Method Acting at Western States

Simply stated, method acting is a practice of immersion. The method actor seeks to live as the character, taking on their lifestyle and characteristics, their attitudes and outlooks, throughout the time they are playing that character. If the character is homeless, the dedicated method actor will sleep outdoors. If the character possesses a unique fashion sense, the actor will adopt that. The idea is that the portrayal will be more authentic if the actor is “actually” having the experience instead of pretending to have the experience.

I don’t remember how it came up, but for some reason late in the race, Steve and I were discussing the evolution of self over the twenties and thirties. After some reflection, I concluded that (for me) the twenties were about self-discovery, and the thirties about self-acceptance.

Western States was not about me. But we have to start at the beginning before we can leave me behind.

***
A Long Day’s Night
Getting to Western States turned out to be more than I bargained for. I booked my flights around my vacation schedule at the firm, meaning I’d be able to leave an hour or two early on Friday afternoon at most to head out. By the time I had given my notice at the firm, it was too late to rebook without some pretty stiff penalties, so I just stuck with the original flights.

My work week, being my last, was nothing short of insanity. Though I wanted nothing more than to sing, dance and research Western States all week, I also wanted to leave with class, tie up my loose ends, and not leave my team in a lurch. I believe I succeeded, but it took working until the very last minute. I was rushed and harried throughout the day - a piece of me was even thinking I should just "run in on Monday" to finish a few things up. Instead, co-workers helped me get the last few running numbers off my office wall a few minutes before 4 pm, and I was on my way.

My allergies began wreaking havoc on my life early last week. I had been dealing with the sore throat, itchy eyes, congestion, coughing and sneezing for days. Had it not been my last week, I would have called in sick a day or two. By Friday, I was having horrible coughing fits - my lungs trying to dislodge vats of pollen - and about to fly for six hours.

I had purposely gotten up early on Friday morning, planning to tire myself out enough that I could maximize sleep on the flights. I had hoped to sleep on the four hour flight to Phoenix, but being keyed up as I was from the day and the rush out of my office, I only got about an hour.

Landed in Phoenix, ready to grab my Hawaiian pizza from the CPK we always hit when we're traveling, and that's when it started to unravel.

Two hour delay.

I was supposed to land in Sacramento at 10 pm, grab a rental car, and drive the half hour to my friends' home in Auburn. My friend Michael and his wife Nicole, part of the Clif Bar family, live about 2 miles from the Western States finish line and had graciously offered to host me. We were actually going to drive to their cabin in Tahoe either that night or early the next morning in time to catch the start. Now my flight was some two hours delayed and I was really screwing things up.

I offered to just get an airport hotel as I'd be arriving so late, but gracious again, they said to just call when I arrived.

So now I was leaving Phoenix at 10, not arriving in Sacramento until midnight, and starting to realize things were getting dicey. I found three airport chairs together near the gate, pulled my two travel blankets out of my backpack, and promptly curled up for a good sleep.

"Geez, it's not that bad," said a guy near me said to his friend, after I had closed my eyes. "It's only 8 o'clock."

I got the distinct feeling these guys weren't planning on running 38 miles the next day.

I slept well; so well in fact that I almost missed the flight. I had gotten a silver status first class upgrade, but unfortunately, first class was not liking me. I went from laying down to sitting up and promptly erupted into an hour long coughing fit. I turned to my seatmate to reassure him that while I sounded disgusting, it was at least innocuous - allergies, not contagious.

He had his travel blanket wrapped around his face, covering nose and mouth, and looked horrified when I attempted to speak to him. I let it go.

It was the most embarassing flight of my life.

At last I was in Sacramento. But of course the rental car terminal wasn't in the airport like it was supposed to be ... and of course the guy driving the shuttle out to the actual rental car place needed to circle the airport twice ... and of course there was only one person working the counter ... which makes sense since it was now past midnight ... and of course the people at the counter when I arrived didn't speak English as their primary language ... and of course there were four more people ahead of me before that ... and of course my ears were painfully plugged up from the flight and the allergies so I could barely hear the guy anyway ... etc.

I finally arrived at Michael and Nicole's house at 1:15 am. And of course they had decided we should just go ahead and drive to Tahoe.

It made sense. I was just so tired.

Dylan was very excited we were heading to the cabin and I desperately tried to hear what all three of them were saying to me, but my ears were getting worse and worse as we drove up ... and up ... and up ... to Tahoe. By the time we arrived, I had a piercing earache and had been up for a solid 22 hours save my three hours of napping. That was when the "method acting" realization came to me. I wasn't running 100 miles, but a little voice in my head was telling me I was going to feel like I had before it was over.

I got just under two hours of sleep before Michael woke me up to head to the start. For the first time since college, I slept in my clothes.

I Don’t Recommend Starting Western States in Tevas
I was deeply immersed in a dream in which I was talking to Jason Alexander (George from Seinfeld) while flying home from London when I finally became aware of a loud knocking at the door. I was completely disoriented, yet acutely aware that I needed to get up immediately. I jumped out of bed, looked around the dark room, flashed on "Western States" and pulled on two more long sleeve shirts and my sandals.

And as soon as we got into the car, I launched into yet another coughing fit, and thoroughly enjoyed the dual embarassment of trying to carry on a conversation when I couldn't hear and was busy coughing a forest full of pollen out of my lungs.

We got out of the car and I was shocked at how cold it was - somewhere in the 30's. Happily, the very first two people I saw when I walked into the staging area were Steve and Leigh. After some hugs and small talk, I concluded he was quite focused and ready to go. With the clock to the start running down, Michael reappeared and said we should head to the start. I had hoped to see Sandi, Shaun, Rachel, the other Steve and my friend Adam as well, but headed out.

