.
Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth. The Western States 100 starts with a few jabs in the high country for the first 30 miles, before throwing haymaker after haymaker in the hot and steep canyons for the next 30 miles, finishing it off with roundhouse kicks all the way to the finish.
Such violence, David. Free lesson for ya: Most plans involve how to deal with shit that comes up. I ran Western States, and I was indeed “punched” numerous times—the altitude gave me asthma (expected), the steep hills were hard (expected), I was super tired (expected), and it was super hot (expected). Yeah, I had some unexpected issues as well, but nothing I hadn’t experienced in training. It’s a fucking trail race, not a war.
It throws every athlete into the fire. Those that emerge can conquer the world.
Funny, because I completed my first WS100 years ago and have yet to conquer the world.
Each year, some of the best athletes in the world line up to test themselves, chasing ghosts that haunt each portion of trail.
Who should you call? Ghostbusters! You’re probably too young to get that comment, but it ain’t a compliment.
That competition pressure-cooker means that small margins matter. Whereas ultras are usually characterized by big error bars, Western States is almost like a national championship track race, where every fraction of a percent can make the ultimate difference. These tips are designed to help athletes chase every small fraction, and all after the training hay is in the barn.
Glad to see you’re fully utilizing the hackneyed sayings book you got for Christmas (or Hanukkah—I’m a very accepting person)! So it’s “almost like,” or “like”? 100 miles on trails is in no way like a track race, David, though WS100 does indeed finish on one.
Ultra are chaos, and Western States 100 is more chaotic than most. But as the character Littlefinger said in Game of Thrones, “Chaos is a ladder.” Let’s climb this motherf’er all the way to the top of the podium.
How did you calculate that WS100 is more chaotic than most—from your ass, I’m assuming? That’s cool, because this write-up is from mine.
And just to be clear, “podium” is metaphorical. I just want to encourage the mindset of chasing your peak performance potential, at Western States or anything else in life. You are loved and you are enough, always, independent of where you finish in any running race.
Wow, I feel so validated and accepted. And thanks for explaining that “podium” is metaphorical; I’m far too stupid to have figured that out, as I’m sure the readers of Trail Runner are.
Tip One: Races can be lost on the Escarpment climb in the first few miles
Yeah, if you’re an unexperienced idiot.
The race starts with a few miles up the Escarpment, a fire-road climb that would be fun if it weren’t followed by 97 miles of hell. There’s a huge problem on that first climb. Athletes are ready, rested, and nervous…and they ignite the fuse on a ticking time bomb that may not go off for another 60 miles.
It’s not just fire road, but I guess particulars don’t matter here. There isn’t a “huge problem” for everyone, as you inferred. I agree one shouldn’t go out too fast, but it’s hard to go out too fast due to the crowds (unless you’re a frontrunner). [KB comment: Why would a bomb with a timer need a fuse?]
…accidentally going too hard early on increases the burn rate later (for most athletes) even when effort subsequently drops. An athlete that pushes too much might not pay the piper until late in the race, when the heat combines with the brutally steep trails to make it impossible to overcome the energy balance offset.
Most athletes, might not. Such precision!
You can’t win the race on the Escarpment, since 5 to 10 minutes mean very little over 100 miles. But every year, several athletes lose it there, often without realizing it.
Wait, I thought that WS100 was like a national championship track race, where every fraction of a second makes a difference? Wow, you must be smart! When athletes bonk and/or drop out, how do you home in on where it fell apart?
Every time I run on some of the trails included in the first 30 miles of Western States, I think: “Who the heck says this is easy terrain?”
I’m from the East Coast, and knew little about the WS trails when I entered. However, there is this thing called Google, and I learned allllll about the trails before the race. I didn’t think it was easy terrain. If you want to give tips on WS100, maybe mention thoroughly knowing the course through YouTube, web sites, etc. Again, no one mistakes WS100 for a track race.
A 2012 study in the Wilderness Environmental Medicine journal completed at Western States found that muscle damage at the end of the race had no correlation with finishing time, age, gender, or running experience. But I’d be fascinated to see what would happen if we could do the same tests on athletes at mile 30…
I wonder a lot of shit too, but if you can’t prove anything, maybe don’t mention it.
Think quick feet, patience, and fueling early on. Because you’re about to dive down into the fire.
Yeah, people jockey for position in races. I wouldn’t recommend diving into the fire (hot canyons) – think Western States Endurance RUN, not dive.
At the mile 30 Robinson Flat Aid Station, you’re around 7000 feet elevation. At mile 52, you’re below 2000 feet.
I know how to read an elevation chart, but maybe Trail Runner readers don’t?
A 2020 review article in Sports Medicine indicated that form may play a role in how these decrements in performance unfold, though it’s uncertain.
This course chews everyone up. Those that approach the downs properly can get spat back up and excel. Those that don’t get eaten alive and shat out by mile 60.
I thought scientists are evidence based? I never got spat back up, but maybe I did something wrong. I suck at downhills, but didn’t get “shat out” by mile 60.
