Happy Trails

I’ve been waiting a long time to run the Vermont 100. This is true in a narrow sense: I registered in late 2019 but rolled my entry over twice due to Covid cancellations in 2020 and 2021. But I also grew up in Vermont, and have wanted to do this race since I started running ultras a decade ago. It would be a good opportunity to do a race while visiting my mom, who still lives in Brattleboro, and to see an unfamiliar corner of my home state on foot. So, after two years of waiting, I was glad to hear the race would resume this year.

Vermont is a venerable race by ultra standards: over thirty years old, and one of five potential legs of the Grand Slam. It’s also unusual in that most of the course is on dirt roads rather than trails. These are not the fire roads most Californian runners know, but rather the hard-packed dirt roads Vermonters still live along and use to get around. (It’s a rural state.) Most of the off-road sections are on private land, and the race director, Amy Rusiecki, is clearly at pains to maintain the local landowners’ goodwill. Among other things, this means there is no course map or GPX that would enable runners to explore the course beforehand. In that spirit, I also won’t post my GPS track, but it’s probably fine to reveal that the course starts and finishes in a large meadow on Silver Hill Road in West Windsor and traverses an area bounded by Windsor in the east, Cavendish in the southwest, and Pomfret in the north. There’s a short stretch of road — maybe a quarter-mile — that you run twice, in opposite directions, but otherwise the course has no backtracking or repetition.

The course has a modest 17,000′ of elevation gain, and while there are a few sustained climbs, it’s mostly rolling. A few hills are steep or technical enough to mandate hiking, but on the whole, it’s very runnable. That’s both a blessing and a curse: while runnable courses are fast, all that running is hard on the legs.

One other interesting feature of Vermont is that it’s also a horse race. The horses run the same course as the runners but start an hour behind. The fastest runners never see the horses, but most will be passed by at least some equestrians during the race. During the pre-race briefing, Amy mentioned that runners in the 18 to 22 hour range — where I expected to be — would interact with horses through most of the race.

I flew in on July 5, as I wanted to spend some time in Brattleboro before the race. I spent the next ten days doing short, easy runs from my mom’s place, swimming in the nearby West River, getting to know mom’s new cat Lola, and otherwise just relaxing. The time passed quickly, but I felt well rested by the time the race arrived.

Megan arrived on July 14: she’d agreed to crew a few aid stations and pace me the last 30 miles. The plan was straightforward: I’d head up to Silver Hill on Friday (July 15) to check in and hopefully sleep a few hours at a nearby Airbnb. Megan and mom would follow on Saturday and would meet me at the Camp 10 Bear aid station (mile 47), Margaritaville (mile 59), and Camp 10 Bear again (mile 70). Megan would pace me from there, while mom would head back to the Airbnb. Hopefully I’d finish in time to sleep a bit afterwards and catch the post-race breakfast on Sunday.

I arrived at Silver Hill meadow on Friday afternoon. It was quite a scene, with two large tents — one for check-in business and one for meals — and a large area where runners could camp. I picked up my bib and swag, left my pacer’s bib and crew vehicle tag in a “Will Call” box, and grabbed some pre-race dinner to go. This race, for those who care about such things, is very vegan-friendly. This is true of both the aid stations and the meals, where the two vegan options — sweet potato salad and quinoa salad — were both outstanding (with a little additional salt and pepper). I headed to my Airbnb, which was only a few miles away as the crow flies, but about a 30-minute drive on windy dirt roads.

Sleeping before this race was always going to be a challenge. The race starts at 4:00am; we were required to check in (again) no later than 3:45; my Airbnb was a half-hour drive from the start, and I’d have to walk 5-10 minutes after parking. I planned to leave the Airbnb by 3:00am, and since I don’t wake up quickly, I set my alarm for 1:45 — about an hour later than I usually go to sleep. If previous experience was any guide, I’d probably wake up before then, so the best-case scenario was maybe two hours of sleep. Surprisingly, I felt pretty relaxed about this. I’d slept well the whole previous week, so I figured I’d be ok whatever happened the night before. And the start was so early that I figured sleep deprivation was par for the course. After my experience at Bighorn, I swore off edible marijuana the night before races, but I did smoke a lot to make myself sleepy, sitting in the back yard watching the fireflies and the stars. I ended up sleeping about two hours, which proved to be fine. In fact, I was amazed how much better I felt than I had at Bighorn: apparently it helps to not be drowning in THC (smoke leaves your system a lot faster than edibles). It also helped that Megan made me a playlist for the race. I couldn’t listen to it during the race, as headphones were not allowed, but it got me going beforehand, especially Metallica’s Master of Puppets (the list had a Stranger Things theme).

I made it to the start without incident, and at 4:00am we were off. The early miles passed in a blur: it was dark, and the first few miles were on a trail through the woods, so I mostly watched the ground to avoid tripping. I also watched my pace. After Bighorn, I decided I needed to run more intentionally: there’s nothing wrong with running by feel, but there’s something to be said for having a target pace. I aimed to maintain 11:00-minute miles for as long as possible, which translates into a finish time of 18:20. I didn’t think that was realistic, but I did think an 11-minute pace was gentle enough that I would slow gradually rather than catastrophically later on. Realistically, my “A” goal was 12-minute miles overall, which would get me to the finish in 20 hours.

The first five miles were mostly downhill, so I was under target pace. That seemed fine given the downhill, and in any case I didn’t wholly trust my watch. My GPS didn’t lock on until mile 4, and my watch typically overestimates distance (and pace) until the GPS locks on. By that time, it had gotten light, so I got my first views of the course. By now we’d exited the forest trail and were running on dirt road. Nothing particularly noteworthy here, but it was a nice morning, and I was glad to see the sun rise.

I noticed early on that this race was more social than most. The wide dirt road made it possible for multiple runners to run abreast, and I chatted with several people over the next few miles, including a fellow Californian from Thousand Oaks. I found, as is usually the case, that my pace was more variable than most: I’d fall behind others on the uphills and then fly by them on the downhills. Some of those downhills were pretty long and steep, and I wondered if I was killing my quads by taking them too fast. But so far, everything felt fine.

At some point the dirt road became paved, and we entered the town of Taftsville. We turned right onto Route 4, then immediately left through a covered bridge over the Ottauquechee River. After another left turn, we continued along the river for about a mile before heading uphill again. Not long afterwards, maybe 20 miles in, I was passed by the first horses.

Since I had a crew, I used only one drop bag, at the Pretty House aid station (mile 21). I reached Pretty House at 7:55, averaging 11:04 per mile. That matched my watch pretty closely, so it seemed my watch was accurate so far. I grabbed the contents of my drop bag — two smoothie flasks and an apple turnover — and hastened on my way. The road leaving Pretty House was, well, pretty, with nice views of the surrounding hills. I ate the apple turnover on my way out and decided it was a good call: the pastry was a little dry, but the apple filling was perfect.

I reached the Stage Road aid station (mile 30.5) at 9:50, averaging 11:28 per mile. My watch was off by now, saying I’d gone 31.1 miles at an average pace of 11:15 per mile. A 0.6 mile discrepancy over 30 miles didn’t seem too bad, considering my GPS didn’t lock on until mile 4. Hopefully it wouldn’t get worse. I quickly refilled my flasks with Gatorade and moved on.

Leaving Stage Road, the course went up a steep trail through the woods. Here I passed a rider — Keri (I think?) from Philadelphia and her horse Boy — that I’d see off and on for the rest of the race. She’d done this race multiple times and was clearly a fan. She mentioned that the number of entrants was down this year due to the high cost of travel, which explained why there were only 264 runners at the start instead of the usual 450 or so. I pulled ahead of them on the uphill, but they quickly passed me again once the trail leveled out. That sums up the human-versus-horse dynamic: we move better up hills and on technical trails, but the horses beat us on the runnable flats.

A few miles later we passed an unmanned aid station — some water jugs and coolers filled with ice — and I decided it was time for the ice bandana Megan had loaned me. This is basically just a bandana with a large pocket: you fill it with ice and tie it around your neck. This supposedly keeps your core temperature down, or at least makes you feel cooler. It seemed like a good idea, as today was supposed to be in the mid-80s, with 75 percent humidity. I scooped ice out of the cooler, filled the bandana, and tied it around my neck. A few seconds later, I desperately wanted to take it off, as the ice was painfully cold. But that was the point, after all, so I gritted my teeth and kept going. My neck soon got comfortably numb.

We ascended a trail through the woods, and I chatted with another runner for the next couple miles. Mostly about running stuff: pacing (he was hoping for sub-24), poles (he’d gotten permission to use them here, after dark), and other races (he liked Leadville but criticized the lack of qualifying requirements). His watch was four miles ahead of mine, so I wasn’t the only one with GPS problems. We laughed every time his watch told him he’d clicked off another 5:30 mile. My own watch was doing weird things, too: the laps were out of sync with the cumulative mileage, so, for example, it would announce my time for mile 37 when the watch said I’d only run 36.5.

As the miles passed, I realized this race inverted my usual preferences. I generally love single-track trail but am not wild about fire roads, much less real roads. Here, the opposite was true. The roads were a scenic mix of picturesque farms, meadows and hills, and dry stone walls crisscrossing the land. In contrast, the occasional trails were unremarkable green tunnels through the woods. I did like the rough grassy paths cut through hilltop meadows, which, being out in the open, offered some of the course’s better views. But these meadows swarmed with hungry mosquitoes and flies, so I didn’t stop to take a lot of pics.

At some aid station — I don’t know which — I stopped to refill my ice bandana and found that it had developed a large hole. When the volunteer poured ice into the pocket, it just spilled out the other end. I tied a knot in that end, which closed the hole but made the now-shortened bandana hard to tie around my neck. After some fumbling, I managed to tie it in a way that seemed secure. For good measure, I also took out my hat and filled it with ice.

All this ice seemed to be doing its job: I felt comfortably cool. The day actually seemed cooler and drier than the forecast, but it’s possible I just felt that way because my head and neck were encased in ice. In any case, I was glad to have it. My only complaint was that my shirt and shorts were soaking wet from melting ice. The liner in my shorts had become useless — it wasn’t holding anything in place — because it had gotten so stretched from being constantly wet. This seemed like a fair price for staying cool, however, so I didn’t give it much thought. I considered changing clothes when I first saw my crew, but decided I’d wait until Megan started pacing me, when I’d hopefully be done with the ice.

I thought about how different this race felt from Bighorn one month ago. Overall, I felt much better: I wasn’t stoned or hung over, and it wasn’t brutally hot. On the other hand, my legs felt a lot more tired. Bighorn involved a lot of hiking, but here I’d been running more or less constantly since 4:00am. I’d be fine for some miles, but I wondered how my legs would feel 80 or 90 miles in. I was pleased to finish Bighorn with legs not screaming in pain, but I didn’t know if that reflected my conditioning or the not-very-runnable course. If nothing else, I’d have the answer to that question by tonight, as this was the most runnable course I’d done since Rio Del Lago.

I was looking forward to seeing Megan and mom at Camp 10 Bear #1 (mile 47). It would be nice to get another set of smoothies, as well as other food I’d left with them. But more importantly, it would be nice to reach the “crewed” portion of my race, with the moral support that entails. I’d get a longer-than-usual break at Camp 10 Bear, after which I’d just have to tough out another 11 miles before seeing them at Margaritaville, followed by another 11 miles to Camp 10 Bear #2 — after which I’d have a pacer. Breaking it down that way, the rest of the race didn’t seem that hard. I just had to reach Camp 10 Bear.

After a rather long stretch on Route 106, we hopped onto a wooded single-track that eventually spit us out onto Jenne Road — the last stretch before Camp 10 Bear. My watch error had clearly grown, as it told me I’d reached the aid station a mile ago. Still, we had to be close. We approached the Jenne Farm, reportedly the most-photographed farm in the world. Having seen half a dozen very similar farms in the last nine hours, I suspected this was less because it’s exceptional than because it’s somehow ideal-typical. Still, it’s a nice farm.