It was surreal standing beneath the Western States starting banner, looking around Squaw Valley, the former Olympic Village, and the serious mountains these runners were about to climb. Considering the altitude, the cold, and the grade of the ascents, in addition to my sore throat, sore ears and general sleep deprivation, I was actually in no way jealous that I was not toeing that starting line!

Michael and I began to walk up a hill; I figured to get a view of the start. But we were walking ... and walking ... and walking. The grass and rocks were slippery and frozen, and there was snow in some areas. And it suddenly dawned on me that I had kind of misunderstood where we going.

The night before, Michael had mentioned that he wanted to hike three or four miles up the first hill to get some shots of the runners heading up the first climb. Due to the late hour and my adventures in traveling, I said that I definitely wanted to go to the start, but that after wishing my friends well, I might sleep in the car while he got his photographs. But I wasn't back in the car; I was hiking up the mountain. In TEVAS. Yes, in thirty degree temperatures at altitude, I was taking on rocks, ice and snow in sandals.

Wanna guess how well that worked out?

My feet froze solid in about eight minutes, at which time I told Michael to go ahead up the mountain. He would meet me where I was when he was done. I plopped down on the cold ground and took off one of my shirts to wrap around the frozen bricks masquerading as my feet. I rubbed. I moved toes. I rubbed some more. But the feet just stayed frozen and then I started shivering since I was sitting on a mountain in thirty degree temperatures in just two cotton shirts. I looked around at how beautiful it was. I thought about how I couldn't believe I was at the start of Western States, sitting in the mountains, surrounded by so much beauty and history. I reminded myself it would be almost 90 degrees before the day was through.

It wasn't enough.

I was sick, I was cold, I was exhausted and I was frustrated. And so, at about 5:10 in the morning, shortly after the start of the Western States 100, I curled up in a ball on the mountain and cried.

Shortly thereafter another spectator came along and I quickly tried to compose myself.

She asked what was wrong, and I told her I was being a big baby, that my flight had been delayed and I was cold and I hadn't understood what my friend intended to do and that I didn't feel well and I still had to pace a runner later in the day and I was just feeling overwhelmed. She told me the first thing I needed to do was get off the mountain.

I told her Michael wouldn't know where I was. She seemed to think he would figure it out. We talked about out runners. It turned out she was Nikki Kimball's aunt.

I told her I was going to stay, but as I watched her walk down the mountain and thought about all I had left to do that day, I decided to chase her down. For the first time since my flight was delayed, I felt the joy of Western States again. Yes I was cold and sick and tired and wearing those damn Tevas, but as I skipped and hopped and ran down the side of that mountain, all I could think was "I'm at Western States! I'm at Western States!" And somehow, I knew it would be okay.

Michael indeed found me in the staging area, and we headed back to the cabin for three glorious hours of sleep. As I snuggled into the fluffy covers on the most wonderful guest bed I've ever been in, my spirit warmed as quickly as my feet did, and I sent some love to my people still on the mountain as I collapsed into sleep.

Wild Cherries, Angry Birds and Michigan Bluff (Part I)
Another strange dream, and more knocking at the door.

I changed clothes, brushed teeth and squeezed some hot water in my ear.

Yet another sign that things were turning around - finally, I could hear.

Dylan briefed me on the games we would be playing on his iPad during the drive, and Michael made me melt when he said the words "coffee shop a couple miles from here." We left the cabin and headed to Wild Cherries, one of the coolest, most authentic little coffeehouses I've ever seen.

After a long night with another one to come, I promptly ordered a breakfast I wouldn't even deign to consider most other days: a cream cheese croissant and an extra large white mocha with whip.

"Double shots?" the barista asked.

Heh.

Nicole, Dylan and I settled in at a high table for breakfast. Nicole and I shared a warm and wonderful conversation about many things, life in general, and what happens when "chasing the dream" actually does become work. Dylan played, danced, talked about his iPad a little more. I noticed that the cooler had Gatorade in it and decided to stock up there, as I knew the fluid on course was Gu2O and I was not down with that. That's when Michael realized he had lost his phone.

We got more food and chilled out while Michael drove back to the cabin to check for the phone. Having had no luck, our crew piled back into the car to return to the start at Squaw Valley, now the believed to be the scene of the alleged phone crime. I tried to doze a bit, but it wasn't taking, so I settled for a second coffee from Starbucks and walked around with Dylan.

That's when it hit me. It was light out. And it was BEAUTIFUL.

I stopped to consider snow-capped mountains, the tree-lined hills, the sun shining on me and this adorable little boy. After some pictures and an hour long unsuccessful phone search, we had no choice but to get on the road to Michigan Bluff.

Dylan and I played video games the entire time. Angry Birds? Oh my. I had heard of Angry Birds before, but never played it. I felt like a 5 year old everytime he played something different.

"Hey, Dylan. Let's play Angry Birds again!"

"No Miss Star. Look at this game."

"Yeah, I know, Dylan. But isn't Angry Birds more fun?"

I should also mention (for my own memories) that Dylan said the phrase "It's so cool!" about 100 times. One for each mile. Yes, that's about correct.

Michael and Nicole, gracious tour guides, stopped in a few different locations with overlooks to show me where the course would go. On the second stop, reality set in. Michael was pointing out course landmarks across the countryside, ones I recognized by name, and I asked something about where something was.