A coach and athlete I admire a ton is Ian Sharman. One of the coolest accomplishments in the sport is his streak of 9 consecutive top-10 finishes, which crossed eras of the sport, in all different conditions, with all different builds.
Isn’t this like a track race where small margins mean the difference between a metaphorical podium finish and defeat?
The Canyons 100k is run on many of the same trails, and top finishers at that race may only hike for a few minutes. But the 100-mile distance is different. Some of those same athletes will hike for hours over the course of the race.
The fact that most WS100 athletes have to run at night have something to do with that. This is tough to explain, but it’s harder to run fast in the dark on trails.
If I am known for anything as a coach, I think it might be encouraging uphill running as much as possible. Scared money don’t make money, and you’re probably not going to hike to the top spot.
Scared money don’t make money? Michael Scott, is that you? What I know about you as a coach is your overuse of WOOHOO and hyperbole. I thought hiking was good? What about Tyler Green in 2021? I’m so confused.
Many of us had Easy Bake Ovens as children. Well, Western States has its own version for adults. The Canyons are a Hard Bake Oven.
An Easy Bake over for adults is called an oven. I am using mine right now. How is something hot when it’s not?
A hot year in Auburn translates to the surface of the sun at mile 50.
Surface of the sun – wow, that’s intense.
That’s nothing to fear, though. With just a bit of heat acclimation, most athletes can expect something like 3 to 10 beats per minute increases in their heart rates, depending on their background and the temperature. Fine, we can manage that with controlled effort. But go a bit too hard, and that can skyrocket to 10 to 30 beats per minute, and it may require 30 minutes cooling off in an aid station to have a chance at finishing.
I dunno; I’m kind of scared to be running on the sun. So hiking is bad, but 30 minutes in an aid station is cool? Isn’t hiking moving faster than sitting? Maybe I’m different as an asthmatic, but I wouldn’t even notice 3-10 beat/min difference. Also, my heart rate is relatively high even at conversational pace—we’re all different.
I’d love a study that measured core temperature at the Michigan Bluff Aid Station at mile 56, comparing that to the athlete’s individual baseline. I imagine that there’s a threshold that impacts metabolic processes so much that even if an athlete feels relatively good, they are due for a reckoning later.
You sure like imagining shit, don’t you? Can you imagine how much my eyes are rolling?
As the body overheats, heart rate goes up and metabolic efficiency plummets. The hard part is that pushing to win a big race like Western States raises body temperature a ton, so what are you supposed to do? This conundrum presents a massive opportunity–while you should be aware of the heat, don’t be afraid of the heat. If you tune into your body signals to avoid pushing excessively hard, stay wet when possible, and cool off more at aid stations, you can be like a piece of yeasted-up dough in that hard-bake oven. RISING UP!
Guess what, pushing to do one’s best on the course will raise body temperature, no matter your ability. Personal question—do you stay wet by thinking about Western States?
Tip Seven: 10 minutes in the first 50 miles is 100 minutes in the last 50 miles.
I agree with the principle of this statement, but not the specifics.
Look, it’s time we addressed the elephant in the room. As much as I like to say “results don’t matter” and “you are a perfect unicorn always,” there is more at stake at Western States for some athletes. Every year, athletes earn professional contracts at this race. There is media coverage that brings opportunities to create adjacent businesses. To be direct: there is money. It’s not a ton, but it’s something. The same goes for attention, which has its own currency. And all that combines to create a pressing awareness of… pressure? Being watched? Uncomfortable self-consciousness?
Does this qualify as an elephant? What adjacent business are ultrarunners creating that wouldn’t be made if WS100 goes poorly?
Whatever it is, seeing lots of athletes go through this over the years, I think it peaks with the live race coverage. IRunFar usually covers the top-10 athletes throughout the race, and I think that actually affects how the race unfolds. It’s like the physics principle of the observer effect, when the act of observation disturbs the system being measured. Athletes push just a bit more than they might otherwise, especially at first when the brain has enough glucose to be aware of external narratives. Meanwhile, later on, it turns into survival mode.
So be confident in yourself, whatever that means for you. For some athletes, that means going out faster. The cream rises to the top, and sometimes you gotta be the cream. For others, though, it means running their own race and knowing that if they execute, they will light the field on fire later.
Are going out fast and running your own race mutually exclusive? I completed WS100 in 28:44, so not as the cream. I had no power to BE the cream – trail running isn’t my forte. I was pulled off the course at mile 9 by the safety crew for having an asthma attack, but went on to complete the race, so I don’t need a lecture on courage, thanks.
I am always shocked that even after all these years, I play the same game in coaching that I am advising athletes against here. Standing at Foresthill, I fret over whether a lead shrank from 8 minutes to 5 minutes. 20 miles later, the gaps shift to double or triple that. By the finish, we’re working on a logarithmic scale.
Run with swag. Whether that means you go out faster or slower is unimportant, as long as you stay in the moment and do your own thing.
Could you contradict yourself more often? What swag do you suggest I run with?
Tip Eight: Don’t think about entering into a racing mindset until Foresthill. If you can run to the river, you’ll excel.