The course was becoming more crowded. We’d now merged with the 100k runners, for whom Camp 10 Bear was the first aid station. From here on out, I’d see more runners than before, but the majority would be in the 100k. Someone next to me asked “Is that a Moab hat?” I replied that no, it was from Canyons 100k. The runner, a young woman named Kris, was someone I’d been going back and forth with for maybe the last 15 miles. We were going about the same pace, so we ran together to Camp 10 Bear. She struck me as unusual in at least two ways: first for being young (ultrarunners skew older), and second for pacing even more conservatively than me (she didn’t catch me until mile 30-something). The combination of being young and pacing conservatively is especially rare — it takes time to learn one’s limits — though probably less so among women than men (women are known to pace themselves better). I later learned that she’s a pretty serious athlete who’s not only doing this year’s Grand Slam but is also a world-champion obstacle racer. In any case, she looked strong almost 50 miles in.

We reached Camp 10 Bear at 1:36, averaging 12:09/mile for the race so far. I was fine with that: it put me close to 20-hour pace, although I doubted I’d run the next 53 miles as fast. By now, my watch was way off, telling me I’d run 50 miles at an 11:34/mile pace. That was kind of disconcerting: the watch had added 0.6 miles in the first 30 miles, and another two in the last 17. Not only was the discrepancy increasing, but it was doing so at an accelerating rate.

I found Megan and mom by the side of the road, along with the other crews. It was a relief to see them, and to sit down. “Can I stop now?” I asked them. I felt ok, but my legs were tired. Megan told me not to worry about that; we can push through such things. I swapped out my flasks while Megan got me some Gatorade packets, GUs, and another apple turnover, and mom prepared an avocado wrap: half an avocado on a sweet-potato tortilla with a lot of salt. I took a big swig of homemade sports drink I’d made from pineapple juice, sugar, salt and ginger. Not bad.

I ate the wrap while Megan and I walked away from the aid station. It was amazing, the best thing I’d eaten all day. I told Megan I liked the course, but “It’s a lot of running.” A spectator overheard me and laughed: of course a 100-mile race involves lots of running? True, but some more than others. I told Megan I’d see her at Margaritaville and continued on.

Shortly after leaving Camp 10 Bear, we hit a long, steep trail through the woods. I’m not sure how long it went on, but it seemed interminable and racked up a lot of elevation gain. This was the most hiking I’d done all day. Somewhere along this stretch, my watch hit mile 52.5, which — after subtracting 2.5 miles — I called the halfway point. My time now was 10:20, so I was still on sub-21 hour pace. I still held out hope for that goal, but a lot would depend on how the course evolved. Like, how long would this hill go on?

We eventually crested the hill and got back onto roads. At some point Keri and Boy caught up with me again, and we chatted a bit until Boy picked up the pace. I tried to get a picture of them, but I had trouble unlocking my phone — as I had all day — because the fingerprint sensor was wet from melting ice. By the time I unlocked it, I just got this:

There was a lot of back-and-forth in this stretch. Kris and a few others passed me; they’d disappear into the distance; I’d catch up with them; they’d disappear again. This went on for miles. But eventually I saw a large meadow on my left and knew I was close to Margaritaville. I’d been here the day before, as my Airbnb was only a quarter-mile from the aid station.

Approaching Margaritaville, I saw Megan and mom on my left. I handed my pack to them and told them what I wanted, then went to use a porta-pottie. I wasn’t desperate to use one, but we’d been instructed not to relieve ourselves on private land, so I figured I’d use it while I could. Returning to the aid station, I got my pack from Megan and another avocado wrap from mom. Megan said they were going to hang out at the Airbnb. I was glad they had that option, which would probably be a welcome break from sitting at aid stations all day.

As I walked off eating my wrap, I was reminded how small the ultrarunning world is. “You’re a long way from home!” a spectating couple said to me. I responded that I grew up in Brattleboro but now lived in California, wondering how they knew where “home” was to me. They said they lived in Reno and had seen me around the circuit. I didn’t recognize them, but I’m guessing they’d seen me at Castle Peak, which is close to Reno. In any case, I found it strangely comforting to bump into someone from “home.”

Kris caught up with me shortly after leaving Margaritaville, and we plodded up the hill. Shortly thereafter, we encountered a group of equestrians. The views here were lovely, so I stopped to take a pic.

We made good time for the next few miles, continuing up South Reading Road and then down Grasshopper Lane. After the previous stretch, which included a lot of uphill, it was nice to be cruising along downhills and flats. We quickly reached the Puckerbrush aid station, where I think Kris stopped and I didn’t. In any case, I didn’t see her again until after the race.

As I ran, I found myself thinking about my light belt: the one indispensable thing in the hands of my crew. I’d meant to get it from Megan at Margaritaville, on the off chance they missed me at Camp 10 Bear #2. Oh well: they’d been to Camp 10 Bear already, so there was no reason anything should go wrong. Nothing I could do about it now, anyway, so I put the thought out of my mind.

After some miles on the road, we turned onto a trail through the woods. I would have been happy for the change except that it felt a lot more humid among the trees, and certainly more buggy. Before long I found myself hoping we’d hit road again soon. At some point I noticed a faint chafing sensation in my groin area, so I reached down to investigate and OWWWWW!!!!!! Wow, that hurt. I’d developed my first-ever case of, um, ball chafing. Before the race, I’d applied vaseline to all the areas I might normally chafe, and those spots were doing fine. But apparently running all day in soaking wet and stretched-out shorts had caused chafing in places I hadn’t thought to treat. Megan later said that ice bandanas have been known to cause chafing problems, but that was wisdom for another day. For now, I wasn’t doing too bad as long as I left that area alone, but the chafing worried me. A lot can happen in 30-something miles.

My legs were now sore enough that running downhill was hard, so I took an ibuprofen. I also took two caffeinated GUs. Caffeine and ibuprofen are a miracle combination that always give me a new lease on life, and they delivered for me now. By the time we hit the road again, I was running comfortably and fast. I reflected on the inconsistencies in our drug-testing regime. Were I someone who got tested, I’d be banned from every race because of the cannabinoids I always use to fall asleep. Yet these drugs are, in my experience, probably performance detractors.* Meanwhile, I’m free to take as much caffeine and ibuprofen as I want, even though these clearly enhance performance. I’m not saying anyone should ban coffee or NSAIDs, but a little more consistency, based on actual performance research, would be nice. As it stands, anti-doping authorities seem to have a dual mission: policing performance enhancement, on the one hand, and enforcing national drug laws, on the other. So you end up with unfortunate cases like Sha’Carri Richardson being suspended for using marijuana after her mother died.

*Except insofar as they help you sleep, but no one bans sleep aids like Ambien. I’ve heard people argue that cannabinoids can reduce pain and inflammation, but ibuprofen they ain’t.

I bombed down a long gentle hill, feeling good. Ahead of me I saw a guy with bib 185 on his back, who I’d run with early in the race but hadn’t seen in many hours. I flew by, and ten minutes later reached Camp 10 Bear. I gave my number to the aid station volunteers and looked for Megan and mom, but couldn’t see them anywhere. Where were they? I circled the aid station but couldn’t find them. This was bad: they had my light belt, and I couldn’t continue without it. I asked the volunteers if crews might set up anywhere else, but they said all crews should be here. Someone suggested that maybe they went to the mile 47 crew location, about 100 yards down the road? I ran to where mom and Megan had been earlier but found no one, and ran back.

I walked around feeling helpless and uttered a couple of F-bombs. A volunteer asked if I was ok, and I explained that I was stuck here without my light. I cursed myself for not grabbing it at Margaritaville: if I had, I’d have continued on my own. As things stood, my only option was to wait and hope they showed up soon. I texted Megan “Where are you???”, but there was no cell service here.

I needed a plan. First, find some lubricant to deal with the chafing. I quickly secured a tube of vaseline and applied that liberally. Next, see if anyone has a spare light lying around. This seemed like a long shot, but I had to try. As I was explaining my predicament to a volunteer, I spied Megan and mom down the road, coming from the area I’d run to ten minutes earlier. I ran to them, visibly agitated. They’d dallied too long at the Airbnb and hadn’t expected me to arrive here this soon: the Margaritaville-to-Camp 10 Bear stretch was faster than Camp 10 Bear-to-Margaritaville. But, whatever: they were here. I grabbed my spare shorts from Megan and ran to the porta-pottie to change while she swapped out my flasks. I changed my shirt quickly, pinned my bib to the new shirt, and we were off.

How much time did I lose? I arrived at Camp 10 Bear at 6:40 and left at 7:00, so I was there 20 minutes. I’d been getting in and out of aid stations quickly all day — and left about five minutes after Megan and mom arrived — so I’d guess the delay cost me around 12 minutes. Not the end of the world, and in any case I was glad just to be moving again. The worst part of the whole episode was not knowing how long I’d have to wait.

We moved quickly at first, as I felt some urgency to make up for lost time. But I soon relaxed, realizing we still had 30 miles to go. We hit a long single-track uphill and hiked, while Megan explained the aid-station mishap and I talked about my race so far. I was glad to be with Megan, and glad it was still light. She’d flown from California just to pace me, so I wanted her to see at least some of the course. I’d hoped to reach this point an hour earlier, but we still had two hours before it got dark.

Reaching a road, we continued uphill and caught up with runner 185, who’d passed me while I was at Camp 10 Bear. I greeted him, saying “Haven’t seen you since this morning!” He responded that I was looking good, and I started to say “You too!” but hesitated because…well, he didn’t. I know what it’s like to break down, and that’s how he looked. Maybe I should have said it anyway, but it felt transparently insincere, so I just wished him a good race and moved on. He ultimately DNF-ed, dropping at mile 88.

Megan and I were making good time, enjoying the evening light. She’s paced me at previous 100Ms, and this was certainly the best experience so far. I’m usually in so much pain by this point that I can’t do much except swear and make guttural noises. Today felt more like a training run; we were running and talking easily. I wondered how long this could go on. Right now I couldn’t imagine feeling awful, but experience told me I would before the end.

We stopped briefly at the Spirit of 76 aid station (mile 76), where a volunteer from Oregon said she recognized Megan from some race. Mt. Hood? Waldo? Bigfoot? Who knows: there are lots of races out there. We continued on and, seeing that the trail went into the woods, finally donned our light belts. There was still some light in the sky, but it was fading fast.

Once the sun set, it was really dark. No streetlights, no moon, nothing but the light from our belts. I turned mine off briefly to admire the sky, which was clear and full of stars, before deciding that running in total darkness wasn’t a great idea. We were still maintaining a good pace, passing lots of runners (mostly 100k), and I occasionally had to remind myself there were still miles to go. I’d taken two more caffeinated GUs a while back, which helped a lot, but I hoped those would be my last. It sounds silly, but I was already thinking about post-race sleep and didn’t want to overdo the caffeine.

The next couple aid stations are jumbled in my mind. We hit one at mile 83.2 — they had a sign announcing this — which, according to the aid station chart, should have been Cow Shed. It probably was, but then I’m not sure what to make of another aid station that was actually in a cow shed. Oh well: it didn’t really matter, since there was nothing to do but keep running. I checked my watch mileage at the 83.2-mile station, and it said 90.3: now seven miles ahead.

The vaseline and new shorts at Camp 10 Bear had helped a lot, but my chafing was getting bad again. We passed an unmanned aid station with a tube of vaseline, so I re-applied. I also drank a lot of Coke, since I’d started to feel sleepy since the sun went down.