"Oh, no," he said. "You can't actually see it, because you're all the way in the mountains. You're inside that mountain range over there."

You're not in Kansas anymore, I thought.

Updates were coming through regularly on all of our runners, and things seemed to be going well. Shaun was running between top 12 and 15 for much of the morning, and Sandi top 20. It seemed as if Steve might have been a little fast early, but he had slowed a bit. Adam and Kevin were running conservatively as planned. My throat was starting to get a bit sore, but I was in it now.

We made it to Michigan Bluff (mile 55) with about ten minutes to spare on the leaders. What a fantastic treat to see Kilian Jornet, Nick Clark, Jez Bragg, Dave Mackey and Ian Sharman all run through. Making it even more special, I connected with Rachel (Nypaver) and Steve (Hawthorne) while I was there, which made it feel like home. I took Dylan with me through the aid station as Kilian got weighed, got his bottles filled and got food. At that point, I was the one saying "It's so cool, Dylan. It's so cool!"

Immediately after that, Michael and Nicole wanted to head to Foresthill to intercept the leaders again. I was pretty disappointed; I had hoped to at least see Shaun and Sandi come through Michigan Bluff, but I realized that since it would take the leaders just over an hour to get to mile 62 at Foresthill, we needed to move. Waiting for the bus, I gleefully called out that I saw the first woman. Pretty embarassing, as it turned out to be an Asian man. If you were there and saw his outfit, you know who I am talking about. I truly meant no disrespect, and it was truly confusing until he was very close to you.

This is also about the time that I realized far too many hours had passed without Steve checking into Dusty Corners at mile 38. It was the first time I asked God to keep him moving. I would later find out that the answer to this particular prayer was nothing short of inspired.

Steve Hawthorne is Asian, or Waiting at Foresthill

If you know Steve Hawthorne, he's probably told you that he's Asian. Several times.

I adore Steve Hawthorne. I have since the moment I met him. And this past Saturday, he really came through for me. He made fun of me for drinking Mountain Dew while we waited for the lead women to come through. This was critical. And yes, he knew what he was doing.

But Steve wasn't there when I first got to Foresthill. Michael and I staked out a nice piece of the path into the aid station to wait for the leaders again. The crowd went nuts for Kilian, only to realize another runner was literally on his heels. Poor guy.

The lead men were definitely showing the stress of the day.

So was I.

I was lightheaded. I knew we were no longer at any kind of altitude, but after my near-fainting episode while we were heading up to Whitney Portal when we crewed Badwater, I was definitely concerned.

I was jittery. I had had two very large coffees and some grapefruit juice, but merely sipped on my water throughout the day. I was doing okay combatting the accumulated fatigue. I was outright failing at hydration.

Let's face it, I was sick. Sure it was "technically" allergies, but I was congested, working on a headache, and no longer able to ignore a really sore throat. I checked my throat to make sure it wasn't swollen; I knew it was just raw from all of the coughing. But let's call a spade a spade - I wasn't in good shape.

After the leaders came through, Michael was headed home and left me to tend to my pacing duties. I was suddenly alone and very, very lonely. Leigh was not there yet, I hadn't seen Steve or Rachel, and I didn't feel good. I picked up my pacer number, stashed my bags on some random piece of pavement under the tree, and felt entirely like a little girl lost.

I decided to check on everyone's progress and then settle down at last for a sleep, figuring I still had four or so hours before Steve came through. Checking on everyone, though, was not uplifiting.

Our runners seemed to be in trouble.

No one was where they were targeted to be, Sandi was mistakenly in second (!), and Steve was still not through Dusty Corners. I knew this had to be mistake on the reporting, so I decided against the nap, theorizing that if they had missed him at a checkpoint and he wasn't behind pace, I might need to be ready to go earlier than I thought.

I wandered back to the path and saw Jonathan, a friend from home who would be pacing Kevin O'Grady, a veteran Western States runner. We spoke briefly; I was a bit out of it. At some point, Steve (H) was there and he picked on me while we watched the lead women come in. They looked incredible. Some of them actually looked fresh.

Where was Shaun? And where was Steve?

It quickly became clear that Shaun had hit a rough patch. He had been running within the top 15 all day, and not only were they past, so were the top 10 or so women. We began joking about the different things Steve might say to Shaun to get him moving again in the event he arrived whining. I gave him several options, including one Shaun had used on Vince last summer: "It's the Western States Endurance Run, not the Western States Endurance Walk." Etc.

Leigh arrived. Shortly thereafter, Steve finally checked in to Dusty Corners. It had taken him 1:45 minutes to cover just over three miles.

This was not good.

We discussed how frustrating it was to not be able to see our runners until 55 or 62. Maybe he was okay, we rationalized. Maybe he had been sat out for weight. Maybe he had gotten lost. That's not the best option, but it would be mean he wasn't sick or injured. Maybe he had just gotten out a bit fast, and consciously decided to slow it down and do some hiking in the heat of the day. It didn't have to be a BAD thing, we decided. We sent him all the strength and energy we could, and delighted that the status update had indeed said "still on course."

Seriously, where was Shaun? And why was I still so lightheaded and jittery? Sleepiness was setting back in and I really wanted food.

So of course I decided the best remedy for all this was salt and vinegar chips and Mountain Dew. Water did not sound good. Vinegar on a sore throat, you ask? Sorry, but the chip and the ultra run go hand in hand. It's just how it is.

"Mountain Dew, Star?" Steve said. "Yeah, that's the way to go."

And I replied something and he asked how many miles I was running and we picked on each other and eventually he told me I needed to start drinking some water, and fast.

