From Wyoming, With Love: The 50k Ultramarathon That Made Me Barf On Denver

We were somewhere between Mile High Stadium and Taco Bell No. 6 when the Chalupa began to take hold.

I said something to the other runners like, “You guys go-waugh without me,” and ducked into a 7-Eleven bathroom. The toilet paper roll there looked like it had already been in a blender with some Jell-O.  

I left the gas station, head down, esophagus surging, and started mile 15.

Over the prior 14 miles I had been to five Taco Bells and eaten at four, including two soft tacos, one Chalupa Supreme, and one bag of Cinnamon Twists.

Cowboy State Daily sent me to Denver on assignment Saturday to The Loco Strikes Back Taco Bell 50K ultramarathon.

Bib No. 307

So far, I had spent CSD’s money on coconut water, tacos, burritos, Chalupas, Cinnamon Twists, an Uber, and a room in a hotel that used to be the first Playboy Club in Denver.

But I’m a professional journalist, after all, so I had to get through the big city to 447 S. Broadway by start time. That’s a Taco Bell with a drive-thru archway that looks like a portal straight into Mario Kart.

I arrived 10 minutes before the 7:30 a.m. start time, walked to the check-in table, and asked which number I was supposed to write on my bib.

“Doesn’t matter,” said a woman. “You can write your name, you nickname, your favorite number or gordita suprema machina amiga.”

I grabbed a Sharpie and named myself “307” on my bib, then took my place in the start line next to “Chalupa Baby” and “Chunks.”

“He said we can EAT!” yelled a woman so heroic, she was wearing white shorts.

I wolfed down a spicy potato taco. I was actually hungry.

More than 1,000 runners streamed through the archway.

You Puke, You’re Out

The rules were:

• Visit 11 Taco Bells within the 31-mile loop and eat a menu item at 10. Drinks don’t count. 

• Consume a Chalupa Supreme or Crunchwrap Supreme by Taco Bell No. 4, and either a Burrito Supreme or Nachos Bell Grande by No. 8.

• Runners are encouraged to buy at least some of their meals the night before and pack them for the race to prevent backlogs.

• If you vomit, you’re disqualified. The did-not-finish (DNF) rate for this race is 60%.

The Book

Mile 1: I felt amazing. The soft taco had been just enough to fuel me.

Mile 2: Roving communities formed. I remembered that runners are nonjudgmental: bubbly on the outside, tortured on the inside.

It’s as if, having borne so much pain, they hesitate to inflict it on others.

Mile 3: The second Taco Bell. That’s where I ate Cinnamon Twists as the apricot sunrise evaporated.

Mile 4: Our first real uphill. Some runners forced themselves to walk. I still felt well, so I ran — but that would later be my undoing. Other people know the art of digestion.

Mile 5: A friend. He looked about late 40s and had a nice practical gait and a surfer-dude dialect. The others saw his feet and whooped, “Vibram guy!” because he was wearing those five-toe Vibram shoes.

He pointed at my running sandals and whooped, “Sandals lady!”

So, we wannabe barefooters ran together for a mile.

How long had I been running in sandals? Three years.

How long had he been in Vibrams?

“Ever since that Book came out.”

This needed no explanation. We know all about The Book: Christopher McDougall’s “Born to Run” — a triumph in both long-form journalism and distance running.  

The message is simple: keep running, and look after each other.

The Phantom Trots

Mile 6: Hills. A tiny lady in a yellow vest roared "TACO BELL," and there it was. I ate another soft taco.

Miles 7-9: Striking views, a lake. I visited a few bathrooms, but I only had the phantom trots and I didn’t actually have to go. We ran to Empower Field at Mile High and partway around it, which must be exactly why they put it there.  

Mile 10, maybe: Taco Bell No. 4. I ate the Chalupa Supreme.

It went down fine. I took off running. 

This race gave me a view of Denver I’ve never had. We dipped under bridges, shuffled through a plaza, stomped over a wooden bridge, played chicken with bicyclists. 

The city I always associated with flashy arcades and professional sports actually teems with dark and quaint charms. 

No Freaking Way

Mile 11: The Chalupa barked, but I burped it off.

Miles 12, 13, 14: This is a blur. I slowed to a walk at times. I took my “mulligan” to skip eating at Taco Bell No. 5 because, to be honest, there was no freaking way.

Mile 15: Used the 7-Eleven bathroom. Found another bathroom. Then another. Darted into an alley and threw up.

I was disqualified.

I wondered why I was in Denver with these crazy, beautiful people. Why don’t they worship comfort like so many normal Americans? Why do they invite pain, even ridicule, onto themselves?

I vomited again, and we’re not talking a little spit-up.   

No, this was everything-must-go, Jesus-take-the-wheel, someone-get-my-Mama-here-so-she-can-say-poor-baby barf.

From Wyoming, With Love

Then again, I wondered, maybe that’s the point. 

Maybe these runners invite ridicule onto themselves the same way they beckon pain: so they’re more hesitant to dish it out. So the true joys of life can have a grisly conduit into the soul.

And I threw up again.

I considered blaming my editor and husband for talking me into this assignment, but then I thought maybe that was their plan: leave bits of Wyoming all over Denver.

From Wyoming, with love.

I stood to run. After all, I still had to cover the race on its own terms. But forward motion was impossible: my guts plumed with every step.

Later, when I collected myself and backtracked into an indie bookshop to drown my sorrows in a peppermint tea, the barista encouraged me to try rock climbing.

“Nah,” I said between morose, rancid burps. “I’m a runner.”

Clair McFarland can be reached at clair@cowboystatedaily.com.