I reached Bill’s aid station (mile 88) still feeling good. I really needed solid food at this point — I hadn’t had any since the avocado wrap 30 miles ago — but I didn’t think I could handle anything dry or chewy. Fortunately, they had a big bowl of cooked ramen noodles, which you could mix with either veggie or chicken broth. I gulped down several cups of ramen and veggie broth, which seemed about the best thing I’d ever eaten. I liked the vibe here: it was well-lit and cheery, and someone was playing a guitar. As I refilled my flasks, I regaled a volunteer with my chafing woes. Maybe TMI, but she seemed amused.

Shortly after leaving Bill’s, as we crossed a meadow in the dark, the moon came up, red from the humid air. It was a striking sight, but not one my phone’s auto settings could catch.

After leaving the meadow, we headed up a long, steep hill. And then, everything changed. Up to that point, I’d been feeling good: a little tired from running 90 miles, but nowhere near collapse. Now I suddenly felt really, really bad. My legs were still doing ok, but I was tired and had, almost in an instant, lost the will to keep going. I still can’t explain the sudden change. Maybe sleep deprivation had just kicked in, or the caffeine was wearing off. More caffeine would probably have helped, but I thought we were fairly close to finishing and didn’t want to take more. And I was having other problems: the chafing was getting worse, and the itchy rash that had been flaring up sporadically since Bighorn had returned, irritating my leg. I struggled on to the next aid station.

My watch said I’d run 102.5 miles. Guessing it was 7-8 miles ahead, I thought I had maybe five miles to go. So when a volunteer told me I had another 7.5 miles, it hit me like a gut punch. She qualified her statement, saying their aid station (Keating’s) had been moved some way along the course, but I was now inconsolable. My reaction says a lot about the power of expectations. Objectively, I was still doing pretty well: I typically feel this bad by mile 80 or so. But I’d gotten it into my head that I had only five miles left, so adding 2.5 — a 50 percent increase!! — really threw me. Heading up a single-track hill, I told Megan I couldn’t run any more and trudged slowly along.

My trek through the woods was an orgy of whining and self-pity, but we soon reached a sign saying it was only 0.4 miles to Polly’s, the final aid station. At Polly’s they said we had 5.5 miles to go, and this put some wind back in my sails. I thought the Keating’s volunteer must have been wrong, since it seemed a very short hop from Keating’s to Polly’s. But according to my splits, that hop took me 33 minutes, so it probably was two miles. In any case, I was feeling a bit better now. It probably helped that I’d drunk a ton of Coke at Keating’s, and took another caffeinated GU. But knowing that I was really and truly in the home stretch helped even more.

I was now able to run again, albeit slowly. A few miles from the end, Keri and Boy passed me for the final time. The horses have to stop for medical checks every 20 miles, leading to a lot of back-and-forth. Keri said she’d see us at the finish and vanished up the hill.

Keri had told me earlier that this race has a fast downhill finish. I wasn’t seeing it so far: in fact, we found ourselves climbing a long single-track through the woods. The course was marked with glow sticks, and we could see them high above, letting us know we’d be climbing for a while yet. But eventually we reached the top and began running downhill. A sign told us we had one mile to go, then half a mile. The course was now marked by glow sticks immersed in gallon jugs of water, giving it an eerie Halloween-ish feel. That last half-mile seemed pretty long, and I joked that in ten minutes, we’d see a sign telling us we had a quarter-mile to go. But at last the finish came into view, and we were done, in 22:11.

Amy was at the finish line congratulating each runner as they came in. She gave me my belt buckle and custom shorts, and I thanked her for a great event. I moved past the finish line and hugged Megan, thanking her for helping me through. Those last miles were hard, and while I would have finished on my own, I might well have walked the last 7.5 without Megan pushing me along. But I was even more grateful for her sharing the earlier daylight miles, which made them so much more fun.

We made our way to the tent to get some food. I saw Kris there and stared dumbly: I was a bit disoriented but also wasn’t sure if it was her. (It’s funny how you can run next to someone for miles without ever really seeing their face.) I also couldn’t figure out when she’d passed me, until I realized she must have done so during my hiatus at Camp 10 Bear. In any case, she said she’d had a strong finish. She’d crossed the line 17 minutes ahead of me in 21:54, good enough for 5th place.

We drove back to the Airbnb, which took a while after a couple of missed turns. It was after 3:00am by the time we got back, and by then I’d started to shiver. When your cooling system has been going full blast for hours, sometimes it keeps going, and you get cold. I took a hot shower, which helped temporarily (but was hell on the chafing), but soon returned to shivering uncontrollably. I wrapped myself in warm blankets, which helped, and eventually got to sleep.

Was I happy with my race? Absolutely: this was one of my few goal races for the year, and it went as well as I could have hoped. I was well-trained and well-rested going in; I felt good almost throughout; I handled the heat and fueling well. I missed my “A” goal, but in retrospect 20 hours was unrealistic, and I can’t think of anything that would have gotten me there. Despite starting faster than usual, I maintained my pace reasonably well, moving from 70th place at Pretty House to 43rd at Camp 10 Bear #2 to 27th at the finish (out of 264 starters). The only thing that could have gone better was, obviously, the delay at Camp 10 Bear #2. I’m pretty sure I’d have broken 22 hours without it, both because 12 less minutes would have put me under and because, if I’d been that close, I would have had more motivation to push it at the end. But really, what’s the difference between 21:59 and 22:11? (Short answer: a whopping two places.) I wouldn’t have traded my pacer and crew for those 12 minutes, and every race needs some drama and a good story. I’m even glad I finally felt shitty at the end, as I wouldn’t have missed that peculiar pleasure of pushing through the pain and despair.

I was also happy my legs held up well: it seems I can run a runnable 100M without breaking down. My six long races earlier this year no doubt helped. That said, this race was hard on my legs and feet. They’re always puffy with inflammation after long races, but this time was particularly severe. My feet looked awful three days later, but were back to normal within a week.

As for the race itself: Two thumbs up. I won’t say everyone should do it: if you really hate running, as opposed to scrambling over single-track passes, this race is probably not for you. But even as someone who prefers single-track, I thought it was worth doing. It’s a different kind of race, showcasing not the wilderness but the unique ways Vermonters have tamed it. You wouldn’t want every race to be like this, but since most are not, it’s something new. I was impressed by the race organization: the course was incredibly well-marked (as you’d hope in a race without a map or GPX), and the aid stations were well-staffed and well-stocked for (I think) all dietary tastes. And the race had a great vibe. It’s been running for so long that it’s a local institution, and many locals turn out to support it: kids cheering you on or offering candy, homeowners spraying you with a garden hose.

Some races stay with you long after you’re done. After Bigfoot 73, both Megan and I felt like we were swimming in images for days afterward, still out there in the Mt. St. Helens wilderness. For me, Vermont was like that: days later, I was still mentally there. This is partly because the stress and intensity of long races heighten your emotional experience, making everything more vivid. There’s a reason some former addicts treat ultrarunning as their new drug. But this doesn’t always happen, and it happened here mostly because I love Vermont. I’ve always seen my childhood home as an oasis where time passes slowly, if at all, and if this sounds like nostalgia, it’s also a physical reality. Between 1900 and 2020, California’s population grew more than 2500 percent, from less than 1.5 million to almost 40 million. Over the same timespan, Vermont’s population grew only 87 percent, from 344,000 to 642,000. In an alarmingly short time, I’ve seen California (which I also love) ravaged by drought and wildfires and blighted by badly managed growth. Meanwhile, Vermont feels much the same as it did decades ago, and decades before that, except the general stores now sell kombucha and quinoa salad. Many locals would no doubt disagree, but that’s how it seems to me. Don’t get me wrong: the world needs its Californias. But I find refuge in its Vermonts, and I’m sure I’ll be running here again.

The Bighorn 100M had never been on my radar, but when Megan suggested we do it, I immediately agreed. I mean, why not? I had no other plans for mid-June, and a long run in Wyoming’s Bighorn Mountains sounded fun. I didn’t know anything about the race, except that it’s famous for its mud. That’s not a plus for me, but it couldn’t hurt to try something new.

The race follows an out-and-back course that starts a few miles west of Dayton, arcs northwest to an inflection point at Sally’s Footbridge, then turns sharply southwest and climbs to the turnaround at the Jaws aid station (mile 48). You then retrace your steps to the start and continue another five miles to Dayton’s Scott Bicentennial Park.

Half of the course’s 20,500′ of elevation gain is packed into a few sustained climbs: about 4,000′ in the first 7.5 miles (most of that after mile 4), a more gradual 4,000′ between miles 30 and 47, and a steep 2,200′ between miles 66 and 70. The altitude ranges from just over 4,000′ at the start/finish to just under 9,000′ at the turnaround. There’s mud in various places, but the worst of it is concentrated in the few miles before and after the turnaround.

Before the race, a friend advised me that trekking poles were “100% mandatory” because of the mud. I’ve never loved poles, but in this case that sounded like good advice, so I spent late May and early June practicing with my Black Diamond Carbon Z’s. I warmed to them pretty quickly: they gave me a boost going up and cushioned the impact coming down. I also got a Salomon quiver to hold the poles when I didn’t need them, which I figured would be much of the time.

The only other advice I got on this race was “Take care of your feet.” Another friend had had a bad race here because the constant slogging through mud and water had left his feet waterlogged and chewed up. I packed an extra pair of shoes and socks for my drop bag at mile 66.

On Tuesday, June 14 we flew into Denver — which, though a six-hour drive from the race, allowed us to drop Megan’s mom off at a friend’s in Loveland. After spending Tuesday night there, we drove the remaining five hours to our Airbnb in Sheridan. This place, located on an alpaca farm, was one of the nicest Airbnb’s I’ve stayed in — and I’ve stayed in some pretty nice ones. The lodging itself was great, but what really stood out were the sweeping views of the Bighorn mountains and the animals: three dogs to greet you whenever you stepped outside, alpacas and horses to feed and pet, and well-loved free-ranging hens to provide as many guilt-free eggs as you want. This video of Megan’s nicely captures the vibe (watch to the end, which is pretty entertaining):

On Thursday I got up, made myself some coffee, and went outside. Our host Cristine was already doing some farm work, so I chatted with her for a while, then went back inside and made myself another cup. I generally have two cups of coffee in the morning, but — being a lifelong insomniac — I’ve recently tried to make it as weak as possible, particularly the day before a race when I hope to get to bed early. In this case I couldn’t regulate the strength, as our place only had a Keurig coffee machine, and I used Starbucks pods. I probably should have noticed that the Starbucks coffee was waaaaay stronger than my usual, but I was on autopilot and drank my usual two cups without thinking about it.

A couple of hours later, I noticed that my back was really tense and sore. Weird, but I chalked it up to pre-race nerves. I spent some time foam rolling my back to try to work out the tension. Megan and I spent the day leisurely doing pre-race stuff: preparing food and drinks, organizing our drop bags, foam rolling, etc. After an early dinner, we headed to Sheridan to check in, leave our drop bags, and go to the pre-race briefing. It was around then that I realized I felt….wired. Like, really nervy and alert. Only then did it occur to me that I’d consumed way too much caffeine that morning, probably two or three times my usual. That explained both the tension in my back and my jittery mental state.

Well, shit. That was inexplicably stupid, given that I’m usually careful about these things. I think the whole farm atmosphere was so relaxing that I’d forgotten my usual pre-race concerns. In any case, I’d just have to hope my usual solution worked — the usual solution being to knock myself out with edible marijuana. Most nights, I take one capsule that contains 10mg THC / 10mg CBD. If I’m particularly concerned about getting sleep, I’ll take two capsules. If I have to get to sleep much earlier than usual, as I usually do before a race, I’ll take three. Bighorn has a late (9:00am) start, so I didn’t have to get to bed that early, but I decided to play it safe and downed three capsules at the pre-race briefing. Megan drove us back, and we watched a couple episodes of Stranger Things before heading to bed.

