The Rut 50K: I Won't Be Long
- Paul Viscontini
- Oct 10, 2024
- 14 min read
Every time I’ve tried to take a stab at recapping my experience running The Rut 50K, I hit writer’s block. If I try to simplify it into the obvious questions, it feels reductive and uninteresting. Except maybe the simple stuff is the whole point?
Who: ME! and 544 new friends/family
What: The Rut 50K - A mountain race with +10,000 feet of elevation gain
Where: Big Sky, MT - A beautiful ski resort town south of Bozeman
When: September 15th, 2024
Why: Because! Because this is who I am now
How: By battling rocks, climbs, and demons for 10:41:52
If you need more than that, I’ve got your back, and because this is a one-way interaction, I can even purport to know exactly what you’re looking for.
You, dear reader, are here for one of three reasons. 1) You’ve done this stuff before and enjoy comparing the experience to your own, 2) You’ve been dipping your toe in the water and need an idea of what you’re getting into if you take the plunge, or 3) You have no interest in running ultras, can’t understand why anyone would ever do it, call the sport “extreme,” but are fueling your sadistic curiosity (aka my family, HI DAD!).
To all you Number Ones, I love you, fam! The Number Twos… um, shit or get off the pot. The Number Threes, keep that energy; stay strong, stay salty. In that vein, I’ve prepared a recap triptych which will address each category and your underlying motivation.
Part One - I Don’t Belong: Crashing the Family Reunion
I’m too new at ultra running to have a “holy grail” race. Too new to know what big races deserve to be on such a list. Too new to appreciate how difficult this stuff is. Too new to think I deserve a spot at the table. Too new… ya know?
Embracing the newness has led me along an interesting journey. Fueled by “why not” and “yes, and,” I’ve stumbled down the trails less traveled and arrived at destinations I long thought to be unreachable. When I got there it felt comfortable, natural, inevitable, like I belonged.
That is until we arrived in Big Sky and Lone Mountain towered over us 11,116 feet above sea level piercing a bluebird sky. It was evident I had happened upon a “holy grail” race, but at the cost of that sense of belonging. It was shattered into a trillion sharp rocks sliding down incomprehensibly steep slopes. “I have to run all the way up THAT?”
How did I get here? Rewind, rewind, rewind…
Six months earlier, sitting comfortably at 300 feet above sea level, I received an Instagram message asking if I would be interested in a free bib for The Rut. “You can pick any distance you want.”
My due diligence was limited at best. Six different distances from which to choose hosted in Big Sky in The Treasure State. Looks challenging. I consulted with my wife, “I just received this invite. I’m relatively certain that I’m not being catfished. What do you think about going to Montana for my birthday so I can go run an ultra?” Why not?
For a moment, I considered the Trifecta; back-to-back-to-back days of the VK (vertical kilometer), 28K, and 50K. I’m all about efficiency. If I’m going to drag my family into the mountains for an adventure, let’s get really adventurous. Yes, and…
I ended up registering for just the 50K. New, yes, but not stupid.
Sure, the website has explicit warnings like “extremely steep and technical with sections of exposure and rockfall hazard” and “result of a fall in these sections could be injury or death” AND “we strongly encourage you to become familiar with the course terrain before registering.” Yes, and… those sound like superlative scare tactics to keep silly ol’ sea level suckers away.
Ok, maybe a little stupid.
As of the date of registration I had only attempted one 50K. A rollicking effort on technical single-track, certainly-not-mountainous, trails of the Hudson Valley in New York.
Ok, maybe a lot stupid.
To minimize the stupid, there was only one thing to do: Work. 1,194 miles and 189K feet of gain from April to September. Strength training twice a week. Fueling. Hydrating. Mental toughening. A 100-day streak of running at least 3 miles. Controlling the controllable.
I loaded up my calendar with other races to quiet the nagging voice in my head that kept saying “you’re not ready for this yet.” I completed the comparably difficult Breakneck Point trail marathon in May and another 50K in August.
While I was geeked about the challenge, one of the things I was most excited about was being around the ultra community for the week. As far as I know, there’s not a sister chapter of my running group in the Rocky Mountains, but we’re all part of this weird family, right? Game recognizes game.
The other thing I was most excited about was being able to share the experience with my family. There is spectator access at 5 of the 6 aid stations including the Lone Mountain summit, the ski lifts are open and shuttling people all over all day. My parents came in from Texas, my sister and her family down from Calgary, and my wife and daughters would finally be able to see their husband and dad during the race, not just the happy guy at dawn and the broken man at the finish line.
