Just One More Ridge Run
- charlesjromeo
- 8 hours ago
- 4 min read
Family, friends, my doctors, heck even the mailman and the guy who picks up the trash have heard me say it: “This is my last Ridge Run.” I've been saying this for years now; none of them believe me anymore. "Sure, sure. You'll get amnesia. You'll be back."
It’s the hardest race I do. I spend much of the year prepping for it and stressing about it. At my age and given my diminishing capacity for running up there, I should quit. I know it, but I can’t seem to say I’m done.
It should be easy to quit, right? I mean the Ridge Run thrashes me. I start off full of energy, psyched, ready for the challenge, but I must have a leak somewhere, because my energy quickly drains away. I start fading long before the end of the race. From the Wall of Death onward, about seven miles in, my tank is at risk of being empty.
Besides, what I do up there isn’t really racing. It’s more of a tour. I’m chatting with fellow runners and taking pictures. Checking out the offerings at the aid stations; pickle halves were scrumptious this year, and I wait all year for the pre-melted ice pops at halfway. Grocery stores in town sell pickles, I could slice them in half, and I could buy ice pops and leave them out in the sun. But they taste best up there. It’s just like backpacking food; after a day in the backcountry, "I'm not eating that," becomes, “Hey, this is damn good.”
What makes this race so attractive and yet so difficult? Part of the attraction is the start. Early morning, deep in the Bridger Range, kindred spirits gather for an annual ritual. Sacajawea looms above on a cool, spectacular morning. We dance, I mean squirm, while waiting to use the facilities. Energy builds as the first waves of runners set off. We watch from the line, hoping it moves fast enough for each of us to make our waves. There are folks to talk to that each of us hasn’t seen since the last race we did, or maybe since last year’s Ridge Run. “Was it you who took that spectacular fall down Saddle Peak then crawled over the finish line in like 12 hours?” Scratch that, maybe I don’t need to see these people.
The announcer yells GO! Our legs start moving, our heartrates start climbing. Through the forest, the first set of switchbacks, into Sacajawea Bowl. Sunshine. Up the headwall and back into shade as we climb Sac. Now the excitement begins. We race across Sac and Naya-Nuki on the “trail”—I use that term loosely—that Ed Anacker marked out so many years ago. It stays as close to the ridge as possible climbing and dropping to get around rock outcrops. It’s loose scree all around. The sketchiness of the footing that has racers trying to keep on their feet as much as race has a wildness to it that’s hard to find elsewhere.
The pace picks up as we race down to and then on the foothills trail. It’s a fast footrace followed by uphill switchbacks to reach Ross Pass: seven miles in. Most everyone still feels great, but the race is about to get a lot harder. At 2,000 vertical, the climb up Sac is the biggest single climb on the course, but the climbs that are about to begin add up to more, much more. In the eight miles between here and Mount Baldy we’ll climb twice that again. We’ll start with a tough 1,000-foot climb above the pass, then it’s a roller coaster of smaller ups and downs that just keep coming. That, and there’s a lot of rough trail between here and there: rocks, climbs, drops, downed trees. All the usual suspects in more than the usual quantities.
The ups, downs and rough trail all increase the degree of difficulty. One never locks into a pace and just goes. It’s a constant process of making adjustments, and foot placements are never free.
But we’re out here together. This year I talked with Rick early in the race, Maleah from Ross Pass to Bridger, then Megan and Amy until I was too deep in the pain cave to talk anymore.
As we near Bridger Peak, we can start to see the party on Baldy. It’s like, we’re almost there, but we’re not. There’s still more rough trail, a few big drops and a stretch of limestone sidehill to be negotiated.
But finally, we’re there. Beer is offered; keg stands are encouraged. Volunteers resupply and recharge us the best they can and send us back out exclaiming, “it’s all downhill from here.” Well mostly, but what a series of downhills, and on tired legs. But there’s the ice pops at halfway. Worth it, worth it all!
So will I be out here again? Hmmm... The mailman and trash man give me the thumbs up when they see me out running early in the morning. Giving up the Ridge Run has the feel of closing a chapter of my life. In the beforetime I could manage this level of difficulty; on years when everything clicks, I feel strong and yappy, I snap lots of pictures and am joyous throughout. The aftertime will be an acknowledgement that it’s beyond me. It’s hard to accept what I know will eventually be inevitable.
I’ve taken to yelling out “Not Dead Yet!” a few times as I run the race. I did it once early in the race this year and the response came back, “You haven’t finished yet.” Oh. Good point. If I keep going too long, there may come a time when “Not Dead Yet!” will need a question mark at the end.
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