Unfortunately, going to bed did not make me sleepy: I still felt wired. When 10pm rolled around and I still felt wide awake, I decided to take a fourth capsule. I’d never taken four of these before, so this was a gamble, but the alternative was probably lying awake all night. For good measure, I decided to just keep drinking beer until I felt tired enough to fall asleep. By midnight, I’d chased my 40mg THC with five beers. That finally knocked me out, and I managed to get 5-6 hours of sleep.

When I got up the next morning, I was messed up. A bit hung over from the beers, but also in a thick THC fog. I stumbled around getting ready. As I was putting on my shoes, I looked down at them and exclaimed “Oh my god!!!” Megan, alarmed, asked me what was wrong, and I said never mind. For some reason, I thought I’d brought the wrong shoes — a pair of Inov-8’s I’d decided against — and panicked, thinking I’d have to run 100 miles in the wrong shoes. That kind of sums up my mental state.

My back felt itchy, and when I looked in the mirror, I found it covered with ugly red hives. I have a hyperactive immune system and have occasionally broken out in hives due to stress. I didn’t feel especially stressed about the race, but my THC-induced mental state had apparently triggered something. (Footnote: as I write this two weeks later, I’m still sporadically breaking out in itchy red rashes. Whatever I set off that day is taking some time to settle down.)

I was clearly not fit to drive, so Megan drove us to the start. The drive was beautiful — a windy dirt road through the foothills — but also terrifying for me. Every time we went into a turn, I clutched the seat, thinking we were going too fast and would fly off the road. Megan, for the record, is not an aggressive driver, so this was clearly the THC talking.

We arrived safely at Scott Park, where we’d catch a bus to the start. While it may seem odd to take a shuttle for five easy miles — aren’t we supposed to be runners? — this was the only way to finish at Scott Park and still cap the race at 100 miles. I applauded this decision, knowing from experience that I tend to resent every mile beyond 100. Besides, the road from Scott Park to the start wasn’t exactly Bighorn’s trademark “Wild and Scenic.”

We reached the Tongue River Canyon around 8:30. It already felt hot. Our race date coincided with a record-setting heat wave sweeping the American west, and the Bighorn mountains seemed to be at the epicenter, as measured by temperature anomalies:

The forecast predicted a daytime high of 99F on race day. On the plus side, the heat would dry up some of the mud, but on the downside, that’s pretty damn hot.

I was still having trouble functioning like a normal human being. Megan seemed amused by my condition and said “I think you better stick with me.” I replied that I wasn’t sure I could.

At 9:00am we were off. The race begins on a flat fire road through the canyon, flanked by picturesque rock formations. I was a bit conflicted about how to start: I always like to start slow, to get a good warmup, but I knew that in just over a mile, we’d be funneled onto a long uphill single-track where passing would be difficult. There was case for getting ahead of the pack to avoid this bottleneck, but I felt so out of it that I decided to just go slow. We’d be out here for 100 miles, so there’d be plenty of time to speed up later on.

We quickly reached the single-track and began to climb. And climb. And climb. That first uphill was long and steep, but I was wrong when I said passing would be difficult: with dozens of bumper-to-bumper runners in front of me, it was impossible. Oh well: I was ok with the pace for now, which was so slow that my heart rate probably averaged around 90, and I was able to trundle along in a half-awake dream state. I knew Megan was further ahead in the pack, pulling away from me, but I hoped I’d catch her somewhere down the road.

The steepest part of the climb lasted about four miles, rising almost 3,000′ over that stretch. The climbing per se wasn’t strenuous, due to the slow pace, but it was really hot. It was also really humid, something I don’t handle well: I’m used to having my sweat evaporate instantly rather than dripping down my face. I was glad when we crested that first climb, especially since the higher altitude brought a nice cool breeze. We took a steep downhill to the Upper Sheep Creek aid station, where I stopped briefly to fill a flask and put some crushed ice in my hat. It was almost painfully cold, but nice to have ice water dripping down my face and neck. We then climbed gradually to the Dry Fork aid station at mile 13.5.

I’d pulled out my poles at the start of the climb and had used them continuously since, digging in and pushing on the uphills and trying to cushion my descents. They seemed to help, although — given how much work my arms could realistically do — I suspect I was also getting some kind of placebo effect. Regardless, I was glad to have them: it was nice to feel like my legs weren’t doing all the work.

I reached Dry Fork at 12:26 — twenty minutes behind Megan, though I didn’t know it at the time. As soon as I arrived at the tent, a volunteer handed me my drop bag. Whatever else one might say about this race, it has some of the best-organized aid stations I’ve ever seen. At Dry Fork, volunteers with walkie-talkies let the aid station know who’s on the way, so they have your drop bag waiting for you when you arrive. I fished out my flasks filled with orange/pineapple/banana and orange/peach/mango juice, and liberally re-applied sunscreen. I couldn’t see my face, but given how my arms looked — solid white — I assumed my face looked cadaverous as well. A volunteer said “Well, you won’t be getting burned out there!”

Unexpectedly, I also refilled my hydration pack bladder. Given that I also had flasks, I’d expected the bladder to last until Sally’s Footbridge at mile 30, but it was already dry. Maybe I was drinking a lot, but I also suspect that, because I’d stuffed the pack with gear before filling the bladder, the latter couldn’t expand to fill. In any case, I was concerned about water because, after three and a half hours of running, I still felt no need to pee. It’s hard to overstate how weird this is for me. I usually drink a lot of fluids in the morning and start the day overhydrated, so I’ll typically stop and pee at least three times in the first two hours of a morning run. Today, nothing. Maybe it was the heat, but I also worried that last night’s beers had left me dehydrated, and I’d failed to compensate. I couldn’t change that now, but resolved to hydrate as much as possible in the coming miles.

Leaving Dry Fork, I actually felt pretty good. The THC fog was starting to recede; I was waking up; and we still had a refreshing breeze. It also helped that the first few miles after Dry Fork were an easy, runnable downhill. I stowed my poles in my quiver and clicked off some easy miles. The only downside to this stretch was that it got hotter as we descended: the wind disappeared completely, and the temperature rose by what seemed like 20 degrees in the space of just a few strides. This was fine for now, but as the race went on, I often wondered how this section would feel on my return. The thought of climbing this hill in the next day’s heat, 80 miles in, kind of scared me.

The next 12 miles were gently rolling and pretty. We passed through some beautiful meadows filled with wildflowers, mostly lupine and mule’s ears. It was around here that my running “cohort” began to form: people I’d see again and again for the rest of the race. For the most part, we weren’t running together: we just maintained similar enough paces that we’d pass each other repeatedly for the next 80 miles. There were two guys in matching Hawaiian shirts, one guy in Hawaiian shorts (who, it turned out, is actually from Hawaii), one guy in orange and red, and one guy in gray. I never learned any of their names and creatively referred to them as Hawaiian Shirts, Hawaiian Shorts, Orange and Red, and Gray.

After this rolling stretch, we began the steep descent to Sally’s Footbridge. Parts of this descent were dry, with good footing; parts were very muddy; all of it was steep: almost 2,000′ in three miles. I used my poles as much as possible to spare my legs. We were mostly in the woods, so there wasn’t much to see, but we did get some nice views down to the Little Bighorn River, which we would soon follow for many miles.

Reaching the Little Bighorn, we crossed Sally’s Footbridge and reached the eponymous aid station. I got my drop bag and pulled out two more juice flasks, but otherwise felt unsure what to take. My stomach is usually well-behaved during long races, but the heat was definitely causing some distress. I’d recently tried to eat an Aussie Bite, and trying to swallow something that dry almost made me throw up: I had to fill my mouth with water to choke it down. My usual go-to foods — dates and boiled potatoes — were going down ok but had no appeal. Basically, I got a little queasy at the thought of eating anything solid. I was glad to have the juice flasks, as well as several Gatorade packets to refill my flasks, but this wouldn’t be enough to get me through the race. Staring into my drop bag, I decided to take some potatoes, dates and Gatorade, but left the Aussie bites.

I’d also stashed some warm clothes — a long-sleeved shirt and gloves — as we’d been repeatedly warned that the temperature could drop into the 30s at night at the higher altitudes. Standing there in 90-something degree heat, however, it didn’t occur to me to take them. I put some more ice in my hat, swigged a cup of ginger ale, and moved on.

A few hundred yards of fire road ended at a single-track trail that paralleled the Little Bighorn. We’d follow this river more or less closely for the next dozen miles. The trail was rolling, but the net uphill was almost imperceptibly gradual: about 4,000′ over the next 18 miles.

Perhaps a mile after Sally’s Footbridge, I realized I hadn’t seen a course marker since…well, Sally’s Footbridge. That’s a long time without a confidence marker, and it started to worry me. I didn’t recall any intersections — certainly nothing marked — but I still found it disconcerting to go so long without a marker. Was I running farther and farther off course? How long should I keep going without seeing a ribbon? Another mile? Two? This is ordinarily where I’d pull out my phone and consult the course GPX. But for whatever reason, Bighorn doesn’t provide a GPX file, and I hadn’t taken the time to make one myself. I stopped running several times, continued forward, then finally decided to turn back. I retraced my steps for maybe a quarter-mile before I encountered a Hawaiian Shirt. “Are we on course?” I asked. “There’s nowhere else to go,” he replied. That wasn’t super reassuring, but I turned around again and continued forward.

After another half-mile, we encountered two more runners coming back in our direction. They had the same concern as me, saying they’d been a quarter-mile ahead but still hadn’t seen any ribbons. Orange and Red felt we should keep going, but the other runner continued back toward Sally’s. Gray said he’d done this race two years ago and was sure we were on course, as there was no other route up the Little Bighorn. That was good enough for the rest of us, and we forged ahead.

Two miles after Sally’s, we descended a rocky section of trail and were greeted by…a race photographer. Hooray! We all let out a cheer, relieved to finally know we were on course.

With the weight of uncertainty lifted, the running became easier. I don’t remember the next five miles that well: more rolling trail through river canyon. At one point Orange and Red asked for my advice on using poles: he was using them for the first time, and since I was, in his words, “clearly a pole master,” he wanted my two cents. I told him that was funny, since I was also a first-timer and couldn’t say much. Still, I was feeling pretty comfortable with the poles and was already having a hard time imagining life without them. The only downside was that I was starting to develop blisters on my hands, and I wondered how bad those would get.

After crossing the first of several rudimentary log bridges, the trail opened up again into some nice wildflower meadows. It was well into evening by now, and some storm clouds had begun to form. I didn’t especially want to get drenched, but I was happy it was cooling off.

These were good miles. I wasn’t moving fast, but I didn’t care. I kept telling myself “I’m just going to enjoy this.” My only well-defined goal going in was to keep my legs feeling good the whole race, and so far they were. This didn’t feel like a race so much as a leisurely and somewhat dreamy amble through the wilderness. My only real nemesis during these miles was an earworm. Megan had played the Encanto soundtrack on our drive to Sheridan, and for some reason the title track had gotten stuck in my head. It’s not a bad song, but also not one you want to hear over and over again for hours. I wished I’d brought headphones and some music, just to kill the earworm. Without them, I’d just have to wait for it to die of natural causes.

At mile 40 we hit the Spring Marsh aid station. This was my favorite of the race, not because of the fare (although that was fine) but because of its picturesque setting in an alpine meadow with sweeping 270-degree views. The tents, which could be seen from some distance, had an oasis-like feel. I refilled my flasks with Gatorade, ate a few banana chunks, and moved on.

More meadows, more woods, more log bridges. It started raining several times, and I nearly put on my jacket, but held off, as it still seemed too warm. Fortunately, the rain never lasted long. Still, the trail got muddier and muddier as we ascended, and I gave up on trying to keep my feet dry: I was splashing through mud puddles every few steps.