We arrived four days early to try to acclimate to the altitude. While being gleefully terrified about what was about to happen, I went for my last taper runs. The gasping for air and spiking heart rate eventually went away, but the nervous chuckling remained. The ever-present mountain peak looming. “They tried to warn you.”
When I arrived to pick up my bib the day before the 50K, it started to click that I might be more out of my element than I wanted to admit. My hat brim - not flat enough. My hair - not straggly enough. My mustache - not aggressively mustachey enough.
My west coast trail running brethren were a few limbs further across the family tree than I originally thought. But that didn’t matter as I watched cousins Keanu, Kalea, and Kruz take off from the starting line for the 28K. Family is family and this was our reunion (pre-union?).
This is what I was here for, just me and the Clampetts arriving whether you like it or not. Some Appalachian seasoning for the Rocky Mountain oyster stew. Where should I put my famous seven layer dip?
Part Two - It Won’t Be Long, It Will Be Excruciatingly Long
My preparation was workman-like, an attempt to control everything that was controllable. I had been saturated with Skratch for two weeks. I kept my caloric intake on the high-to-absurd side of the scale. I reviewed my course notes religiously. My legs were more than ready; the 50K would be my 101st consecutive day running and they were hungry for some non-taper miles.
I’ll admit, I had a stretch goal (8:30:00, don’t judge me) and a fall back time (10:30:00, far more reasonable), but every time I caught a glimpse of that mountain I knew all bets would be off.
BRRAAAYYYYYUUUWWWWW!
The Rut experience was living up to my expectations. 617 challengers along with family and friends milling about in the predawn darkness. Announcers on the PA chatting about the contenders. Hype jams blaring between the chatter. This was everything I imagined; everything I wanted it to be.
BRRAAAYYYYYUUUWWWWW!
As the endorphins started to swirl I found myself on the starting line switching on my headlamp to cut through the black, I took a deep breath: “This is going to be harder than you thought, but you’re going to do it.” Me and the rest of Wave 4 were about to start, cue the elk horn blast.
BRRAAAYYYYYUUUWWWWW!
The first few miles were amazing. The pre-race high carried me. Don’t get me wrong, even the easy parts of The Rut are hard, but that didn’t make them any less enjoyable. Through the first three miles we had already climbed +1,400 feet. See? Easy.
After what felt like an epic fail at my tune-up 50K, I had promised myself (and all interested parties) that I would fuel appropriately. At least a liter of electrolytes between each aid station increment no matter what, plus a bar, a gel, and a meat stick. I stayed on plan through the first two aid stations at Moonlight where my family was able to witness me looking rather heroic. I was feeling great through those first 10.5, but this was not time to celebrate. The next 11 miles would be like no other I had ever attempted.
The Rut is a race of thirds. The first ten miles average 238 ft/mi with most of that concentrated in the first three. The middle averages 524 ft/mi (including the peak climb). And the last ten miles are a walk in the (very hilly) park with 233 ft/mi.
In my prep notes, I had highlighted the segment between the Moonlight and Swiftcurrent aid stations. It was eight miles, the longest distance between stops and a lot could go wrong. We would break through the tree line, run along the exposed ridge line, face our fears of heights (oh, just me?), and generally test ourselves in ways that normal people avoid with gusto.
I had packed one liter's worth of empty, extra water capacity “just in case,” but made a tactical error by deciding to save the weight and leave them empty. I was feeling good, let ‘er rip. Oops.
When you’re faced with an obstacle like Lone Mountain, it’s easy to forget that there are 28.5 more miles to worry about. Mile 16, for instance, is a never-ending ascent of 1,145ft (whereas the summit climb is 1,400ft). Single file we all trudged up patiently. Then, out of nowhere, about a quarter of the way into the climb, I got punched in the gut.
That little knot in the screenshot is where my entire day changed. Almost directly on the 2,770m contour line (just over 9,000ft), I had to pull off trail to sell some Buicks. It happened all at once and with no warning right as we were crossing above the treeline - I hunched over dry-heaving. It was... not great.
In the six months of prep work, I lived, ate, and breathed running. Breathing came at a premium in the summer months of the New England coast. I was promised that training in the oppressive humidity was the best substitute for altitude acclimation in lieu of a midsummer relo to the Rockies. This, my friends, was an empty promise.
I had about 0.5L left of hydration and 3.5 miles until the next aid station and, by a large margin, the most difficult terrain was ahead. No more cushy pine forest trails. There was nothing but rock; a sea of scree. The locals call it “talus,” a perfect word for it, since it likes to flip up and whack your ankle when your step doesn’t land perfectly.
