Aftermath: One runner's view of Wasatch Back Relay

Surprisingly, my stomach forgave me. Unfortunately my hips and legs have yet to decide if they are willing to forgive and forget. After 16 miles in less than 24 hours, I guess I can't blame them for yelling at me when I attempt stairs.

This weekend I ran (well the last leg wasn't really what I call running) the Myomed Ragnar Relay Wasatch Back -- a 181-mile, 24-hour race from Logan to Park City -- with 11 awesome women (and two amazing drivers)! The race is run in teams of 12, with each runner running three legs varying from 3-8 miles. Teams split into two vans of six that leapfrog throughout the course, meeting at every sixth exchange.

Runners are a gnarly bunch of people. They are willing to put themselves through pain and hills, through sweat and tears, through blisters and maybe some blood.

Nothing proves this more than the Wasatch Back. This year 563 teams "ran, drove, slept?" through the mountainous course finishing in anywhere from 17 hours and 19 minutes (the stacked BYU men's team) to 36 hours and 20 minutes (a women's corporate team).

Our team, Strider's WSU-Women Strong and Unforgettable, started the race at 3 p.m. on Friday. Teams started throughout the day at Merlin Olsen Park, as early as 7:40 a.m. through as late as 5 p.m. in order to keep the finish times in a manageable time frame. The variety of teams, and the reasons they run, were evident on their decked-out vans and expressive team names.

While our Van 1 was busy winding up Avon Pass with a 1,210-foot elevation gain for one runner in the heat of the day, we (Van 2) arrived at the Exchange 6 at the Liberty Town Park to check out the competition. As a bunch of alumni Weber State cross country and track women, we spoke jokingly about our chances of winning.

We carefully eyed the teams we suspected might be a threat. We saw SLTC Curves With a Kick, the women's team that won it last year, a team that also had a former WSU runner on it. We also eyed the Davis High School girls cross country team with wariness. They looked chipper -- and young.

We all ran into at least three people we had known from former running events, high school, or college. It was a strange, excited reunion in the middle of a quiet town in the mountains.

"What are you doing here?" "What team are you on?" "When did you start?" "Wow! This is crazy, huh?"

We watched as a purple-fuzzy-skirted Davis girl handed off to her teammate and then we waited, our watches ticking, for Tori Cox, our last runner who had just descended 1,396 feet in 6.9 miles.

As the dusty sun settled, there she was, just 15 minutes back from Davis and 12 behind Curves. We cheered loudly as Tori came in and passed off to Sharlyn Geddes, our next runner, then we ran back to our purple bedecked Yukon to drive to the next exchange.

That was how it went all night and into the next morning -- run, cheer, pile in the van (or other large vehicle), and maybe eat a little. Sleep was scarce, and only happened almost accidentally. Some teams had a little more time between exchanges and had elaborate camping arrangements, with grills, outdoor showers and more. At major exchanges, we showered at teammates' houses and grabbed rolls and energy bars to eat before driving to the next exchange.

The race goes back and forth -- Davis and us. A few words of encouragement and some trash talk at each exchange and we're off. These high school girls are tenacious -- and amazing.

With 3,423 feet of climbing up Wasatch Mountain State Park into Deer Valley, the prospect of catching Davis is grim, but possible.

Until my leg. The unbearable heat, the three-four days a week of training, only one hour of sleep, and probably my bad eating habits all weigh heavily on my legs. When I pass off the slappy bracelet they have an 8- to 10-minute lead on us.

The final climb before the descent into Park City is called Ragnar, the namesake of the racing series. It climbs 1,678 feet with a 7.9 percent grade. Ragnar, the race bible notes, is a mythological figure known for his great courage and strength.

Forget Ragnar, this hill should be called "Janae" after our runner, who attacks the hill as if she is not surviving on less than an hour sleep and minimal food.

When we crest the top, we try to capture a picture of the huge ascent we've just made. The camera doesn't do it justice, only our legs can tell how far we've really come.

In the end, less than four minutes separate us and Davis. Age and wisdom takes a blow from youth. We smile at their purple skirts and are amazed at their energy. Next year. Next year.