As I approached a large rock, Hawaiian Shorts suddenly emerged, holding a bag of toilet paper and proclaiming that he felt ten pounds lighter. I hadn’t seen him since he’d passed me ten miles earlier, and he did seem energized by his pit stop. We ran together for a while until we suddenly saw the lead runner, Shane Rominger, speeding toward us on his return from Jaws. I looked at my watch, which had just recorded mile 42. Holy crap! The Jaws turnaround was still six miles away, which meant that Rominger was at mile 54 exactly 11 hours in: just over 20-hour pace. That’s not in course record territory, but it seemed impressive given today’s heat. I later learned that Rominger paid a price for his fast early pace: he eventually crashed and had to lie down beside the trail for an hour and a half, still winning by 28 minutes.

Hawaiian Shorts was nipping at my heels, so I stepped aside and let him pass. He gradually disappeared from sight. Not long after, I arrived at the Elk Camp aid station (mile 43.5), a small outpost in the woods. I asked if they had veggie broth, and when they said no, I asked if they had hot water, which I could mix with miso soup powder I’d brought. They said yes, but then I realized I hadn’t grabbed the miso back at Sally’s and wouldn’t get another chance until the turnaround at Jaws. We made a date to make miso soup on my return. I asked if they had potato chips — I was clearly craving salt — but they said no, and suggested I try some Saltines.

A good friend of mine relies heavily on Saltines late in his races, so I figured this was worth a try. Having now tried this, I can’t understand what he sees in them. As soon as I started chewing one, it turned into a dry paste that sucked all the moisture out of my mouth. I couldn’t swallow it without water to wash it down. After struggling through one more, I vowed never to eat a Saltine again.

As we ascended, we encountered more and more snow. I couldn’t decide what was worse: postholing in the snow or wading ankle-deep through the mud. Equally slow, I guess. By now it was dark, so I’d taken out my headlamp and put on my jacket. My memory of this part is fuzzy, maybe because there wasn’t much to remember: snow, mud, fallen trees to climb over, all at a glacial pace. I encountered more and more people coming in the opposite direction, which suggested I was nearing the turnaround. I exchanged greetings with some inbound runners, then heard Megan’s voice: “Yuch?” She was on her way home. She wasn’t in the best of spirits, saying her legs felt really bad. We talked for a minute, and I said I’d love to run with her, but she was now three miles ahead of me and catching up would be hard. We went our separate ways.

Not long thereafter, the trail spit us out onto a fire road, after which a mile of easy jogging brought us to Jaws. This was a big mental milestone: not quite halfway, but the beginning of the return trip and the end of a really long climb. I was looking forward to some downhill. First, however, I went to the aid station tent and retrieved my drop bag. I picked up my last two juice flasks, a few more potatoes, the miso soup packets, a warm PrimaLoft jacket, and my light belt and batteries. I left the rain pants and warm hat I’d stowed there: no way I was going to need those.

I spent 15 minutes there refilling my bladder, drinking some miso soup, and eavesdropping on conversations. I heard one runner tell a medic he hadn’t peed in eight hours: yikes. Another said he’d had trouble keeping food down, and a volunteer said many people had similar symptoms due to the heat.

I grabbed two cheese quesadillas on my way out and ate them as I walked away. I wasn’t having trouble keeping food down, but getting it down was another matter, and I desperately wanted to eat something solid. I wasn’t in danger of bonking — I’d put down a lot of liquid calories — but it’s possible to be well-fueled and hungry at the same time. My stomach felt gnawing and empty. In retrospect, I should have been eating more bananas, which always went down well. But my mental gears had been grinding slowly all day, and I kept figuring out what I’d wanted at the last aid station five minutes after leaving it. I choked down the quesadillas and started running again.

The first few miles after Jaws were much the same inbound as outbound: snowy, muddy and slow. As I trudged through the muck, I heard Hawaiian Shorts behind me: he said he’d downed some caffeine and gotten a second wind. I mumbled something about holding off on caffeine for now, as we weren’t even half done, and I didn’t want to caffeinate myself for the next 14 hours. But as I watched him pass me and bound ahead, I wondered if I was making the right call.

As the snow got sparser and the trail got drier, the running got easier. We were now going gently downhill; it was cool; and I felt better than I had all day. I’d hit muddy patches from time to time — and at one point slid down a hill in my search for firmer ground — but otherwise I was making good time. I felt optimistic about catching up to Megan, thinking my fastest miles were ahead. Less promisingly, it got warmer as we descended, and I soon had to stop and take off my jacket, as well as my headlamp, which was giving me a headache (and wasn’t adding much to the light belt anyway). So much for those freezing temperatures: I was running in shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of the night while still above 7,500′.

My watch died around this time. The battery should last 30 hours in Ultra-Trac mode, so I was surprised to get a low battery warning after only 14.5 hours. Apparently I’d switched out of Ultra-Trac mode at some point and forgotten to switch back. Oh well: I wasn’t paying much attention to my pace anyway, and the miles would pass with or without a watch. I turned the GPS off.

Returning to Elk Camp at mile 52.5, I asked for hot water to make miso soup, but they had none. They did have lentil soup, so I sipped some of that. A volunteer told me I was making good time. I wasn’t sure I agreed, but I said “I feel good — that’s what’s important.” I thanked them and moved on. A few minutes later, I regretted not eating more lentil soup. I’d wanted broth and drank only enough soup to satisfy my craving for salt, but this was real food that went down easily, and I felt stupid for not having more. This is one reason people have pacers: to act as your brain when your own becomes dull and slow.

The next 3.5 miles to Spring Marsh continued to be runnable, and I made good time. At some point I heard someone greet me from behind: one of the Hawaiian Shirts. We ran together for a while, and I asked if he knew how far it was to the next aid station. He said he thought it was close, and as we crested the next hill, we saw it below us in the distance, glowing with strings of lights. I wish I’d taken a picture, as it looked kind of magical, but documenting the moment wasn’t top of mind.

Spring Marsh had both veggie ramen and veggie broth. I drank some of the latter, refilled my flasks with Gatorade, and moved on. Almost immediately after leaving, I regretted not eating any ramen, which sounded really good. Once again, my brain was five minutes behind where it needed to be.

A mile or so later, the trail crossed a small creek. I stepped on what seemed to be a solid-ish chunk of dirt and grass, only to find it less than solid: my foot shot out from under me, and I fell backwards into the creek. No harm done: just wet and muddy all over. I picked myself up and moved on.

Something happened to me around this time. I got really tired: not I’ve-been-running-too-long tired, but I-really-just-want-to-close-my-eyes-and-sleep tired. My body still felt surprisingly good, but I was losing the mental game. I started thinking about the miles still to go, which seemed increasingly long. I toyed with the idea of quitting — what was the point of those last miles, anyway? — but knew I’d regret dropping out while still able to run. My lack of clear goals didn’t help me here: I’d told myself I just wanted to enjoy the race, but now that I wasn’t, I felt kind of adrift.

Worst of all, once we returned to the canyons, it got warm. Not warm enough to be a problem, but enough to make me think — repeatedly — about what the next day would be like. I thought again about the long hill from Dry Fork and how hot it had been the previous day. The thought of doing that climb in tomorrow’s heat was oppressive. I was violating a cardinal rule of ultrarunning: stay in the moment and don’t think about the miles ahead. But fatigue and heat had me wallowing in negative thoughts. Several people passed me during this time.

In my last hundred-miler, I’d started taking caffeine around midnight, which helped a lot. It was now 3:00am, and I still hadn’t taken any. I’d left my caffeinated GUs in the Sally’s and Dry Fork drop bags, thinking I should hold off until late in the race, but those weren’t my only options: the aid stations had Coke and other caffeinated drinks. Why didn’t I avail myself of this? In part, I was too stupid and sleep-deprived to realize there was an available remedy for sleep deprivation. But I also felt a need to detox from the previous day’s substance abuse before putting more junk in my system.

At the Cathedral Rock aid station (mile 62.5), I asked for hot water, hoping to make miso soup. They didn’t have any on hand, but a child volunteer said he’d boil some for me. I didn’t really want to wait around for water to boil, but…whatever. I didn’t care much about time any more. I refilled my bladder, made and drank some miso soup, surveyed the snack options, found none of them appealing, and continued on.

The next 3.5 miles to Sally’s Footbridge are a blur in retrospect, but they seemed long at the time. I don’t remember anything particularly bad, or particularly good: just running slowly through the dark. I passed a few runners and was passed by more. Finally, Sally’s Footbridge came into view.

I retrieved my drop bag and sat down. Gray was sitting next to me. He said that Orange and Red had dropped out: the mud and water had been too much for his feet. A volunteer said lots of runners had been dropping out due to trench foot. My feet were doing fine, but I still changed into the dry shoes and socks I’d left in my drop bag. I put my wet shoes into the bag along with my warm jacket — which I clearly wasn’t going to need — and retrieved the caffeinated GUs I’d left there. This wasn’t a complicated set of tasks, but somehow it took me a long time. I spent minutes staring stupidly at my drop bag, wondering what to do. I felt like I was moving underwater. I decided to use the porta-pottie and took my time there. By the time I left Sally’s, I’d been there a full 40 minutes. That’s not such a long time if you need to lie down and recover from some serious physical ailment. It is a long time to putz around aimlessly because you feel you have nothing better to do.

It was almost 5:00am when I left Sally’s, and starting to get light. I turned off my light belt shortly thereafter. The climb from Sally’s was as described on the outbound journey: partly dry, partly muddy, all steep. But harder going uphill. Still, it almost felt good to put in a hard effort, as opposed to the monotonous droning I’d been doing for hours. At least the exertion helped wake me up. I took two caffeinated GUs on my way to the Bear Camp aid station (mile 69.5), which also helped. I wasn’t wild about these GUs: they had only 20mg of caffeine each, or one-fifth of an average cup of coffee. But maybe it was just as well that I’d have to eat a lot of them to get my caffeine fix.

I stopped briefly at Bear Camp, drinking some veggie broth and eating some watermelon. There was a bit more climbing after that, followed by a long, rolling stretch. With the sunrise and some caffeine in my system, I was starting to enjoy myself again. The wildflowers I’d noticed earlier looked even prettier in the morning light.

One other thing lifted my spirits: although the sun was rising, it was actually cooling down! This was partly because we’d left the heat-trapping canyons, but also because a lot of cloud cover was keeping things cool. The dread I’d nursed last night turned out to be not just pointless but also groundless. I felt silly for causing myself so much angst about nothing, but was glad to be proven wrong.

I took two more GUs enroute to the Cow Camp aid station (mile 76.5), where I swigged a cup of Coke. The caffeine was starting to kick in, and I was feeling much better. I wouldn’t say I was energetic, but I had no trouble running the parts I considered runnable. This included most of the six-mile stretch to Dry Fork, which I ran with a Canadian named Todd. I was grateful for the company, as talking helped pass the time, and we pushed each other along. It didn’t seem long before we saw Dry Fork on the ridge ahead.

Interestingly, there were a lot of runners moving along that ridge. Bighorn is a trail festival, with 52M, 32M and 18M races alongside the 100M. As we approached Dry Fork, the 18M runners were just heading out, forming a long column we had to cross. We darted through them to the aid station tent, where I was greeted by Hawaiian Shorts, who I hadn’t seen in over 11 hours. I grabbed my drop bag and sat down.

While I was filling my flasks with Gatorade powder, a volunteer told me my girlfriend had recently been through. I asked how long ago, and he said about an hour. That turned out to be wrong — according to the aid station data, it was more like an hour and a half — but it was just as well the volunteer got this wrong, as the shorter estimate gave me some motivation. I was feeling pretty good, and I thought it was just possible to make up an hour over the remaining 18 miles. Worth a try, anyway. The volunteer filled my flasks with water; I wished Todd and Hawaiian Shorts a good race and was on my way.