Like a brat having a temper tantrum, I returned to our spot on the path drinking my water with a grimace on my face.

"Look!" I said. "It's SmartWater."

"You better drink a LOT of that," he replied.

And after he reminded us that he was Asian several more times, and explained how that related to everything from sunburns to running, we finally saw Shaun. And he actually looked pretty good.

"Where have you been?" asked Steve.

"An hour off course."

Shaun looks at me.

"Really, Star? 62 miles and no hug?"

He got a very brief hug as I cajoled him to keep moving. Leigh captured it perfectly, complete with me pointing in the direction of the aid station.

Ted's wife Toni arrived and agreed to watch our bags while Leigh and I went to get linner (any meal occuring well after lunch but well before dinner). I succumbed to my sore throat and bought some Tylenol at a convenience store, and Leigh and I had a lovely little meal at a diner run by an Indian family. Not only were they sweet, they were also allowing crews to check for runner updates on their personal computers.

We met up with Rachel when we headed back, sometime around 5:30. Sandi was struggling, she said, but still running. Steve's situation seemed to have improved; he had checked into Last Chance and this time covered 4.3 miles in 1:45 and was headed for Devil's Thumb. We decided I would go to Leigh's car to nap (it was in the shade), and she would wake me up in a couple of hours. We decided to check for an update on his progress before I headed to the car.

That's the exact moment that Western States stopped being about me.

Back to Michigan Bluff
Steve had checked in at Devil's Thumb at 5:44 pm. They tell you that it's a long, hard climb from Devil's Thumb to Michigan Bluff - at least two and a half hours for the average runner. If the runner is struggling ...

Two and a half hours was 8:15 pm. If the runner wasn't struggling. It looked like there might have been some recovery on the last stretch, but the average amount of time it took to get from Devil's to Foresthill was still two and a half hours, and Steve was way behind 24 hour pace. Actually, he was moving dangerously close to the 30 hour pace chart.

"Leigh, I'm going to get him at Michigan Bluff."

At Western States, pacers may begin with their runners at Foresthill at mile 62. Unless that runner will pass through Michigan Bluff later than 8 pm. If the runner goes through Michigan Bluff past 8 pm, pacers may begin there.

"Star, that means 45 miles. And you said you needed sleep."

It didn't matter. It just didn't matter.

I pulled out my blankets and spread them out on the road. I was going to grab an hour of rest and head back down.

Rachel laid down beside me, and as the ants crawled all around us, they called Sandi's number.

We jumped and ran alongside her. She was not the Sandi I know. I ran with her and Rachel for a moment, hoping I could convey in those few steps that I was there for, rooting for her, believing in her. She really just needed her sister. I turned back.

I started unpacking my bags, arranging supplies for the night ahead. Leigh gave me Steve's headlamp as it would be getting dark. I contemplated taking all the gels and sport beans right then as I'd be back in seven miles, but decided I might as well just stuff the pockets and get used to it. That was not an insignificant moment.

I hugged Leigh and got on the bus to go back to Michigan Bluff.

I sat on a wooden fence with another woman waiting for a runner coming later than expected. We talked about our runners, our own racing, made small jokes. Each time they called a runner coming in, it was like waiting for the last number on a winning lotto ticket. Both of our runners were riding the 30 hour cutoff, and the clock was dwindling down.

They called my friend Adam's number. I went through the aid station with him, got a picture to send to his brother back home, caught up on his day. He was moving more slowly, but feeling good; he said he had expected it to be hard, but not this hard, saying even Leadville had been easier. He took off into the night.

Eight o'clock came. The gamble had paid off; had Steve come through before 8, I would have had to jump back on the shuttle again to meet him at Foresthill. "Okay, Steve," I thought. "I need you to get here by 8:15. You can do this, just keep pushing. I'm here, it's going to be okay."

8:10.

"Come on, Steve. I need you to give me just a little time to work with."

8:15.

Kevin O'Grady, my friend from Columbus, came through just after 8:20. He looked terrible. I chose not to share this assessment with him. "I'm in trouble, Star," he said. "How's Steve?"

"It sounds like it's his stomach," I said, relaying the message I had gotten from Leigh who had received it from another runner who knew Steve. "We'll get him through it."

"Yeah, he didn't look too good when I saw him."

"Hang in there, Kevin. I'm thinking of you."

8:25.

"Please, God. Just give us a chance. Both of us. Give him a chance at this race, give me a chance to get to him in time. Please."

8:30.

"Runner number 400, coming down the hill."

My friend on the fence wished me luck. Steve was on the scale and down six pounds. He told me he'd been throwing up most of the day. The medical team was all over him, telling him he had to get solid foods in, had to get calories. I agreed, but I also didn't want to tax his stomach. I was thinking plain salt and Coke. They were thinking chicken broth and Coke, which was reasonable enough.

They called for extra salt because he was six pounds up. No, I said, he's six pounds down. In that case, they wanted to get some noodles into him. I was cringing already. I was in crisis.

The volunteers at WS are amazing. But quite honestly, they were just a little too hands on for me at Michigan Bluff. They wouldn't listen to me or Steve, even though they had the information wrong, and they were moving sooooo sloooooowly when we were soooo close to the cutoff. He said the broth was good though, it was staying down. They really wanted him to eat those noodles. He did. We finally got out, fifteen minutes later. It was about 10 minutes later than I wanted to get out, and exactly 5 minutes before the 30 hour cutoff.

And not more than two minutes up the hill, we had noodles everywhere.

"Number 12," he said.

