A Conflicting Sense of Place at Western States

It was a full week in Olympic Valley for TrailCon and Auburn for the Western States Endurance Run. My first time at these events, but not the first time in these towns. While I approached TrailCon as a work event, I – while donning my media badge – spend Western States mainly crewing my friend and observing from the sidelines. For most Americans Western States is the most important trail event on the global racing calendar. My perspective is shaped and influenced by my previous experiences in Chamonix – I ran OCC in 2024 – and in Cortina running Lavaredo last year. Both are really large and maybe the most important trail events in the Alps (and in UTMB’s case, the world). Western States is historic and it was undoubtably a special experience to witness it firsthand this year. A somewhat rare point to point route, with a reasonable sized entry field for a single race. But it’s hardly comparable to a UTMB event that has thousands of runners and spectators in a mountain town for an entire week. Western States did have more media crew than runners this year. And it famously has an incredible number of volunteers to runners ratio, with lots aid stations to support. To experience how my friend was “taken care of” at check in by folks who have been with the organization for many years is awe-inspiring.

The people who make Western States happen each year are all generous and welcoming. Behind it all is a nonprofit organization run by many volunteers who care deeply about this event and its history. These are folks who are eager to share their stories with every interaction. No wonder those who get a lucky chance to toe the line get hooked and want to come back year after year.

The challenge lies in the reality of the race route itself.

Olympic Valley – the starting point of the race – felt pulsating and alive during TrailCon just a couple days prior, but on Friday the day before the race during runner check-in, the Western States expo had shrunk to a much smaller area and the rest of the “village” (corporate resort, really) feels almost abandoned and shuttered. No one actually lives there year round.

The race starts on Saturday 5am, just around dawn. Runners shuffle to the starting line past dark shop windows, coffee is served nearby out of massive urns. Hoka the title sponsor projects an impressive laser show on the imposing rock face above the village. The gondola stands still due to high winds. As runners nervously gather, the elites with the media teams, take up the space and attention. Someone, Craig Thornley the race director I assume, says a few words I can’t make out over the excited chatter of the spectators who gather along the jeep track leading to the first climb up to the famous escarpment. A gun goes off – this is America after all – and the runners race past me carried by the loud cheers of their friends and family. As fast as this all begins, it’s already over. There’s an impressive amount of experience on display in the efficiency of the setup and tear down. (Less than an hour after the gun goes off the starting line is completely broken down and there’s barely a sign that several hundreds runners, and hundred more spectators had gathered to participate and witness the start of this historic event.)

As the runners quickly disappear into the early morning light I’m left with hours of nothing to do but listen to Corinne and Dylan on the livestream conjuring up another historic day not the Western States trail. Hundreds of cars are all trying to leave in a hurry and clog up the parking lot exit and road towards Truckee. Noticing this I abandon my plan to follow them down the valley and inspired by the excitement of the moment I instead choose to go on a run myself. I want to breathe the fresh mountain air one more time before I ascend to the dusty lower elevations of Foresthill, eventually Auburn, and soon after already back home.

The first half of the race is somewhat challenging to access for a first time spectator. It requires hours of driving, and a good knowledge of dirt road navigation (I should’ve had a guide with me as I was not going to subject my rental car to the narrow mountain roads with potholes). Foresthill, the first place I choose to reconnect with the proceedings of the race is a small commercial strip in a sleepy town that turns into a full blown street fair during the race. Brands, spectators, and – of course – an official aid station brings the area alive and creates an incredible festival for the few hours runners make their pit stop in town. Brands “buy out” the restaurants and coffee shops along the drag and generously offer free food and beverages. I feel incredible welcomed by the hospitality of everyone celebrating the race and its runners battling the miles in the canyons. And yet I end up not engaging with the local community at all. I park, meet up with some of my friends and acquaintances, cheer on the runners I wait for and leave shortly after. What is Foresthill, but an aid station stop along the Western States course, I couldn’t tell you.