Technically you’re racing the whole race; it’s a matter of when you let it fly, so to speak. Part of racing means knowing when you can step it up and when you can’t.
After the brutal Canyons, athletes come to an oasis: the Foresthill Aid Station at mile 62. It’s a party, with enough ice to satisfy a polar bear erotically. That’s when the race begins.
The race begins in Squaw Valley. Are polar bears sexually attracted to ice, or do they simply live amongst cold temperatures?
Up to that point, the course has been hard. The high country is at altitude, and it’s tricky at times. The Canyons are hot and steep. But the next 18 miles down to the river drop down 2000 feet on more gradual, runnable terrain, followed by some buttery California single-track all the way to the finish. Every year, races are won and lost on this section of trail. The problem is that we sometimes miss it due to an optical illusion.
I found the course easier after Foresthill, but still hard, especially with night approaching. I don’t remember the 18 miles after being all “buttery”, but it’s been awhile.
When Beth Pascall or Jim Walmsley come into Foresthill with a big lead and extend it later, it’s easy to think: “They won it by going out fast.” In reality, though, they won it by going out at the right pace for their physiology, so that they could really race later. I would bet the house and the dog that if athletes like them had gone out a bit easier, they’d end up winning by similar amounts (that might also apply to going out a bit harder, but that’ll have more risk).
I’m going to bet my house and cat that this is the worst article I’ll read in 2022 (don’t worry Buttons; you’re safe). If Beth and Jim have long leads at Foresthill, and win, then technically they did win by going out fast, at least compared to the field.
The goal is not to run hard after Foresthill. The goal is to still be excited and ready to run. If you can keep the internal fire stoked, with the physiological context to sustain the flames, that’s when dreams come true.
I thought we were supposed to switch to a racing mindset at Foresthill?
Almost every athlete we have coached to top finishes talks about having tired quads relatively early in the race. I think it’s almost impossible not to. The altitude plus the descents plus the heat are plain hard! That 2012 study found that the average creatine kinase levels (a proxy for muscle breakdown) in finishers at the 2010 edition of the race was 32,956 units per liter, when 198 is the top end of the reference range. While that breakdown is underway, the quads might feel a bit toasted. But you can still excel.
As I was not a top runner at WS100, I can’t speak to this, but I don’t believe most top finishers have excessively tired quads early in the race. It’s not “almost impossible” not to; my quads were fine for the first half.
Studies are finding out more all the time. Whatever the explanation, ultra physiology is the good shit.
Trust that the tiredness is part of the process, and that surfing those waves can lead to magical places.
Wow, tiredness is normal in ultras? Groundbreaking. [KB comment — studies don’t find out things.]
In road marathons, the best pacing strategy is usually a slight negative split. At Western States, the splits are so positive that they could be a recurring character on Ted Lasso. It’s about managing the fade, and making up time when you can.
So the uphills will get slow, due to the muscular fatigue and breakdown, mixed with the metabolic demands of ultramarathons. Some athletes may still be able to run pretty darn fast–every year there are stories of pacers getting dropped by the leaders. But that is an illusion, for the most part. Those athletes are still slowing down, just less than others.
Free physics lesson, skippy: Uphills go slower because it takes more energy to move your body weight uphill. Look at the splits from the race, sport. Most of the top finishers run pretty evenly throughout, if you take into account the course. Most of the field (over 18 hours) end up running part of the course at night, and it’s HARDER TO SEE IN THE FUCKING DARK.
The Most Important Thing
Lubricant.
Lubricant is important—-chafing sucks.
No, sorry. I meant:
BELIEVE.
In truly hard events, whether that’s a 100-miler or starting a business or working through tough times in a relationship, there are certain constraints that are undeniable. You can’t jump to the moon…
Thanks for the advice; been trying to reach the moon, but never made it.
What happens there?
You put yourself out there, you get vulnerable, and you give yourself a chance. BELIEVE is the slight tailwind that nudges you in the direction of your dreams…
Being vulnerable had nothing to do with finishing WS100 with asthma.
Some actual good advice for WS100 I can’t believe David missed:
1. Plan the drop bags well: Clothing. Nutrition. Toothpaste for the later miles if desired. Tights for the miles with a lot of poison oak if you’re allergic. Dry shoes for after the river crossing.
2. If you’re not used to the WS trails, elevation, heat, et cetera, don’t be overly surprised to be passed by people who would never pass you otherwise.
3. Plan out your nutrition damn well. Have options at aid stations. It’s hard to eat a peanut butter sandwich when it’s 100 degrees, but Ensure or similar goes down easier. Coke and Mountain Dew can be lifesavers. Find a food or drink you can consume frequently when running. Know what food options are at the aid stations. Fun fact: There was Sierra Nevada beer in the later miles at one station.
4. Plan your clothing, shoes, and gear well. Have a good headlamp with extra batteries.
5. Use YouTube, Google, or whatever possible to know the course and cut-offs (I never had to worry).
6. Course conditions vary greatly. Some years have significant snow in the early miles. Some years are hotter than average.