He told me we needed to walk. I knew this was coming. I also knew we didn't have enough time to walk 45 miles and get to the finish before 11 am.

"Tell me what's been going on," I said.

And basically, he had just started getting sick very early in the race, and other than that, it was the same story as usual with Steve and his stomach. The uphills just made him nauseous and sick, and he couldn't seem to make up any time without throwing up.

"Legs?" I asked.

"Fine," he said. "If we could just get my stomach settled, I think I could still run."

("His head's still in the game!" I thought.)

We had long 7.7 mile stretch ahead, with a lot of uphill climb. We had to work doubly hard if we were going to walk and make it to Foresthill with any time to work with.

"Tell me about your flight," he said. I had told him that morning that getting to Sacramento had been an adventure. He asked what happened and I told him we had enough time to talk later in the day.

I told him the story in painstaking detail, more detail than in this blog even, stretching it out as long and far as I could. And while I did this, I was picking up the walking pace just a little bit. (Did you notice that, Steve?) I reached the end of the story.

"I'm really hungry," he said.

Crap, I thought. Really hungry in a long stretch between two aid stations when you can't afford to crash and ...

Sport beans!!!

"Okay," I said. "I've got sport beans. This is actually really good. Let's try them just one or two at a time and see if they'll stay down."

We did. We got a good fifteen minutes or so out of that bag.

"Okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, I think so," he said.

"Good. That was only 100 calories, so now you have to eat this pack too."

He did.

They stuck.

He livened up a little.

"So do you remember this girl from Umstead? She had a lot of tattoos?"

Catra.

"Yeah, of course. She was doing safety patrol out here."

"Yeah, so her and her friend walked with me for about five miles when I was really sick. She's hilarious."

There is no one I would have rather had out there with him than Catra Corbett.

All those hours ago, when I had first been so concerned about why he hadn't checked in at Dusty Corners, when I had asked God that first time to please, please just keep him moving, he was with Catra and her friend.

I believe in God. Others believe in fate, coincidence, synchronicity, a Higher Power.

I just know that the right person was in exactly the right place at the exactly the right time. How any of us believe she got there is inconsequential - she did.

We caught up to Ted Niemann. He was dragging. He stayed with us as we turned onto Foresthill Road, and not long after began to drop back. I just wanted to get Steve to his wife. If it had been Darris out there, I know what I would have been feeling.

"You're doing really well, Steve. We'll get it figured out."

"I know," he said. "I didn't come out here not to get a finish."

Begin singing Hallelujah Chorus, because whether you've run one of these or paced one, you know that once your runner agrees to the finish, three quarters of the battle is already fought.

That's the moment I knew we were going to finish Western States.

Why I Love Catra Corbett or How Stevie-Z Got His Groove Back
We arrived at Foresthill at 10:30 pm, fifteen minutes up on the 30 hour cutoff. We had made up ten minutes over 6.3 miles. I don't think Steve knew how well I knew the math while we were moving. I knew it.

Leigh brought his drop bag, hugs, herself. Steve's weight was up about 3 pounds since Michigan Bluff, and he was willing to try chicken broth and Coke. He had also told me he would try a small bit of potato. If that worked, he said, maybe we could try more later.

He told me he needed to sit and let it settle a little. Strategically, I wasn't enthusiastic about this, but I decided that the man had waited 62 miles to see his wife and if he wanted to sit down, I should let him sit down.

I went to get him the bit of potato, and across the lot, walking towards him, was Catra.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the legendary Catra Corbett, she has likely run more ultras than everyone who will read this combined. She has the spirit of pure sunshine, but isn't afraid to speak her mind. She took over a situation without me even knowing it, when I most needed it.

Catra wasn't in a hurry to get him out of there. I was. And what Steve needed was to stay there just a bit longer than I was comfortable with.

She talked to him about foods he could try, how was feeling, tricks he might try. She was sweet and calm, relaxed. She was not frantically doing math or worried about him getting up. I watched her, I watched them together, and I learned a lesson too.

Sitting down and feeling sorry for yourself is still a really bad idea.

Sitting down and taking care of yourself is different.

She wanted him to try saltines, but he wasn't into it. "Go get a bunch of saltines," she said to me. "Just stuff your pockets in case he throws up later."

I pulled out one of the extra baggies I was carrying and filled it with saltines.

When I got back, he was mustering.

"Come on, Steve!" I said. "I gotta pocketful of crackers!"

Since the website updates were usually an aid station behind, Leigh and I decided I would text her at each aid station so she had real time updates. Catra walked down the road with us and sent us on our way.

We walked down a road for a bit and nearly went off course getting back on the trail. Nearly. I've made that mistake once, and this time, I saw the warning signs within a minute.

"I'm not running uphills," he said.

"Of course you're not," I said.

And with that, he started to run.

It took us a bit to get into a rythym, and at first, the runs weren't very long. But within ten or so minutes, Stephen Zeidner was running.

I had to pee so I stopped on a downhill. When peeing on a downhill, one should be very careful about where they place their water bottle. I saved it just in time.

I caught up to him. It was just a 3.7 mile stretch to the next aid station, and I stuck with quiet encouragement. My voice was already starting to fade.

We stopped and sat at the aid station. He sipped broth and ate another bite or two of potato.

The Facebook update read: "Guess what, Ohio? Stephen. Zeidner. Is. RUNNING!"

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," I said.

We had a full five mile section ahead, so I launched into my story about my epic crash at Laurel Highlands, and how Steve (Miller) pulled me and my bloody leg out from under an aid station table. (Author's note: I know a lot of Steves. It confuses me, too).

