America's Uphill is Feral Boy's Sufferfest

On Friday, an hour before the close of its registration, Friday and I decided to enter the America's Uphill, a race from the bottom to the top of Aspen's Ajax mountain, taking place the next morning. For me, at least, it was a spur-of-the-moment indiscretion - a decision to rage, rage, against the dying light. Or, at the very least, rebel against the apathy that had taken over my life during the last year.

From the organizer's site:

Course Description
The America's Uphill begins at the base of Little Nell and climbs 3267 feet up the Aspen Mountain ski area finishing at  the Sundeck Restaurant at an elevation of 11,212 feet... The long steep climb up Spar continues to the base of Ajax Express (Lift 3). From here, there's a small reprieve on Tortilla Flats before the climb begins again in earnest... finally topping out at the Sundeck. Inspection of the course prior to race day is recommended.

Participants in the race are categorized by their choice of footwear: I registered in the "Heavy Metal" category, because I would be using my randonnée equipment - heavy skis (their bottoms covered in artificial seal skin, for traction) and heavy boots, like those for alpine downhill skiing, but with a hinged toe binding and releasable heel. Friday would race in the "Telemark" category, because that is the style of ski boot and binding she uses, and it's somewhat lighter than randonnée. The race course is on firmly-packed snow, so other racers choose to use light hiking boots or snowshoes - they are in the "Open" category.

My only "training" for this event was a short hike the previous weekend. It was during that jaunt that I was reminded - by foot pain and blisters - that I had major holes in each of my boot liners, liners that I've intended to replace for the last two years, or so. So after paying my entry fee, it was off to the mountaineering shop for new thermal-formed liners. I wouldn't have an opportunity to "break in" the liners - or my feet, for that matter - but the purchase was in keeping with the spirit of the day - nothing would be very well thought out.

The starting line

The next morning, upon the 7am twilight start, I began skinning up the hill at an ambling pace. The weather was warm - in the mid-30s - and there was a light snow falling. It wasn't long before the friction between skin and new liners heated my heels until half-dollar size blisters formed. Friday, of course, had quickly disappeared from sight, a testament to her daily Crossfit training. At about the halfway point the wind picked up, and it became significantly colder. My heel blisters ruptured. A 75-year-old woman in hiking boots had been pacing me since the get-go, and it was here she made her move, disappearing into the mist ahead of me. The remainder of the course was a miserable, seemingly endless, slog.

A septuagenarian racer, just before passing Feral Boy

Somehow I managed to reach the finish line, after a long two hours. Friday was fifteen minutes ahead of me. My one-legged friend, Vince, was just ahead of her. (The overall winner was done in 44:22!)

My heels were beyond touchable; luckily I'd brought clogs for the dreary gondola ride down.

Ouch!