I chugged the rest of my hydration. Can’t quit here. I have to make it to the next aid station.
My effort level would be capped for the rest of the day. Anything over 140bpm heart rate made me feel nauseous. I would hike/trot/climb/walk for a quarter mile and then pull off trail and sit down for a minute. “Are you ok?” “No. Yes. Maybe.” I was doing what I had to do.
To be honest, dealing with altitude sickness came with an odd benefit. I had to concentrate on that and therefore was distracted from how terrifying the course had become. I am not ok with heights and we were on a ridge with precipitous drop offs on each side. Even once we got off the ridge all views were terrifying with no trees to hide the slope.
When I finally rolled into the next aid station, I was done. There was a very loud voice which was telling me to quit. “You can’t hack it at 9,000ft, how is 11,000ft going to feel any better?” The voice had a pretty solid point, but luckily I faced the DNF demons just a month earlier and knew how to get them to STFU.
I sat at the Swiftcurrent aid station positioned at the trailhead of the summit climb. And I sat. And I sat. 20 minutes, two liters of hydration and electrolytes, I couldn’t get enough. This was my race now - do whatever you have to do to feel good enough to finish. I walked over to my family, “I’m going to head up the peak now. I’ll see you in an hour.” It was only 1.4 miles and yet that felt like an aggressive promise. “I won’t be long.”
I continued my hike-a-bit-sit-a-bit cadence although sitting on a 35% slope is more akin to lying down. It’s easy to ask yourself “why am I doing this” as the rocks shift beneath your feet each step. The only answer that made me feel better in that moment was “because I never have to do it again.”
There were two young guys hiking behind me as the grade grew ever steeper. I overheard one of them ask “did you bring the cigarettes for the top?” Sure, I gave up smoking 2.5 years ago. A cigarette at 11K feet probably doesn’t count. Tar doesn’t stick to the lungs at that elevation. There are rules and science to this kind of thing.
My wife had bailed on taking the lift to the summit because she was too scared (🤔), but my trembling parents and know-no-fear kids were there. Their payoff was to watch me sit, scowl, and sip (and, not smoke, for the record). Another 10 minute break. Another extra liter of hydration. This was my life now. I would repeat it at every following aid station.
There is something soothing about letting go like that. I tend to be a bit of an asshole to myself, and it doesn’t help matters when my expectations can be just a tad unrealistic (hello 8:30:00 stretch goal). Eventually, “I never have to do it again” transitioned to “I may never get to do it again.” That was game-changing.
Me and my new outlook on life ventured off of the summit and started down the abusive far side of the mountain. Less rock. More dirt. Less sitting and stopping, more slipping and butt sliding. But, more chatting and laughing. I was able to unplug from expectations and enjoy being with all the other crazies.
I followed a guy from DC down for a while, a sea-level hero just like me. He fell back and I latched on to a foursome of Rocky Mountain kids for a while. Finally it started to feel normal. Not me. I never felt normal physically. But being out here, doing this dumb thing, it felt like I was supposed to be there, just part of the family, and that feeling was exactly what I needed.
Around 25 miles, when it finally started to seem like there was an end to the madness, I caught up to a guy who took a look at me and said “FINALLY! You’re the first person I’ve seen out here with gray hair like me!” Now wait a fucking second.
While in a rush to be offended, I realized he was right. There were maybe three or four people that I had seen along the way that were obviously my age or older. This was strange. I’m used to being in the mature majority, but today was anything but.
“That’s because the only old people to sign up for this thing were in waves 1 and 2 because they knew what they were getting themselves into,” I surmised.
“Well, to give you some insight into how my day has gone… I started in wave 2.”
He was from Ohio; another flatlander like myself. Another old dude from east of the Mississippi. It got me to thinking… Do people like us actually belong in a place like this? Are we the black mountain sheep?
While my new Ohioan buddy’s comments got the mental wheels turning, there was a race to finish. I had found some good pace through the final third of The Rut, but nothing that made me feel quite as light as the first 15 miles. I still sat at the aid stations soaking up the atmosphere and pounding down Skratch.
I tried to urge on the handful of people that I caught up to and passed in the final three miles, but there weren’t any takers. “Come on, let’s run to the finish.” “Nah. Show off.” But, my legs felt great. They felt strong, unlike my cardio fitness. My ankles were bruised up from the flipping rocks and my hip flexors had been overworked from the lack of solid ground, but otherwise they wanted more.