This Steve ran. Then he slowed a little. Then he slowed a lot. Then we were walking.

It was very runnable.

Uh-oh, I thought.

We walked for several minutes.

"Stomach?" I finally asked.

"Yeah," he said. "It's just a little funky. Don't worry, I know this is runnable."

"You're doing really good work, Steve. We're okay."

And soon he was running again.

"I know you don't like people to sit," he said.

I shared with him my newfound knowledge that some sitting is okay. That it's the intent of the sitting. That his sitting was good sitting.

"You wouldn't have liked it earlier," he said, seeming kind of giddy. "I sat for a looooooong time. I got it out of the way before you could see it."

Ah, the things that we find amusing in the middle of the night by headlamp.

He would stop periodically to walk. Every time I started to get the tiniest bit worried, he would run. Whenever I started to feel like he really needed to get running again, he did. Without a word. It was downright uncanny.

And somewhere along here, in this five mile section, as I watched Steve move steadily into the night with fixed determination, I had the transcendent moment. I was tricked out with lights. I had my regular headlamp, the headlamp I wear around my waist, and a third one around my water bottle serving as a flashlight. We had agreed that I would run behind Steve so that he could set the pace according to how he felt. Which was getting faster by the moment.

Yes, it was here that I saw my friend, my dear friend and training partner, move steadily through the night. Illuminated by my disco hall plethora of lights, I sensed the fixed determination on his face, the relentlessness of his step. He was light, he was loose, he was focused. Yes, Darris, he glided over the trail.

And I realized that I was just supplying the light.

Steve had this. Steve was doing this. And I felt blessed beyond measure to be watching his comeback.

We caught up with Kevin and Jonathan and leapfrogged for awhile. I noted that Kevin was looking better. He said he was, but he told me he was walking a very fine line. He said he simply couldn't move any faster, but that what he doing just might not be enough. Somewhere in this section, we passed him for the last time.

We reached Peachstone, mile 70.7, at 1:02 am. In fifteen miles, Steve had made up 38 minutes on the 30 hour cutoff. We were moving on to Ford's Bar with a quick 3 mile section ahead.

Snakes on the Trail
We left the aid station with several people. We had passed Kevin and Jonathan for the final time sometime back, and Steve's spirits were really pretty high. With a shorter section ahead and my throat swelling up again, I decided not to try too much talking. Yes, that was a real challenge for me.

This is the first time that Steve tried to run away from me.

We were on a long, rocky, downhill stretch, and he was suddenly filled with the spirit. Did he look like a mountain goat or a professional soccer player? He was flying down the hill and I was helpless against him. I knew I would catch him on the flats or the ups, but I must admit, I found it quite comical that he was literally running away from me.

When we reconnected, I noticed that my shoes were absolutely filthy. "It makes no sense," I said. "There's barely been any mud."

"It's because you're lower to the ground, Star."

This is an inside joke, but it let me know exactly how lucid he was right then.

I asked him if he had seen any wildlife during the day. Once I was actually on the trail, all my fears about snakes and mountain lions had subsided.

"Nope, nothing interesting," he said. "Although I was hoping to see a mountain lion for awhile."

"You were? Why?"

"'Cause then it wouldn't have been a DNF."

Stevie-Z was on roll.

We joined up with two other runners and their pacers and started walking up a hill. We were all chatting and Steve was marching up that thing.

Suddenly: "Oh my God! Star! Get out of the way!"

With a bump that was gentle but forceful.

"The snakes!"

There were no snakes.

It was definitely time for some Coke.

Then we turned the corner and kept climbing for awhile.

Then we turned another corner and kept climbing for awhile.

Then we turned another corner ...

Big Ass Hill has nothing on this. I remembered it was called the "Elevator Shaft." Much merriment ensued about elevators, escalators, people movers, etc.

We made it to Ford's Bar at mile 73. They were serving coffee out of a sterling silver pot. It amused me to no end. Sweaty, dirty runners, doing all kinds of crazy things in the woods - but the coffee was from a silver pot.

We had a long five miles ahead, but we were headed to the Rucky Chucky river crossing at last. Steve successfully got down potato chips with more broth, and I took a second round of Tylenol so I could keep ignoring my throat.

We Are on a Boat
With another five mile section ahead, I launched into the classic story I tell my pace teams about how Darris and I met.

Steve and I have spent a lot of time together, both on the trails and driving to the trails. Steve and I can be quiet together. We've run long stretches without talking. So I wasn't afraid of the quiet, and one does not need non-stop talking during a 100 anyhow.

But I really wanted to break those longer sections up for him. I got through my story and then thoroughly enjoyed the silence for awhile.

We commented on the stars, though I knew I needed to stop looking at them. (I nearly tripped myself a dozen times.) We laughed about the disgusting "gnat clouds," and Steve kept telling me to just hang my head. I told him how the pee puddles in the middle of the path cracked me up. We realized that I would not get a PR that night ("pee record," having peed 18 times when I paced Dave at Mohican), and we continued to hope that he would not get a PR ("puke record," having puked 14 times at Burning River.) These things are amusing at 3 in the morning.

"I know what your next Facebook update should be," he said.

"I am on a boat."

"WE are on a boat," I answered.

And soon enough, we were. We were 41 minutes up on the 30 hour cutoff.

There was supposed to be a horrible climb out of the river up to Green Gate. We thought it was a cake walk compared to that elevator shaft garbage. Plus, we were both excited to see Leigh at Green Gate. I needed my armwarmers and Steve just wanted to see Leigh.