Once in Auburn, which I had been last for the Canyons Endurance Runs a few years ago (an event that finishes right in the downtown area, by the way) I make my way to the famous Placer High School and I feel like a pilgrim on hallowed grounds. This is the place everyone keeps talking about, and where history is written year after year. I ran past this athletic field on my previous time in town, but this time I enter the famous tartan track. The sun is slowly setting, the place is buzzing with excitement and the ongoing chatter of the livestream. Dozens of volunteers provide (free, with a donation) food and beverages and I feel taken care of. No need to find a local restaurant to refuel. I am reminded of my kids’ high school events – on steroids (not literally, Western States now provides the most stringent doping controls in the US trail running scene). At the Western States finish line you feel the weight of history and yet it feels familiar and homey. The experience of that famous American “Friday Night Lights” football game, just it’s trail running. When the first runners arrive the place erupts in emotions. And not just the manufactured ones of small town high school pride. But the fact that this race year after year attracts the best runners from around the world who dream of crossing that finish line on this perfect American high school track breaks my brain a bit, but in a good way. This is sort of Christmas in July for sports fans. The small town feel on a high school track every American spends their youth on, but with that big global Super Bowl attention of international runners breaking records year in year out. It truly is a magnificent thing to witness and I understand why every American trail runner so deeply connects with this moment.

Once the top runners etched their name into the Western States history books I say ‘good night’ to my friends and call it a day. I drive back to my hotel and curse that their Wi-Fi has Youtube Live blocked. Shouldn’t they know that on that weekend everyone in the area is glued to the livestream following this event unfold. Maybe I should mention that on the comment card?

My friend is out there somewhere in the canyons, puking up Mountain Dew, abandoning his A goal, but hanging on. I’m glad he’s not having to rely on me to crew him. I brought his luggage down the mountain and have a hotel room and shower ready for him. But he’s self-sufficient and likes to grind these races solo. There’s something special about this. And now that we’re looking at a ‘golden hour’ finish I get to sleep a few more hours in my comfortable hotel bed.

The next morning I drive back to Auburn, stroll over to Robie Point and wait for my friend to emerge from the American River below. We run together to the track and I let him take the “victory lap” by on his own – he deserved it.

Fast forward, he’s showered, buckle in hand, and we’re leaving the track for a final time. Now we’re on the hunt for some celebratory food and drinks in town. Time to refuel and relax a bit before heading back to the airport in Sacramento being homeward bound. As I drive him through town, we’re surprised and somewhat shocked that downtown Auburn feels deserted. Restaurant after restaurant is closed. Yes it’s a Sunday afternoon, but it’s also Western States weekend – North America’s most important trail running event. And we are in the self-appointed ‘Endurance Capitol of the World’. Mind you, that historic track is just an easy walking distance from downtown (Maybe not walkable after you’ve just run 100 miles, but walkable nonetheless). But where is everybody? I wonder. Why doesn’t this massively important event spill out into the streets of the city it has made famous? Yes, Western States doesn’t have a main street finish the way UTMB has their setup in Chamonix by the Paroisse Saint Bernard du Mont-Blanc on the Place du Triangle or for Lavaredo’s finish along the Corso Italia right by the Basilica dei Santi Filippo e Giacomo in Cortina. In these towns every restaurant and hospitably establishment is having their best week of the year. You feel connected to the place you visit. Even North American side on my travels to Kodiak Big Bear felt more alive than this and Whistler, well, Whistler seems to never sleep. In Auburn, the Italian restaurant I had visited back when I ran Canyons is closed. The diner just a couple of blocks beyond that is closed too. No one seems to be walking down the streets just an hour after the conclusion of the awards ceremony.

We finally find a place with a “welcome runners” banner, and while the food is enjoyable and plentiful, the atmosphere feels subdued and calm, not celebratory and fun. We seem to be the only Western States runners/tourists in the place. As we leave Auburn keep wondering why that self appointed ‘endurance capitol of the world’ isn’t able to connect this world class event closer to their city’s community. For someone who loves to travel and experience local culture this feels like a huge bummer. Yes, I experienced community among the friendly faces and people who make this event happen. And yes, finishing on that high school track connects one to a very uniquely American piece of culture, that I all fully recognize. And no, I am not laying the blame on anyone’s feet here – neither the race organization or the city’s. Maybe I’m just observing the differences in my trail running adventures.

And I suppose I do get an answer as to why the Euros when they are coming over to race in California always end up at In-N-Out Burger.