Gasp Your Way into the Clouds with Me
Me = wannabe athlete. I’m an okay mountain biker, okay skier, pretty good hiker—but I am solidly a beginner runner. BEGINNER. Capital letters. That’s going to be important later.
So, I definitely nailed it, when registering for my first snowshoe running race ever, I chose the one that experienced racers referred to as North America’s Toughest 10k.
“10k.” “Toughest.” On the continent. Sure, why not.
This is the last moment I will appreciate anything of beauty before my will to live is sucked from my body one gasping, hyperventilating breath at a time
“It will be a fun challenge!” I told my foolhardy, arrogant self. “I hike all the time! Really, how hard can it be?” I’m happy on any trail, this was just another one, right? Right?
So very, very wrong.
The Ski, Shoe & Fatbike to the Clouds course uses the Great Glen Trails system in Northern New Hampshire, and also the snow-covered Mt. Washington Auto Road.
I don’t know if it’s really the toughest 10k in North America.
But I am here to tell you that it 100% feels like it.
To be fair, all of the literature I read prior to the race says that snowshoe running as a beginner runner is difficult. More than one website advised me to “run in the backyard to get the feel of it. Under no circumstances should I attempt anything ‘epic’ until I have a feel for what it’s like to run in snowshoes.”
Yep, nailed it.
The Ski to the Clouds was first held in 1996 as a new and unique challenge entirely on the Mt. Washington Auto Road and was for Nordic skiers only. Later it was modified to make it a 10k race, using the Great Glen Trails Nordic system for 4 kilometers before beginning the steep (their word— steep) ascent up the Mt. Washington Auto Road. The race finishes just before the halfway point of the Mt. Washington Auto Road at about 3,800 feet above sea level, according to the official event page.
My only real goal was a respectable finish. For a minute there, I allowed myself a “strong finish” goal, but then remembered that I am a capital B beginner runner. This goal will later be amended to: “don’t be last. Please, just don’t be last”.
Race morning: an unusually warm 30ish degrees. Unusually calm winds. Unusually bright skies.
And me… the (usually nervous) snowshoe runner.
Our race began by sending off waves of skiers, then fatbikers, and lastly, snowshoe runners, to trek 4k through the beautiful woods on the Great Glen Trails system—which was supposed to be the “easy part”. I went with the runners because they didn’t have a category for “people who think they can do this but probably should just go for a nice day hike.”
I had a strong start!
(At least, that’s what the cowbellers were yelling as they cheered and clapped us on).
Too strong, it turns out, as I was instantly wheezing for air as I ran, the realization of flapping along in an awkward stance through soft snow, flicking it up my back and down my shoes— literally, kicked in. I was sucking wind, sucking is the operative word there, and “running” (a term I use loosely here) at about a 15:00 minute mile. On a good day, I can walk faster.
Quickly realizing that I was going to be doing more hiking than running, I adjusted my overall goal of “finish respectably” to “just finish the race and don’t die.” At the end of the 4k “warm up”, the trail climbs, mercilessly, 6 kilometers up the Auto Road at an average of 11-12% grade, with an elevation gain of more than 2,000 feet.
Basic math lesson: You can figure out that percentage by calculating elevation change by the amount of horizontal distance covered (the rise -2200 feet- divided by the run- 19685 feet), and then multiplying the result by 100.
That gives you an average hill grade of —1,000,000%.
Well, it felt like that, anyway.
I want to say that I stopped so often because I was taking photos and admiring the breathtaking view.
Would you believe I was appreciating the stunning day, as Mount Washington so rarely has them? (February statistically has the least amount of sunshine of the year). Maybe I was stopping to be encouraging to fellow racers, and cheering on those who were on the way down.
But that’s a lie and we all know it.
I stopped as much as I could to inhale, stand up (semi) straight and try to motivate myself to pretend to run. The views were literally breathtaking. Respectable? Ha! Just keep going.
As I admired the mountains, and spit out frustrated “congratulations” to downhill racers who had completed their races and finished strong, I wondered if I was even going to finish.
Fast forward through the remaining self-inflicted torture to the last 100 yards. A red line spray-painted across the snow.
The FINISH LINE. Again, I felt like I should get a parade, but settled for my personal cheerleader urging me to take just 50 more steps.
Crossing the finish line.
(1 hour and 17 minutes AFTER the winner of my division), I had never felt so simultaneously disappointed and proud of myself.
Disappointed that my first foray into snowshoe running led to an overall finish of 64 out of 66 official finishers. (In case you aren’t sure, that means there are only 2 people who are more delusional than me.).
There were 24 people who either didn’t make it in for an “official time” of under 2:30 or were smart enough to stay home. Next time I’m going to hang out with them.
But for a little moment, I was also proud.
It’s the toughest 10k in North America.
I showed up. I didn’t quit.
I finished- in fact,
I wasn’t even last.
And that means it was…
…Happy trails…
…afterall.