So we ran.

Suddenly, even sooner than I had expected, we heard voices in the distance. The aid station was in sight, I told Steve. We had done great work.

"I think that's an owl."

Yep.

Soon after that is when I fell. Now the funny thing about this is that we weren't running that fast at the time; we may have even been hiking uphill. But the old toebox clipped a rock and I went down on the side of my leg and my right hip, and tried to save it by rolling, and ended up clipping my lip pretty good. Steve sees me on the ground, and of course, he stops.

"Go, go!" I say. "I'm fine!"

He's slowing down and turning around and I just want him to keep moving!

I catch up to him and tell him I'm fine again, that I ended up hitting my lip but I don't think it's bleeding. He tries to look at it, in the dark.

"Move, move," I say, realizing I just earned ten pushups at the finish for executing a full wipeout.

We got back into our rythym.

We checked in at Green Gate at 4:03. If you want to know how well Steve was running, we were now 52 minutes up on the cutoff. The grilled cheese here was amazing, plus they had coffee. And a volunteer who had fun playing with me, telling me that they did have coffee, but it was only for the volunteers. She was joking, but I'm sure I looked like I was about to cry.

Steve had some broth, and chips or potatoes, and a little bit of Coke. We knew what was working and we were sticking to it. We had to go just a few more feet up to see Leigh.

Right before we left, a very concerned aid station volunteer came over and asked him how he felt.

"I'm okay," he said. "It's been a long day, but I feel okay."

"Okay," she said. "Because you look really tired."

This became a running joke for the remainder of the run.

We both got some Leigh-love and headed back out. We had our last really long section (5+ miles) to Auburn Lakes Trail, and after that, our sections would get shorter. I was losing my voice, so we didn't have story time. It didn't matter. Steve was running. The sun was coming up. We could walk now if we had to. If was going to be okay.

Chasing Steve
From there, we really started to rock the course. The sunrise almost made the five miles to Auburn Lake Trails feel longer, but Steve finally picked out the sounds of the generator. I had recently announced to Steve that I had consumed more grilled cheese in the past six hours than I had in the past several years, so I got him some potato chips and started shoving brownies down my own throat. Breakfast food, I rationalized.

We got him a little Coke since he was getting tired again. He sat, drank broth, drank Coke, and spotted ... Cheetos.

"Are those Cheetos?!?!?" he asked gleefully.

I thought first about his stomach. Then I thought "Oh, hell, the guy's been killing it for 25 miles now, if he wants some Cheetos, let him have some Cheetos!"

Chester enjoyed his Cheetos. And yes indeed, he had very orange fingers. You did Darris proud, Steve.

We did "mad work" to Brown's Bar. By now, I think I had reverted to just telling Steve how awesome he was and how proud of him I was. There were moments - just a few - where I was really just trying to keep up. At Brown's Bar he decided not to sit anymore, and we were quickly off to Highway 49, our last Leigh stop and a mere 10K (ish) from the finish line.

Steve ran. He was picking people off at a rapid clip.

There was another allegedly brutal climb up to Highway 49. It wasn't fun, but we didn't think it rose to the level of that elevator shaft. Cause that thing, I said, was worse than "Big Ass Hill." That was Kim Kardashian Ass Hill.

"Jennifer Lopez Ass Hill," he answered.

"That was who I thought of first," I said.

"I've heard of Kim Kardashian, but I've never seen her butt," he said.

Again, these are the conversations that are amusing by headlamp.

"When this is all over," I said, "I hope you give yourself credit for what you've done out here."

Finished with the hill, we were running again.

We checked in at Highway 49 at 7:51. We had done it.

If Steve kept moving for the next 10K, he would break 29 hours. A 28 was a big deal after fighting those cutoffs.

More brownies, more broth, more Coke. Steve and Leigh got into a discussion about how much further he had to go. Leigh said 10K. Steve said 7 miles. They were both wrong. The important thing was, he was close. My throat was swelling shut again so I took one last Tylenol.

We continued passing people in droves. One guy we passed asked what he had for breakfast. I liked that. I liked seeing Steve get to have that experience of running strong in the last miles of a 100.

Suddenly were were on red dirt, red dusty dirt. It seemed as if we had crossed some kind of border into Arizona or New Mexico. I knew my father was with me there. I knew that he knew that I had been sick and scared and tired, and that he had been there, and that for whatever reason, that red desert dirt was his way of letting me know. Yes, I know the course was the same for everyone, but I saw what I needed to see.

Then we were on trail that for all the world could have been Mohican. I didn't think "Mohican" specifically at first. I just had a distinct feeling of familiarity. The ground beneath my feet felt so soft, so giving, so familiar, as if I had run it on a hundred times before.

"This reminds me of Mohican," he said.

Steve is very much like a brother to me. I've gotten to know him much better over the past couple of months. We were across the country in the last inning of a 100 miler, but it kind of felt like home.

Suddenly, the trail opened on the right to the most incredible expanse of mountains and lake I had ever seen. It was absolutely unbelievable. It was a postcard. It was intensely beautiful.

"Steve, look!" I said. "Don't stop moving, but look!"

He spotted what he thought was No Hands Bridge in the distance and pointed it out. I'll have to find a picture of the bridge he thought it was. It was so high, so very high, that I had vertigo just looking up. And the idea of climbing the entire mountain up to it - that was sobering. I'll tell you what, this was going to be an epic end.

Then we saw a smaller, much less grand, but far more approachable bridge beneath it. We flew through the woods toward the aid station.

"Do you need anything?" he asked.

