Canyons 100k Recap | A String of Memories

by Chase Parnell — April 28, 2022

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Ultras are wild. You spend a full day on the trails and yet you only concretely remember a small portion, little flashes of unforgettable memories. I’ll piece these images together in an effort to summarize my race day experience. 

I come out of the bedroom at 3:40am into the kitchen at the cabin my parents rented in Colfax, CA. My dad is already up making coffee, says he’s been up since 2:19am. 

I’m 50 people back in the line for a porta-potty in downtown Auburn, CA until someone shouts there is another string of toilets in the alleyway by the start. He says no one is there. No one is there?! There are empty lifeboats on the other side of the Titanic?! I’m typically an indecisive person but I ran immediately towards this oasis and found it to be a reality. First miracle of the day. 

My uncle Mark who lives in Sacramento showed up for the 5am start. I had no idea he was coming. Mark was the 1975 Idaho state cross country champion and went on to run in college at Boise State. He struggled with injuries and from what I understand has had a conflicted relationship with running ever since. He told me what my Grandfather “Gup” used to say, essentially: save some for the second half. Three generations of runners. 

The race starts to blaring music. We run through the chute in the dark, feet slapping concrete, heading for the Western States trail. My old headlamp is dim, there’s mud, a bottleneck when we hit singletrack. Why is everyone running so fast? I must be in 100th place by the first crew-accessible aid station at mile 15. Eric Schranz of URP points at a paper and the announcer says Chase Parnell from Treeline Journal into the microphone. I am the Treeline Journal guy. 

Sunrise. Enchanted oak trees. Tall vibrant green grass carpeting gently sloping terrain. Singletrack slicing through fairy land. Perfect temperatures. Skin is cold to the touch, gentle breeze on the ridges. Big views of the American River snaking east towards its headwaters in the Sierras. 

I feel decent. My pace is the fitness I brought to the race. It is non-negotiable. It is what it is. I’m running more of the climbs than people around me. I’m hiking slower. 

I’m in Foresthill and feeling hot. Before I see my family, my emotions swell. Am I cooked already? Is this going to be a death march? Imminent bloodbath. I tell Nikki I need to regroup. Did I just say that? Can I actually regroup? Mario Mendoza, who just finished 2nd in the 50k, tells me to not give up. I tell him I won’t give up. 

I’m impressed by this rustic old gold mining country. I see the brown trail signs that say WS100. I’m on iconic ground. I’m doing the thing. I’m running a race. I’m feeling steady again. Why am I feeling so much better now? My legs are moving okay. I’m passing people on the runnable climbs. I look at my watch. I have 7,000 feet left of climbing. 6,500. 6,000. 5,500. 

I encounter a guy wearing the same hat as me. I say, “Nice hat.” He says, “Twinsies!” We run together. He’s from Reno and he’s a Dad. His house is a mile from the trailhead at the base of a 10,000 foot peak. We wordlessly separate on a descent. We reconnect while leaving Michigan Bluff at mile 38. I ask him if we should’ve brought our headlamps and cold weather gear because we won’t see our crew till the finish. He says, “No, we’ll be done by dinner.”  

I’m at Deadwood aid station now. Stomach is done with powder calories. I take a baggy of orange slices onto the trail and enjoy this easy five mile loop. There’s snow here at 4,300 feet elevation. I put some in my hat and wonder how much there’ll be at the finish line, 700 feet higher in the sky. 

From Deadwood 2 we have a two mile descent and an 8 mile climb to the finish. Moving slow again. Pass a “Trail Closed Ahead” sign. There’s a walking bridge with a big tree lodged in it. The railing was taken out but someone attached yellow straps and some branches to re-shape it. The bridge is slightly tilted. Vertiginous. This is closed? The water 20 feet below is raging. No way but over this bridge. WTF? Is this right? There’s flagging on the other side. This has to be the way. But it said closed. A good time for Dauwalter’s mantra: You’re fine. This is fine. Everything is fine.

On the final climb now. The cumulative vert at Canyons is like running to the summit of Mount Rainier from sea level. That’s a lot of up. The prospect of finishing under 12 hours is keeping me honest. I’m alternating run/hike but know I’m moving slow. These miles are long. Normally runnable grades I just didn’t have the juice for. I hit the snow line and try skirting frothy slush puddles until it feels silly to do so. I splash through hundreds. Feet freezing but steam coming off the head. I wonder how cold the nighttime finishers will get through here. 

The clock is ticking. 11:47 elapsed. I see a runner ahead and use him to start pushing. I pass him and want to say, hop on the sub-12 pipedream! I pass three more guys in the final mile. I saved too much. Who cares. I’m about to finish. I hear the announcer on the PA. I round the bend. I see Nikki and snatch the baby out of her arms and tell the two older kids to run it in with me. Baby smiles as she bounces. I am the family man finish line cliche. This is me. This is my life. 12h 05m 51s. 52nd male finisher. Competitively irrelevant but still happy. I didn’t get weepy but this finish did matter. I kept my head on straight, I didn’t give up, I overcame some struggles over the last couple years to get here, and now I’ve set myself up for a good 2022 season. 

People often say that running ultras is selfish. They are a luxury, a first-world experience, but I don’t think they’re selfish. I don’t want to know the sorry sad creature I’d be if I didn’t have running. It nourishes and invigorates me in a way that makes me a better human, a better husband, a better dad. And this positive injection on race day is something I think we all share. For one day, we get to be the main character in the proverbial hero’s journey. Every one of us slayed some dragons on the way to that finish line. We proved to ourselves that we can still do a hard thing. And that feels good. That will never stop feeling good. 

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