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Leadville 100 Part One - Anton Krupicka

Anton Krupicka running on the road at Leadville 100

Part One - La Sportiva athlete Anton Krupicka shares his thoughts on his most recent Leadville Trail 100 race experience...

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The evening before this year’s Leadville Trail 100 Run I was trying to remember what I should be worried about. I had lined up for the LT100 five times previously, and each year I recalled the Friday afternoon between check-in and the early morning race start on Saturday to be busy, nervous, and exhausting. At least three of those years I had developed a splitting headache that sustained through the opening miles of the race.

This year, however, everything seemed pleasantly, miraculously simple. I made sure I had the absolute essentials sorted–shoes, shorts, shirt, socks, sunglasses, cap, headlamp, water bottle–and I was confident my crew would take care of everything else. All I had to do was run.

But, for most of the past seven years–the last time I’d run 100 miles was in 2014 at the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc in France–running has been problematic. First a persistent shin injury, then a couple of years of doggedly cantankerous IT bands, and finally, for the past four years, a persistently devious achilles tendon. I could never seem to string together more than a month or so of healthy-ish feeling weeks–if I was able to run at all–let alone a training block appropriate for an ultramarathon race performance.

That all changed in a very gradual way over the course of the pandemic and I found myself at the start of this year’s LT100 with a previous 18 months where the achilles tendon had been, on the balance, pretty much...okay. My longest run in the past six years was still only 42 miles–a double-crossing of the Grand Canyon back in January, and a pair of outings in the month before the race–but I’d been able to work up to that distance very gradually, with space for plenty of fits and starts. All of these physical uncertainties made it so that I was grateful to just be on the starting line at all, a lowkey giddiness building with the anticipation of embarking on a big, challenging adventure, feeling the same as I had before my first go at the LT100 15 years ago.

Anton running.

The actual differences between this year and that 2006 race, however, were undeniably stark. Instead of bivying in a public bathroom in the city park, La Sportiva had rented a luxurious multi-bedroom house a single block from the start line. No waiting in port-a-pottie lines for me. Instead of salvaged bagels and peanut butter for dinner (way back then a not-insignificant portion of my diet came from regular dumpster diving at a Colorado Springs Einstein Bro’s), I had a full modern kitchen with an electric range, dishwasher, microwave, and countertop island upon which to prepare some still admittedly simple couscous and veggies. Instead of using the public library’s payphone to coordinate with my crew, all of my crew were right there, staying in the house with me, a palm-sized supercomputer in each of our pockets. And instead of the darkhorse anonymity of a 23-year-old who was lining up for his first ultra with no other credentials than the 200mi weeks in his training logs, this year a film crew was following me around, and my training log showed only... 50-mile weeks. It can be easy to romanticize those simpler, more seat-of-the-pants days of our youth, but in my experience, that stuff only works for the young. In short, I was comfortable and secure, and totally happy with it.

And yet, I was able to conjure the same electric excitement, rooted in uncertainty–I know I can do this, but will I do this?– that I’d first felt 15 years hence. One hundred miles is so far that something is virtually assured to go wrong at some point; that promise of hardship and problem-solving is where the fun begins. It’s why I was back on the line. After a decade of pursuing many non-running objectives–ski tours, rock climbing link-ups, mountaineering objectives, and bike races that had each lasted all day and all night–trying to race 100 miles on foot is still absolutely the most physically and emotionally challenging thing I have done. My body seemed to finally be up to the task of letting me test myself against that standard once again.

Anton Krupicka at the lineup.

Start to Pipeline (0-27mi)
Before race day, I had stated with conviction that my plan was to run my slowest first 50 miles ever. Especially with my lack of long runs, I wanted to preserve simply finishing above all other goals. No competing allowed until after mile 65; before that, jog and hike as easy as you can. These are simple, easy statements to make in casual conversation or, say, while out spinning my legs on a mellow bike ride. Adhering to such a plan in the charged atmosphere of a nearly 700 runner field is another thing altogether. At least for me. I had run the first half of this race a full 15min under course record pace before. That didn’t end well; I DNFed at 80 miles. My fastest finish–16:14 in 2007, a time that still makes me the third fastest runner ever on the course–came off of my slowest split for the first 40 miles. There’s a painfully obvious lesson here. I was determined to have learned it.

It helped that I’d largely stopped paying attention to the sport these past five years. I used to be obsessive, seeking out any and all information on the sport’s characters far before iRunFar.com was even a thing. But this year, I knew exactly one person on the start line–four-time champion Ian Sharman, who at 40 years old belongs to the same generation of ultrarunning as me–and that was it. The day before the race I met Cody Reed, who had publicly stated he was explicitly shooting for Matt Carpenter’s legendary 2005 course record. I knew that headspace. I’d occupied it intimately for a couple of years. I DNFed both times. But maybe Cody was more prepared, talented, and tougher than I was. Either way, I figured I’d be racing Ian for the win. Hard to argue with his experience and near-perfect track record at the event.