By mile 80 of a 100M — and usually well before that — my legs are typically screaming in pain, and I have trouble managing even the slowest of jogs. Today was different. My legs were tired but free of pain, so I could run as fast as my remaining energy allowed. I can’t say I sprinted away from the aid station, but I did manage to jog the uphill fire road and accelerated once I hit the downhill single-track. A column of 18M runners stretched before me as far as the eye could see. This was also a new experience: passing dozens of young, clean, fresh-looking runners at the end of a 100M. You might think the 18M runners — who at this point had run maybe two miles — would be moving faster than those finishing a 100M. But most of these runners were novices, and I was hitting the back of the pack first, so they were moving pretty slowly. Constantly passing on a single-track was kind of a pain, but it also kept my mind occupied. I really enjoyed stabilizing myself with poles on this winding downhill stretch, feeling almost like I was skiing. Only when the vegetation got too thick did I pick up and carry them.

I hammered it pretty hard to the Upper Sheep Creek aid station (mile 87.5), at which point the course turned abruptly and steeply uphill. I dug in with my poles and hiked as fast as I could, mentioning to someone along the way that I’d thought we were done with uphills. He said this was the last big one, followed by a few miles of tough downhill. I replied that I was fine with downhills.

That was true until it wasn’t. The first mile or so of downhill was on a fire road, where I could stride out and pass people easily. Then we got funneled onto a single-track, where the passing became harder, but I was still having fun. I recognized the fields of lupine from the previous morning and stopped to take a last pic.

After a while, however, this downhill indeed got tough. It went on, steeply and technically, mile after mile. It would have been physically stressful even if I’d been running by myself, but navigating the trail amidst the 18M runners made it more challenging still: lots of braking and accelerating. I worried that, after preserving my legs for 90 miles, I was going to trash them on this last downhill. So I was relieved when the descent finally ended at Lower Sheep Creek.

I asked a volunteer how far it was to the finish. “11 miles.” What?? How could that be? Had I really only traveled 6.5 miles since Dry Fork? I’d thought I was further along, but since I only knew the mileage for the drop-bag aid stations, I took the volunteer’s information on faith. Feeling demoralized, I jogged away from the aid station at a much reduced pace. I’d worked really hard to cover those alleged 6.5 miles and needed to regroup.

The 2.5 miles to the next aid station were an easy, rolling trail through the Tongue River Canyon. Although we’d come through here on our way out, the views in the return direction were more impressive — probably the most striking of the whole race. I gave up on pushing hard and took some time to admire them.

At the Tongue River Road aid station, a kindly volunteer sprayed me with cold water. I refilled a flask for the last time and asked what the course looked like from here. A volunteer told me it was an easy five miles of dirt road. “And then what?” I asked. “Then you’re done,” he said. Whew! I’d been misled at the last aid station, where I’d actually had only 7.5 miles to go. That’s a weird mistake for a volunteer to make, but oh well. Feeling relieved, I picked up the pace.

Those last five miles were hard. Partly because long flat roads are monotonous, but also because, down here at 4,000′, it was once again really hot. The sun was out in full and the humid air felt thick. I forced myself to keep running, poling myself along. The poles weren’t doing much, but I’d gotten so used to them that I kept them out: I’d used my quiver for maybe five miles of the whole race. We passed a final — I think unofficial — aid station that was handing out popsicles. I would have liked one, but my hands were full with the poles, so I said no thanks. “1.7 miles to go!” they said. That was encouraging, so I dug deep and pushed on. Before long the dirt turned to pavement, and after a few turns, I ran through the finishing chute in 28:49 and was done.

I wandered around looking for Megan — who had finished 49 minutes earlier in 28:00 — feeling hot and disoriented. Finally I saw her walking toward me, visibly limping. Apparently that last downhill had been hard on one of her ankles: ironically, the good one she hadn’t sprained six months ago. I lay down in the grass, hoping to rest at last, but it was so hot and muggy that lying there felt intolerable. Megan suggested we move into the shade, which seemed like a good plan until I noticed the Tongue River flowing by the park. I walked over and immersed my legs in the cold water, rinsing off the mud. I splashed water on my arms and neck, then plunged my head into the water. That helped; I now felt cool enough to rest. We got some food and drink at the post-race BBQ, picked up our drop bags, and drove back to our Airbnb. I did the driving this time, seemingly in better shape than the previous morning, although still meandering a bit from fatigue. We both crashed pretty hard back at the farm, although I’d make one more drive that day, to pick up a pizza in Sheridan.

The next morning we both felt pretty good. Our legs seemed fine, although Megan was worried about her ankle, which had swelled noticeably. That was interesting: she hadn’t rolled it, but that last downhill clearly gave it a beating. My own feet had started to get puffy from inflammation, as they always do after long races. I went outside to drink my coffee and was greeted by the dogs, two of which jumped onto the bench beside me.

We cleaned up the place and wandered down to see the alpacas, who’d been rounded up for shearing. We’d hoped to see them get sheared, but the shearer was running late, so we just said our goodbyes.

Was I happy with my race? It was a mixed bag for me. On the one hand, I was slower than I’d hoped. I think I was in good shape going in, so this probably reflected other factors: the heat, being hung over, a lack of clear motivating goals, and so on. It did seem to be a tough year for everyone, with a slowest-ever average finishing time of 31 hours and a DNF (Did Not Finish) rate of 44 percent (134 finishers out of 241 starters). On the other hand, I was thrilled that my legs felt good at the end. I haven’t done many 100Ms, but my legs have always hurt by mile 80, and I generally spend those last 20 miles afraid that I’m causing permanent damage. I’m not sure why this time was different. Maybe my spring races — two 100Ks and three 50Ms in February, March and April — left my legs more resilient. Or maybe it just helped to go slow: this was my first 100M with lots of hiking, and almost four hours slower than my previous personal worst. I’ll get another “test” in two weeks, when I run the Vermont 100. Vermont is a famously runnable course, so I should know by the end which of these factors mattered most.

Whatever the reason, I was glad to finish strong. I gained 46 minutes on Megan in the last 18 miles: not enough to close the gap, but not bad. My last leg compared well with the rest of my cohort, too: I ran the last 18 miles 92 minutes faster than Hawaiian Shorts, 23 minutes faster than Gray, 27 minutes faster than Todd, and faster than both Hawaiian Shirts (though both finished ahead of me). These are somewhat arbitrary comparisons, but it seems I’d left a lot in the tank, maybe too much.

I’m still figuring 100Ms out, but these are my main take-aways:

1. Don’t OD on caffeine, marijuana and alcohol the day before the race. (Who knew?)

2. Run more aggressively. I’ve recently doubled down on the idea that you can’t start long races too slow. I still think this idea has merit: it’s not clear that (highly) positive splits should be the norm in ultras when the fastest marathon times are based on even splits. However, fast marathoners also don’t strive for steeply negative splits, and it’s certainly easier to shave an hour by running 36 seconds/mile faster for 100 miles than 3 minutes/mile faster for the last 20. There’s also a mental argument for running faster earlier: it’s motivating to hit your target pace and demoralizing to fall way behind it.

3. Have a clear B goal. I had a woolly, implicit A goal going into this race of 24-25 hours. But when I realized early on that this was out of reach, I reverted to the obvious C goal of just finishing. It might have been helpful to have a B goal of, say, 27 hours, just to focus the mind. It’s hard to push through all those miles when you don’t know what you’re pushing for.

4. Spend less time at aid stations. I don’t know how much time I spent at aid stations altogether, but I’d be surprised if it was less than two hours. That’s too much.

5. Take caffeine earlier, if needed. My race fell apart when I got sleepy during the night; maybe caffeine would have helped. There is a counter-argument, of course: perhaps I’d have ended up like Hawaiian Shorts, who surged after taking caffeine at Jaws only to die hard at the end. But my gut tells me drowsiness is a bigger problem for me than getting carried away, so I’ll be packing stronger GUs (with 40mg caffeine) for Vermont.

6. I love poles!

Would I do this race again? I won’t say “no,” but I probably won’t be back soon. The scenery was pretty but not spectacular: it didn’t wow me like, say, Bigfoot 73. (It’s a beautiful area, but I actually found the views on our drive to the race more striking than those along the course.) And the course’s challenges were hard without being exciting. In some races the slow, technical sections are the highlight: think the Palisades at Castle Peak or the Càrn Mòr Dearg Arête at Ben Nevis. These obstacles slow you down but are also thrilling and epic. The biggest obstacle at Bighorn is the mud: a challenge to be sure, but not one I found uplifting. But, who knows? I could see myself coming back, if only to hang out with the alpacas.

My spring race schedule was pretty demanding, with five 50M/100K runs in eight weeks: Marin Ultra Challenge 50M (March 12), a 54-mile “Birthday Run” (March 27), Lake Sonoma 50M (April 9), Canyons 100K (April 23), and Miwok 100K (May 7). In the grand scheme of things, this lineup wasn’t that tough: nothing like Dean Karnazes running 50 marathons in 50 days, the “marathon monks” of Mt. Hiei traversing a 30-mile trail every day for 1,000 days, the “Onion Slam,” or other insane challenges I could cite. By ultrarunning’s odd standards, I wasn’t attempting anything that hard.

But still. The above examples are so extreme that it’s clear what lies in store: a long process of breaking down. My own schedule was just forgiving enough — two weeks between each race — that I wasn’t sure how it would go. In the most optimistic scenario, two weeks would be enough not just to recover but also to reap the training benefits of the previous race. In this “building up” scenario, I’d start each race stronger than I’d been in the previous one, and my progress would look something like this:

In the less optimistic — but maybe more realistic — scenario, two weeks wouldn’t be enough to recover fully. In this “breaking down” scenario, I’d start each race weaker and more tired than I’d been in the previous one. If, for example, two weeks was enough for a 90 percent recovery, I’d begin the first race at 100 percent physical capacity, the second at 90 percent, the third at 81 percent, the fourth at 73 percent, and the fifth at 66 percent:

When talking with friends, I made the appropriate noises about not being sure how my body would hold up, how this would be a great training effort no matter what, etc. Like most males, however, I tend to overestimate myself, so I inwardly believed I’d build up. The first two runs bolstered my confidence: MUC felt good, and the Birthday Run two weeks later felt fine. It didn’t occur to me then that “fine” meant about 90 percent, or that this might not be a great sign.

Lake Sonoma 50M (April 9)

The day before Lake Sonoma, I started to worry about breaking down. Throughout the previous two weeks, I kept hoping another few days would bring a full recovery, until I no longer had a few days left. Lying in bed in the Cloverdale Super 8 the night before, I texted Megan: “I’m not super excited about running. I think I’m just still tired.” She assured me it would be fun and that I’d have a good time once I got started. I wasn’t so sure.

I felt less sure when I got up at 3:00am, having slept maybe three hours on and off. I’d had pretty good luck with sleeping before my last few races, but not this time. Oh well: could be worse. I drank an unhealthy amount of coffee, got myself together, and headed off to the race.

LS is a big, competitive race. Until 2021 it was a Golden Ticket race, promising the top two male and female finishers automatic entry into the Western States 100. This is no longer the case, but the race still draws a lot of fast people. For me, this makes it easier to tune out other runners and run my own race, since I’m not competing in any meaningful sense. My own race, I guessed, would be pretty slow. Aside from being tired going in, I had Canyons 100K only two weeks later and wanted to spare my legs for that. That said, I wasn’t sure exactly what “slow” meant. I ran this race in 8:40 in 2019, and that was an objectively bad race due to major GI problems. I felt less strong going in this year, but maybe I could pull off a comparable time if other things went well. So, I hoped for something between 8:30 and 9:00, but that was secondary to my main goal of running comfortably throughout.