"You keep moving," I said. "I'm just going to chug a Coke."

He went dutifully on, and as I chugged my Coke, I checked our time.

We had almost 1:25 on the 30 hour cutoff.

I caught up to Steve. I had promised myself I wouldn't say a word until I knew I was sure.

"Well," I said, "you're going to break 29 hours. It was my own secret goal, but when you started moving again, I wanted to see if I could at least get it to start with 28."

"Yeah, me too," he said.

We were in a wide open grassy field that was exactly like the "tundra" at Highbanks. It was precisely as hot as Highbanks. The Asian man in the white tights ran by, covered in dirt. I mentioned he must have taken a bad fall. Or spilled coffee, Steve said.

We had to climb a brutal, technical canyon to get to Robie Point, the check point just a mile from the aid station. Steve was a rock star. We talked about how he had turned it around, the lessons he could take away from this. Not only did he have the sub-24 hour finish in him, I told him, but he had a new experience to draw on. Now, I said, he would always know that he could run the last 35 miles of a 100. I must have sounded so annoying by then, but I was so proud of him. He had run the last 35 miles of the course. Run it. And I didn't ever want him to forget it.

A kid with an awesome blond mohawk came sprinting down the hill to meet us.

"Can I get you anything? Ice water, sponges, Cokes?" he asked. He brought us freezing cold ice water in cups, filled Steve's bottles. More people came down to meet us and congratulate Steve as he finished the hike up to Robie. They gave us cold towels for our necks and instructions to make a turn onto the road, and then follow the orange footprints to the stadium. Michael was there to greet us, and we were ready to make a run for it.

Just a few steps later was a large drum, a large cheering crowd, and the one mile to go sign.

Steve picked it up. We passed another runner.

He picked it up some more. We passed another runner.

And then the mile got both longer and shorter as went, following those famous orange footprints, and then Nicole was there taking pictures and cheering, and the noise was getting louder, and the footprints were gone, and we were on the track.

I went around the first two turns with him. Then I told him that this was his finish, and I was cutting across the field. He said thank you and hugged me, and I kind of pushed him away, because damn it, he had a race to finish.

And then he was done. Leigh was there in her prom dress and we had breakfast with Adam and Steve and I stared into space. I wandered around dazed, confused and lost until I finally found Nicole and Dylan, and at 10:54, six minutes before the final cutoff, I squandered what voice I had left without abandon as I watched Kevin O'Grady turn onto the track just in time to buckle.

At 11 am sharp, a horn was sounded, and just like that, Western States was over.

***
Steve thanked me several times during that long night and early morning. He probably even said he couldn't have done it without me.

The truth is, Steve did it all. Steve kept his head on straight all day, no matter what the circumstances brought. Steve made the decision to start running again before his stomach had even fully cleared. Steve was the one who found three foods that worked, and then stuck to them, whether he wanted to or not. Steve was the one who started running again, with very little prodding, and Steve is the one who not only "ran again," but raced those last 35 miles.

I was just a witness to it.

Perhaps that trail at the end of the race was familiar; perhaps it was “like” Mohican or "like" Highbanks. Perhaps my dad was with me on the red dust; perhaps Catra just happened to encounter Steve at the two times we needed someone like her the most. Perhaps all these things happened as I told them, and perhaps some of them were romanticized by a tired and emotional pacer. You may call them coincidence; you may call them divine intervention; you may call them answered prayers.

I call them all of these things, and I call them another thing because of and as a result of those things. I call them our family.

No matter where we are – Mohican, Burning River, Umstead or Western States – our family comes together to pull each other through. There is no individual runner, no individual crew, no individual pacer. Anyone that can do anything simply does so by instinct. At some point, we all take care of “someone else’s” runner, because our greater family knows no such boundaries.

No matter what time of day or night I posted or texted an update on Steve, there was an immediate response. Someone was always there, rooting for him, praying for him, checking on him. No matter the hour, someone was there. Not just people in Auburn, not just people on the Western States trail, but people back home. Sending us their strength, their prayers, their vibes – whatever they had. Sending us LIGHT throughout that long night.

In my mind, it's that light that continued to give Steve the strength to run the way he did.

Western States was not about me. But it was about more than Steve. It was about our family.

Leigh brought light with her sheer and abiding love. Steve brought light with his humor and watchfulness. Rachel brought light with her sunshine and that sweet little voice she has. Jonathan brought light by being a familiar face when one was so desperately needed. Catra brought light with her warmth and sensitivity. Michael and Nicole brought light by sharing their family and their hospitality for those two long, sleepless days. Darris brought light with his constant calls, texts and check-ins on all of our friends. Nick Billock brought light by caring about a runner he's never even met all the way from Oz. And each and everyone of you back home - Laurie, Kim B. and Kim A., Dan, Brian, Skinny Beast, Dave, Mark, Michelle, Michael and Mom and Pop-Z: EACH of you brought each of US light every single time you clicked “like,” or texted, or prayed, or simply thought of us.

As we ran through that red dust somewhere in the 90's, I told him that I always write the last paragraph of my blog first, and then work the rest around it. Just so you know, I told him, I just finished it a couple minutes ago.

At mile 68, I watched my friend, my dear friend and training partner, move steadily through the night. Illuminated by my disco hall plethora of lights, I could sense the fixed determination on his face, the relentlessness in his step.

And I realized I was just supplying the light.

At mile 68, in the middle of the night and the middle of the run, I was referring to my plethora of headlamps.

Over the next 32 miles, I learned the greater meaning of that simple thought.

I hope I was able to bring some light.