The run down to Turquoise Lake and over to Mayqueen was idyllic. A nearly full moon set behind Mt Massive and early on I even saw a spectacular, bright red shooting star streak over Massive’s northern skyline. A pack of 20-30 runners had already disappeared into the distance and I was proud of how I truly didn’t care. It’s always more fun to pass than be passed, so I figured each runner that was ahead of me at Mayqueen was just another little emotional boost I could count on later. My intermediate splits indicated that I was still easily on 17hr, or even 16hr pace. I knew 20 runners weren’t going to run 17hr today. Seeing the late-race carnage was going to be fun–so long as I wasn’t one of the fatalities.

Anton on an uphill portion of the Leadville 100 race.

Despite the race organization advising against crews meeting their runners at Mayqueen (limited parking) the scene, there was raucous. I had forgotten what racing is like. There’s so much energy! Hailey and Len picked me out and without breaking stride, I acquired an extra bottle and a bean and cheese burrito to breakfast on. Eating real food was a new tactic for me this year and it would prove to be worth it. It’s tough to chew and swallow at altitude, but I was hopeful that it would pay off with a more cooperative stomach in the second half of the race.

Onto the CT and over Sugarloaf Pass I started picking off runners for whom it seemed the realities of the day’s work was setting in and early jitters were wearing off. Despite the rising sun, it was still pleasantly cool, a welcome boost as we got to work on the course’s first significant climbing. Lotsa miles to go still, time to buckle down. A few folks were still chatty, but I wasn’t really. I’m nearly deaf in my right ear, so it’s tough to hear people a lot of the time, but mostly I just wanted to conserve energy and not get sucked into running too fast, especially on the steep Power-lines downhill.

Additionally, unlike every other time I’ve run this race, I walked nearly every steeper bit of uphill. Even when we hit the pavement over to Outward Bound I hiked a steep punch so that I could finish my burrito, plus running just seemed like too much effort. Man, what a difference 15 years make. In my first two years at Leadville, not walking a step was a point of brash pride. Now I saw hiking as almost a savings account. Every pitch I hiked in the first half was energy I was banking to draw on in those last 40 miles. It seemed to be working; I was consistently moving through the field and beginning to flirt with the top-10. However, all the flat running over to Pipeline–especially the paved road–was the usual bummer. Even though my legs felt clunky and without pep, I was mentally prepared for it and also boosted by the fact that I was still catching runners a marathon into the race.

Pipeline to Twin Lakes (27-38mi)
At the crew access here I dropped my long-sleeve shirt, was finally back on dirt, and immediately felt better. Within minutes I could tell that I’d just been having a mild low patch on the pavement and now I was reaping the benefits of easing off and riding it out. On the gradual climb up to the Colorado Trail, I started picking off more racers who had clearly gone out too hot and were now paying for it after the initial quick, mostly flat 50K.

Jackson Cole refueling at an aid station.

Right before the CT, I caught Jackson Cole, a young, talented fellow La Sportiva athlete who was staying in the same house as me and attempting his first 100. He’d spent the summer bagging high peaks and chasing FKT’s in the Sawatch Range, camping up in the mountains in his truck, running hard and fast. I recognized a bit of myself from 10-15yrs ago in him and wanted him to have a good day. I tried to give a bit of advice as I went by without being patronizing–just ride out the low patches, it’ll turn around eventually–but what can you do? These things are long and tedious, and the tax for a too-quick start is usually quite steep.

Shortly after passing Jackson, the course connects back into the CT, and up ahead I recognized the energetic, straight-armed hiking cadence of one Ian Sharman. No way! Already? I figured Ian was further up there duking it out with the young guns. I seemed to be riding a good wave at the moment, though, so I passed with some sort of hearty salutation about how I couldn’t believe we’re both still out here running at Leadville after all these years and how I had no doubt we’d be seeing more of each other throughout the day.

Sure enough, just a few miles later on the steep drop into Twin Lakes, Ian came flying by and I trailed him into the checkpoint by a few dozen seconds. While passing, he mentioned how no one ahead of us had finished Leadville before. Interesting bit of information; it reminded me that this was indeed a race and that Ian’s head was fully in competition mode, even if he wasn’t allowing his legs to go there yet. I’d been having more of a mental stroll down memory lane up to this point; Ian’s comment gave me a little shot of that competitive juice that makes racing so fun. Even so, I consciously tamped it down and worked through a quick transition with my crew. Onboard a jacket and a load of food for the 24 miles double-crossing of 12,600’ Hope Pass, get out of there.

Tune in next week for Part Two 

Sep 15, 2021, 11:41:00 AM
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