There’s a lot you can’t change in running and in life, but you can change your shorts. At least that's what I told myself when I discovered I had pooped my pants – for the first time ever that I can remember – while running the Crazy Mountain 100, Montana’s only 100 mile ultramarathon and my first 100 mile race. If there’s ever a good day to run 100 miles with 23,000 feet of elevation gain over rugged terrain, the Friday of the race was it: the temperature had dropped despite a statewide heatwave, smoke was minimal though wildfire season was in full swing, and it was a bluebird day in the mountains where afternoon thunderstorms featuring hail are the norm.
This stroke of luck meant nothing to my stomach, which was cramping and making increasingly sinister noises. This was the third year of the Crazy Mountain 100, organized by Montana ultrarunner and rancher Megan DeHaan. The race starts in Wilsall and ends in Lennep after climbing 23,000 feet up, over and through the island mountain range in south-central Montana.
The field is limited to 200 runners. To qualify for the race, runners must have completed one ultramarathon of at least 50 miles with at least 6,500 feet of vertical gain. The top times in this year’s race went to Seth Swanson, of Missoula, in 22 hours, eight minutes, and 45 seconds for the men and Rachel Entrekin, of Los Angeles, in 25 hours, six minutes and 10 seconds for the women.
I kept moving. I wasn’t going to let a tummy ache get in the way of my serious mountain adventure. There were a lot of other things to pay attention to: the abundant wildflowers, the view of Campfire Lake, the merciless climb up 10,748-foot-high Conical Peak.
Though my stomach was sloshing, I was in my flow state: Put one foot in front of the other. Enjoy the view. Stop thinking so much.
Billings Gazette reporter Christina MacIntosh, right, runs above Campfire Lake as she competes in the Crazy Mountain 100 ultramarathon. Running into the aid station at mile 43, I was feeling good. I mean, I was definitely still feeling bad, but I was feeling good about feeling bad, which is what ultrarunning is.
“Given how terrible my stomach felt on that section, I’m surprised I didn’t sh*t myself,” I gleefully exclaimed to my support crew. A trip to the bathroom to change clothes for the night proved that I had been blissfully ignorant of the extent of my digestive distress. You can’t set out to do extreme things and then be shocked when extreme things happen.
Of all the disasters that can occur during a mountain ultra – breaking a bone, pulling a muscle, getting caught in an electrical storm while up high – my misfortune was incredibly lucky. The race clearly wasn't going according to plan, but in some sense it was, because in ultrarunning the only realistic plan is to deal with bad things as they inevitably happen. Packing for an ultramarathon is like prepping for a disaster: chafe balm for when your clothes start rubbing your skin off, bigger shoes for when your feet swell, compression sleeves for knee or calf pain, needles and medical tape for when blisters form on your toes.
I had brought plenty of extra running clothes, for no reason except that you never know. Macintosh's support crew, Catherine Beck and Phoebe Macintosh, display their aid station goods for dealing with a possible ultramarathon catastrophe. Leaving the aid station to climb back over Conical Peak, I had 57 more miles to reflect on whether what had happened was my fault.
Was it caused by the troubling amount of chocolate cake I had eaten the night before, while indulging my sweet tooth under the guise of “carbo-loading?" Or the experimentally high dose of Advil I had been on all day for shin pain that had popped up in the days before the race? Both were cases of too much of a good thing being a bad thing. I never claimed to be an expert at moderation. I was running 100 miles, after all.
By the time I was at the top of Conical Peak I was too tired to care about my role in the mishap. Pooping in your shorts presents a deep, unsolvable mystery, like whether humans have freewill or what happens after we die. I just would never know.
Having hit rock bottom early on, I had the rest of the race to feel better. Tragically, that’s not what happens 50 miles into a 100 mile race. Though I was spared any additional drama, this was about the time the dull, uneventful pain of running long distances set in.
Night fell as I was descending from Conical Peak. I strapped on my headlamp and put on arm warmers. I’d been on my feet for over 15 hours.
My feet were so raw that the seams of my socks felt like they were digging into my flesh. I could feel the hot spots on my toes where blisters would pop up if I didn't intervene. The rocky terrain made sure every step hurt.
After making it over the fourth and final large climb of the race, over 10,115-foot Sunlight Peak, I descended to another aid station. I grabbed a bowl of snacks and found a spot by the campfire. It was 3 a.
m., and I was out in the mountains, eating barbecue chips and donuts while doing high knees to stay warm. In moments like these ultrarunning feels ridiculous rather than self-serious, absurd rather than profound.
By sunrise, I was through with mountains and was onto ranchland. I had made the mistake of assuming this part of the course would be easy, but the terrain was uneven and there was no trail. I was moving slower than I wanted to be.
The relentless unpredictability of the endeavor hit me once again. Despite being several hours ahead of the 36 hour cut-off, finishing on time felt uncertain. Running over ranchland near Lennep in the last 25 miles of the race.
I had stayed in good spirits through pooping my pants, summiting four peaks and running alone through the night, but ultimately it was these rolling hills over ranchland that brought me to tears. It was only after arriving at the final aid station, at mile 93.5, that I felt confident I would finish.
Time flew during the race. I went in ready to run with no end in sight, but it came to an end. I can’t say I was sad to be done running, but it was shocking.
I made it to the finish line at 3 p.m. on Saturday, after beginning at 6 a.
m. on Friday. Those 33 hours were both more painful and more fun than I anticipated.
I entered the race because I was curious – would I be capable of running 100 miles? What would that feel like? Even when everything hurt, I wanted to keep going so I could see what was around the next corner. I can’t think of another activity that so thoroughly mixes the ugly and the sublime – where you encounter gnarly bodily functions, the depths of the human spirit and the most beautiful wild places, all in one go. Running over mountains may seem like it'll bring you glory, but let me tell you from experience: it’s an exercise in humility.
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