Two other things about LS: it’s beautiful and hard. Even in a dry year like this one (and most of the last twenty), the hills around the lake are green in early April, and covered in wildflowers. Idyllic, if you don’t mind running 50 miles. The course is an out-and-back that skirts part of the lake, and while there are a few big hills, it’s mostly rolling. I used to think this would make Sonoma easier than races with big, sustained hills like MUC. However, I’ve come to believe that the constant up-down-up-down is actually harder on the legs. Long, sweeping downhills allow you to build up momentum and log some fast miles with little effort. In contrast, LS’s downhills often let you accelerate for only a few seconds before braking hard and running uphill again. Accelerate, brake, climb, repeat, again and again and again. Hence the race slogan, “Relentless.”

The first 2.4 miles are on a paved road: this allows the runners to spread out before hitting the single-track, where there is little room to pass. I ran the first two miles or so with Anya — a BRC acquaintance I’d run into at the start — before picking up the pace on a long downhill. I always like to start slow, but I was a little worried about getting trapped behind too many runners. Passing on the single-track really is hard, as the trail is on a steep hillside and often bordered with poison oak.

After entering the single-track at mile 2.4, I started wishing I’d run the road stretch faster. Once on the single-track, runners began sorting themselves into single-file groups of half a dozen or more. The speed of each group was dictated by the front runner’s pace, which on downhills was often painfully slow. I really hate being forced to run slowly on downhills, as I actually expend more energy braking than letting gravity do its thing. For the next ten miles, I alternated between patiently waiting for a passing opportunity, then surging by a column of runners when the chance arose. This is not my favorite kind of running, but fortunately the pack had thinned by the time I reached Warm Springs Creek around mile 12. In 2019 — though still a drought year — the creek had been high enough to warrant a rope line to help runners cross. No need for that this year: the water was only ankle-deep. I splashed across and continued past Warm Springs aid station.

After Warm Springs, the trail began to open up a bit. We got some good views of the lake, which was pretty but catastrophically low. I know I talk about the drought too much, but it looms over everything here. Old, dead and whitened trees poked up through the lake’s shallower parts: submerged long ago when the valley was flooded but once again seeing the light of day.

The single-track rolled along for some miles, alternating between open hills and forest, before eventually reaching an uphill fire road. Not long thereafter began the long, hard climb to the turnaround at No Name Flat aid station. On this uphill, around mile 22, I caught up with Megan’s friend Verity. We ran together and chatted for a bit: she was also doing Canyons and taking it easy today. I reached No Name ahead of her, but she left before me, as it took me awhile to refill my pack and flasks. I also got some ice to put in my hat, as it was pretty warm by then.

My cumulative time was 4:40 when I left No Name. If I maintained my pace, I’d finish in 9:20. I thought I might yet do negative splits, as there’s slightly less elevation gain on the return, but time would tell. After the long climb to the turnaround, it was nice to get an extended downhill, although I would have preferred a gentler grade. The descent was so steep that it forced me to brake, using energy to go slower. I passed Verity again around mile 30.

It was a relief to get back on the single-track. More pretty rolling, mile after mile. Although I was backtracking, I was struck by how different the course looked from the opposite direction. No view in particular jumped out at me — so I didn’t take a lot of pics — but it was uplifting to see so much green.

I refilled my flasks at Warm Springs, and filled my hat with ice. I might have overdone the ice, as my hat was now precariously perched on my head, and I had to hold it for a while so it wouldn’t fall off. But, it was nice to have ice-cold water melting on my head as I tackled the home stretch. Because that home stretch, though only 12 miles, felt pretty long. I was hiking more and more hills, albeit at a good pace, and abandoned my hope of negative splits. Still, I was glad to see that my legs were holding up ok after all my recent long runs. I was still running the flats and downhills well.

The last miles were hard but not tortuous. I was a little disappointed when I passed the 8:40 mark — my last time on this course — still some miles from the finish. But, I reminded myself that I had no real aspirations for today beyond getting in a good, solid run. The thought of relaxing with Megan at the finish pulled me along, and I managed to put in a good effort through those last miles. I finished in 9:36, glad to be done, and glad to get my bottle of Wilson winery’s zinfandel.

Canyons 100k (April 23)

In the two weeks between Lake Sonoma and Canyons, I started to wonder if I was up to this. I ran less and less between races but felt more and more tired. After MUC, I did half a dozen moderate runs and still felt good on my Birthday Run. After that, I did only four really easy runs but still felt tired at Sonoma. After Sonoma I decided not to run at all, hoping a complete rest would allow me to recover for Canyons. Would that be enough?

As the race approached, I didn’t know. I felt exhausted for almost a week after Sonoma, and even looked exhausted, with persistent dark circles under my eyes despite sleeping well. My body seemed to be telling me it had had enough. I felt normal enough the next week, but since I didn’t run, I had no idea how my legs were coming along. I’d have to find out on race day.

For those who aren’t familiar with Canyons, it’s a big and competitive race. It’s a Golden Ticket race, giving the first three male and female finishers entry into Western States. That’s always attracted a strong field, but this year Canyons became even more of a draw through its inclusion in the new UTMB World Series. UTMB (Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc) is arguably the world’s premier ultrarunning event, and as with Western States, you need to get past the lottery to get in. The World Series races offer everyone incentives on that score: non-elites get running “stones” (i.e., tickets) for the lottery, while elites can hope to win automatic entry. All of which meant that this year’s Canyons field was bigger — nearly 700 starters — and more talented than ever. Neither the size nor the quality of the field had much relevance to me, but the energy surrounding the race was palpable. This was a big event.

Canyons is also a pretty tough course, with around 15,000′ elevation gain in 100K. It starts in Auburn, in the Sierra foothills, and finishes in the mountains at China Wall, for a net elevation gain of almost 4000′. In between, it descends into and climbs out of the American River canyons multiple times. Both the descents and the ascents are steep and grueling: the downhills in particular take a toll on the legs. Last year’s race left my legs feeling trashed for two weeks. I’d trained more this year, however, so I hoped my legs would hold up better.

Megan and I spent Friday night at the Rodeway Inn, where we’ve stayed many times before. When you’re an ultrarunner based in Northern California, Auburn is hard to avoid. The self-described “Endurance Capital of the World” is home to numerous ultrarunning events, including the Way Too Cool 50K, the Rio Del Lago 100M, Western States, and of course Canyons. After checking in, we picked up our race packets at the expo in downtown Auburn. UTMB’s influence was already visible: whereas last year’s race started outside town at Overlook Park, this year’s would start right in the town center, where several blocks had been cordoned off. There are valid concerns about UTMB’s dominance of the ultrarunning world, but they do know how to put on an event.

I woke up early, after only a few hours of sleep. Megan and I drove to the start and left our drop bags before heading off again to park. That proved more difficult than we’d expected, as the various downtown barricades (apparently unknown to Google Maps) blocked our initial attempts to drive to the Overlook parking area. We ended up parking on a street close to downtown and jogging to the start.

The start was quite a scene, with hundreds of runners crowded into the starting chute. We spotted our friend Dan and chatted with him while waiting for the gun. Although I felt tired, the crowd’s excitement was contagious, and I felt cautiously hopeful as we headed off at 5:00am.

The early miles were uneventful: I jogged along slowly, not feeling great, but hoping my legs would eventually warm up. My legs always feel crappy for the first few miles, so it would take at least that long to assess how well I’d recovered. In the meantime, I enjoyed the early morning sights: a full moon over the American River, canyons filled with fog, and eventually a nice sunrise.

At mile 7 I passed Megan, who had stopped at the Mammoth Bar aid station. Soon after that, the course began to climb. I was well warmed up by now, and increasingly aware that I hadn’t recovered from my recent races. I had no aches or pains yet: just a deep fatigue in my legs. But, I reminded myself that ultras sometimes bring second winds: last year, I’d started the Bigfoot 73 feeling dead from a 100-mile race two weeks earlier, but I finished that race feeling great. I’d just have to hope for something similar today.

The miles rolled on. I’ve run these trails many times, in races and Western States training camps, so it was hardly a voyage of discovery, but it was still nice to see the canyons and the rolling green hills.

Megan caught up to me shortly after the Drivers Flat aid station at mile 15. I told her my legs already felt awful — a lot like the last ten miles of Lake Sonoma. I couldn’t help contrasting how badly I felt today with how much better I’d felt at a similar point in MUC six weeks earlier. Megan told me there’s no point making such comparisons, which is of course true. We ran together for a short while until she pulled away.

I don’t recall much about the next 15 or so miles to Foresthill. This stretch has a few significant climbs and a lot of up-and-down rolling. It’s dense and green and choked with poison oak. I watched some other runners blithely run through the branches crossing the trail, and winced inwardly every time. I myself probably looked silly doing my usual poison oak dance, twisting and dodging every few steps to avoid the detestable leaves. What can I say? I hate poison oak. Otherwise, I didn’t have a lot of thoughts except “I can’t believe how bad I feel this early in the race.” The first half of Canyons is the easy part, and I already felt wiped out.

I straggled into Foresthill (mile 34), where I was glad to stop and retrieve some smoothies from my drop bag. I chatted with an aid station volunteer and continued on. My legs still felt terrible, but I was glad to be starting the second, more mountainous part of the course. I hoped that, with a little more hiking and a little less running, I’d get that second wind.

One thing at least was encouraging. Although I felt more tired than the previous year, I wasn’t in any pain. Last year my knee started hurting from Foresthill on, and I’d had to take a few ibuprofen to finish the race. So far, I felt no need for that. This isn’t to say that my legs felt good: I jogged the runnable downhills to Michigan Bluff (mile 40) because real running hurt too much. This sucked, as this was a stretch you’d ideally like to run fast. But at least I wasn’t in acute pain: just standard ultra achiness, though miles earlier than I’d have liked.

Soon after Michigan Bluff came the first real canyon descent. This hurt. I thought again about how much worse I felt than I’d hoped. My spring training was supposed to make my legs impervious to these downhills, but I actually found them harder than last year. I was glad to reach the canyon floor and to start ascending the other side. At least at first: the ascent got old as it dragged on and on. It was a huge relief to finally reach the Deadwood aid station at mile 46.

Just before Deadwood, I took my first caffeinated Gu, then another. This helped a lot. I also finally broke down and took an ibuprofen, which also helped. Between the caffeine and Vitamin I, I felt like I could run again, and I actually had a pretty good time on the (admittedly easy) five-mile Deadwood loop. When I returned to Deadwood at mile 51, I was looking forward to the final stretch.

A note on mileage: as the race went on, my watch’s mileage got further and further ahead of UTMB’s. I was about a mile ahead of the course description at Foresthill (34 versus 33), and two miles ahead by Deadwood 2 (51 versus 49). I’d ordinarily chalk this up to watch error, but I compared notes with multiple runners along the way, and all of our watches said the same thing. So I’m guessing my watch readings were correct — good enough for this post, anyway.

Leaving Deadwood, I began my last big descent into the canyons. This one was also steep and brutal, but with caffeine and ibuprofen now in my system, I enjoyed it more than the previous one. I was feeling, if not great, at least better than I’d felt all day. The proximity to the finish no doubt helped: eleven more miles didn’t seem so bad. I reached the canyon floor feeling reasonably good, crossed the rickety bridge, and started up the other side.

The climb out of the canyon was long and hard, but I expected that and was fine. I did not expect to keep struggling even after reaching the top. I remembered the last few miles being easy and runnable, but that’s not how they felt today. A recent snowfall had transformed those last miles: snow lined the trailsides, and snowmelt formed deep puddles in the trail itself. The options were basically to run through the puddles or go off-trail. I attempted a third approach, using the small strip of dirt between the puddles and the snow. This didn’t work: I immediately slipped and fell into the surprisingly deep puddle and was soaked up to my waist. After that, I alternated between splashing through the mud or trudging through the snow.