I felt secure in the fact that I had executed on the plan, at least the one that I could control. My nutrition stayed on point. My hydration could have used a little boost, ut, hey, no terrible cramping!
And even with all of the fear about not belonging and the feeling that the odds were stacked against an east coast, cosmopolitan fella like myself, I crossed the finish line. My 10:41:52 didn’t delight me, but there would be time to figure out what went wrong. For now half dead in the grass cheering others “speeding” into the resort victorious felt right.
We Belong Together: When You DNF’d I Lost a Piece of Me
Once we got back to Connecticut, I still had lingering questions about why The Rut felt so much harder than Breakneck Point. Besides all of the obvious excuses, of course. Yes, running at altitude. Yes, ridiculous terrain. Yes, not a cool enough mustache.
Trust me, I know that not giving up was definitely a success - and there were a lot of minutes dedicated to thinking about dropping out, especially as I sat there at the Swiftcurrent aid station. But, I am human. And I am a human that likes to do well. And I am a human that can do well. And I am a human that likes to dwell. AND I am a human with access to spreadsheets and too much time to play with them at the moment. I needed a nice story to tell myself.
While The Rut was “the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” as I’ve mentioned, there was an earlier race which held the title back in May 2024 - Breakneck Point. Looking at the basics there isn’t much that separates the two. Well, there’s one pretty big difference…
Maybe I’m just justifying my own registration, but looking at the specs, The Rut doesn’t scream “YOU’RE NOT WORTHY!” Hard is hard. And Breakneck Point spewed a ton of rain on us in the second half making it both tough and treacherous. And yet, my pace in Big Sky was 32.1% slower. That doesn’t make me feel very special and that’s important to me as a card-carrying Millennial.
BUT! I finished! Surely that puts me in rarified air in comparison to the field.
Nope. When we look at what I’m going to call “success rate” for the field in both races, there isn’t much disparity in 2024. Each race attracts the same types of capable people doing very difficult things and succeeding, finishing at a comparable clip. This isn’t unlocking any extra warm fuzzies for me.
So where were the rest of “the olds” my Ohioan buddy was talking about? Had we somehow weaseled our way into a young person’s game? The answer: Maybe.
Holy Gen-Z, Batman. Taking a look at the podium divisions: twice as many people aged 20 to 29 category signed up for The Rut and roughly half as many in the 40 to 49 category than Breakneck Point. Just by getting to the finish line I was already defying the odds.
Let’s go one level deeper: ENHANCE!
Those are two very different trends with a very clear deviation point. Participation definitively skews toward youth for The Rut with 60.6% of all registrants being 34 or younger (average age 34.0 years). Breakneck Point shifts toward the olds with 67.2% aged 35 or older (average 39.1).
Ok, so the east coast ultra running community tends to be a couple years older. Does that mean The Rut is actually harder for people tipping into their mid-life crises?
Removing the outliers on both sides of the life experience spectrum, we middle aged folks find The Rut far more challenging. This is making me feel better, except for the fact that I’m in that nasty 40 to 44 group which has the least amount of DNF disparity. I need to figure out a different way to pump myself up.
What about access to mountains? That has to be the key!
Yessssss! Unlike the famous general’s elephant infantry, our mountain journey has hit an impasse. We’re now looking at a minimum 2x increase in DNF rate across the board for people that do not live in a state (territory or European country) with a mountain over 6,000 feet. Finally, the equalizer!
Drilling down into our non-outlier age groups we find that The Rut disproportionately hurts the fogies from flatlands. That blue trend line is nice and clean and… WHAT THE HELL? Again with the 40 to 44 year olds over-performing against the trend?!
Fine. I give. You win, statistical analysis. Actually, maybe that's the win. I ruined the curve just by finishing (plus two more of us flatlanders). I wasn't supposed to, but I did anyway. Just as I told myself on the course, “finishing is enough.” I believed it then. I believe it now (amateur statistics or not).
It might seem like there are mixed emotions. That’s true. I loved running The Rut and I didn’t like it. Liking it would have been a nice cherry on top.
I love this ridiculous hobby. I love it because it makes me feel good: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I love it because of all the people that love it too. I love it because so many people don’t and never will. I love telling people in all seriousness “if I can do it, you can too.” I love it when they roll their eyes and even more if they try.
But I don’t like it when I don’t meet the expectations - ridiculous or not - that I have for myself.
That’s true across all aspects of my life whether it’s as a husband, father, friend, or professional. I love all of those things, but I don’t always like them. What’s a sundae without the cherry on top? Still a sundae.
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