I later learned that these last few miles were everyone’s slowest. Elites and ordinary runners alike moved only half as fast through this stretch as they’d averaged for the course as a whole. Pretty ironic, since this was the flattest stretch since Michigan Bluff, but that’s how it goes. The mud and snow affected everyone, so it probably didn’t change anyone’s place that much, but it did make the home stretch hard.

At some point I started hearing finish-line sounds wafting through the woods: music and speakers announcing the finishers. I couldn’t decide if this was encouraging or frustrating, since I figured sound carried well out here and might still be far off. Another runner and I joked about how the sound was taunting us. But shortly thereafter, big Hoka banners began to appear, and I was relieved to see the finish line come into view.

Megan greeted me at the finish: she’d finished about 20 minutes before me, and Dan 10 minutes before her. It was a huge relief to be done, and to have friends to hang out with after a long, hard effort. I told them this was the hardest sub-100 mile race I’d ever done: not the course per se, but the experience of running the whole thing on tired legs. I put on multiple layers of warm clothing — I remembered the finish being very cold last year — and sat around waiting for veggie broth and a veggie burrito, both of which had inexplicably run out. Once they finally arrived, I felt complete. (If nothing else, ultras help us appreciate the little things.)

My time of 13:32 was actually five minutes faster than last year. I’d wondered beforehand which of two effects would dominate: being better trained this year, on the one hand, and being more tired going in, on the other. As it turned out, those two things more or less cancelled each other out. It wasn’t exactly the race I’d hoped for, but I took it as a good sign that I was able to beat last year’s time despite being so tired throughout. That said, I told Megan I had doubts about doing Miwok in two weeks, and she advised me against it.

As noted, Canyons is a big, competitive race, and this year more so than ever. Adam Peterman and Jazmine Lowther set men’s and women’s course records of 8:31 and 10:01, respectively. That’s extraordinary, given how much those last muddy miles slowed everyone down. More generally, for both men and women, five of the six fastest-ever times were run this year. Ultrarunning is still a young sport, but it’s maturing pretty damn fast.

Miwok 100K (May 7)

I’ve wanted to run Miwok for years, ever since I first paced Megan there in 2017. It encompasses the most beautiful parts of the Marin Headlands and Mt Tam, at a beautiful time of year when the coastal hills are green and covered with wildflowers. I’d entered the lottery multiple times but somehow never got in. This year there was no lottery, and I was delighted to finally sign up. It was actually the first race I registered for this spring, and the one I’d most wanted to do.

Unfortunately, Canyons and the previous races had left me pretty wrecked. I now had an answer to the “building up versus breaking down” question: I was breaking down. There was probably more to this than physical fatigue alone. For the last month, I’d been struggling to complete a difficult revise-and-resubmit at a prominent journal. I’d expected my race schedule to facilitate work: I’d run a race every two weeks and work a lot in between. But I felt so exhausted after every race that I struggled to get work done, and the constant fatigue and stress were getting me down…really down. I felt tired and depressed. The thought of doing another race so soon seemed odious. I could probably have slogged through Miwok, but it would have felt like a death march — hardly the experience I’d hoped for. So, I decided to pull the plug and leave Miwok for another year.

I’m happy with this choice. I ran only three times in the month after Canyons, which allowed me to recover and focus finishing the R&R. Getting that off my plate was a huge relief, and I felt better immediately. Now I’m four days from the Bighorn 100-miler in Wyoming, and hoping those four spring races have left me in good shape. We’ll see.

Would I attempt a race schedule like this again? No. I’m sure some people find it rewarding to complete a grueling race series, but I myself care too much about my performance in individual races to enjoy this kind of challenge. I don’t find it enjoyable to run on tired legs, or to fall short of my performance goals. I registered for all these races in large part because I deluded myself into thinking I could recover faster than I actually can. It was a worthwhile experiment — I now know my limitations better than before — but going forward, I’ll probably do fewer races — like, one per month? — and try to do them well.

My last two years, like everyone’s, have not gone according to plan. I began 2020 by signing up for a ton of races, only to see them all canceled. I was optimistic about 2021–which got off to a good start–but ultimately scaled back my racing and training due to wildfires and work. Given this track record, approaching 2022 with any kind of ambition seems like hubris. But hope springs eternal, and regression to the mean is a real thing, right?

In any case, I have a lot of races lined up: Lake Sonoma 50M (April 9), Canyons 100K (April 23), Miwok 100K (May 7), the Dipsea (June 12), Bighorn 100M (June 17), Vermont 100M (July 16), and SwissPeaks 100K (September 2), to name just the ones I’ve already paid for. The three April-May races–which are only two weeks apart–worry me a bit. Last spring I did Canyons alone, and that left my legs trashed for at least two weeks. I’ll need to recover faster this year, so this spring I decided to prioritize resilience: that is, my ability to run a lot without breaking down. I’m sure there’s some science on how to do this, but I don’t like to think about training too much, so I’m just going to go for volume, i.e., a lot of long runs. So far, this has included the Ordnance 100K, the Marin Ultra Challenge 50M, and–the crown jewel–a self-supported 54-mile run around the East Bay.

Ordnance 100K (February 5)

I’ve now done Ordnance four times: in 2015, 2018, 2020, and 2022. It’s a small, low-key race, but one of my favorites. The course begins at the Laguna Seca racetrack just east of Monterey, and makes its way around Fort Ord National Monument. It’s surprisingly diverse: you get sand dunes, oak forests, hillsides covered with chaparral, and open foothills with expansive views. This year’s course was different from previous ones: due to permitting issues, the RD eliminated a long stretch of bike path and rerouted the course along a ridgeline. This added 1.5 miles and 1500′ of elevation gain, for 62.5 miles and 8,800′. Not what you’d call a lot of vert, but enough to keep things interesting. If you look closely at the elevation chart, you’ll notice that miles 21 to 40 look exactly the same as miles 43 to 62. That’s because the lower, southeastern loop is repeated twice.

The race started in the dark at 6:00am. I started slowly, as usual, and ran a few miles in my own little world before seeing the sun rise.

About three miles in, I caught up with Mark Tanaka, a regular at this race. I’d met Mark during this same race seven years earlier: it was my first 100K, and he coached me through it for fifty miles. This year we ran fewer miles together, but I enjoyed chatting with him about optimal pacing, health issues (Mark is an E.R. doctor), and conspiracy theories. However, a race is a race, and around mile seven I wished Mark a good race and picked up the pace.

My favorite part of this course is the oak forest in the first ten or fifteen miles. In the early-morning light, the oaks and lace lichen feel ghostly and magical.

The first 30 miles passed uneventfully: I was running slowly but felt good. Around mile 30, the new course change took effect. Instead of continuing down a fire road to the bike path, we turned right on a single-track that led up into the hills. We then continued along a ridgeline until reaching the long out-and-back down to the Toro Creek aid station. Although the out-and-back was hard–two miles of downhill followed by two miles of uphill–I really liked the course change. The now-omitted bike path was always my least favorite part of the course, and it was a pleasure to run instead along a pretty, rolling ridgeline. I hope Inside Trail sticks with the new course going forward.

Until now I hadn’t thought much about other runners: my cardinal rule is “run your own race.” However, the out-and-back provided an opportunity to assess my standing, since I’d be able to see anyone ahead of me coming up the hill as I went down. At least, I’d see them if they led me by less than 3.5 miles–the length of the out-and-back–and I doubted anyone was that far ahead. However, although I looked carefully for 100K bibs, I didn’t see any. I didn’t know what to make of that. I doubted I was in first, but I didn’t expect Alex Kramer–who I guessed was the strongest runner there–to be already so far ahead.

I saw Megan at mile 40, where she was volunteering at the Laguna Seca aid station. I’d originally hoped she’d pace me for this race, but she sprained her ankle badly in January, so seeing her at the aid station was the next best thing. I asked her what place I was in, and she said third. “Really?” Alex was apparently 40 minutes ahead, which explained why I hadn’t seen him on the out-and-back, but who was second? Megan pointed at someone just leaving the aid station and said he was in second place. That confused me: Why hadn’t I seen him on the out-and-back? Had he skipped it? I’d actually been thinking about this, as the new course was potentially confusing, and some runners I’d thought were close behind me were nowhere to be seen on the out-and-back return. But there wasn’t much point in worrying about it, so I pushed on.

Around mile 45 I glimpsed the second-place runner–Luis Tapia–ahead of me. I gradually gained on him over the next few miles and caught up around mile 48. I could now see his bib clearly–pinned to the back of his hydration pack. “Now I understand!” I shouted. He looked back: “What?” I explained that I’d been looking for 100K runners on the out-and-back but didn’t notice him, presumably because his bib was on his back. Luis said he’d noticed me. We ran together briefly, then I started to pull away. “I’m sure I’ll see you again,” I said. “I don’t know…you’re looking pretty strong,” he replied. He then added, jokingly, “What the hell, man? I’ve been in second for the last 40 miles, and you’re gonna take it away?” I laughed, but yeah, that was the plan.

Once I’d passed Luis, my race changed. Specifically, it got a lot harder. Until then, I’d been running my own race at a leisurely pace. Now, I was determined to put some distance between myself and Luis. There were still 15-ish miles left, and I didn’t relish the thought of running neck-and-neck with someone else the entire way. I figured if I sped up now, I could establish an insurmountable lead and then relax for the final miles. It wasn’t long before Luis was out of sight, but that didn’t mean much, as we were now on a winding single-track where I couldn’t see far behind. The single-track eventually gave way to a wide fire road, where I could see that I’d opened up at least a quarter-mile gap. Still, that’s not much in a long race.

Heading down the out-and-back for the second time, I saw Alex coming up the hill. “Awesome job, man!” I said. “You’re winning by miles!” He smiled and ran on. I was happy for him, but also happy that I’d gained some ground: he was now leading by less than one out-and-back. Still a lot, but I’d closed the gap by pushing the last six or seven miles.

I stopped briefly at the Toro Creek turnaround to drink some ginger ale, then headed out again. As I started up the hill, Luis came charging down. I cheered him on, but I was dismayed to see him so close behind. I’d been pushing the pace for some time, but he had risen to the challenge and wasn’t falling far behind. So much for relaxing the last few miles. I hurried up the hill.

Running up a two-mile hill more than 55 miles into a race is hard. But I still hadn’t left Luis convincingly behind, so I kept at it. I didn’t allow myself to look back, not wanting to look like I was worried. Finally, after cresting the hill and turning down a single-track, I glanced back. I could see Luis in the distance, maybe five minutes behind. Not bad, but not yet time to ease up.

I really like the last five miles of this course: runnable single-track that winds up, down and around rolling green hills. I kept on pushing, no longer worried about being caught, but wanting to finish strong. I saw Megan again at Laguna Seca, only a few hundred yards from the finish. She ran most of that distance with me; I crossed the finish line and was done. When Luis finished seven minutes later, I gave him a fist bump and thanked him for pushing me. I meant it: I owed my strong finish to him. As for Alex, he’d finished 34 minutes ahead of me and had already left.

My time of 10:49 was my slowest ever at this race, but it wasn’t comparable with previous ones due to the course change. My gut feeling was that this was my second-best performance, behind my 9:45 in 2020. But, whatever. I felt I had a good race and was now in better shape for my April-May trials.

As usual, Megan and I spent the night down there, had breakfast in Pacific Grove the next morning, and took a stroll alongside beautiful Monterey Bay before heading home.

Marin Ultra Challenge 50M (March 12)

The Marin Ultra Challenge (MUC) is another standby, being both local and beautiful. The course begins at Rodeo Beach and gives runners an outstanding tour of the Marin Headlands and Mt Tam. Along the way, you see the Golden Gate Bridge, Muir Woods, and miles of California coast. There’s a reason Inside Trail describes MUC as “our premier Marin County long distance trail race.” I didn’t think much about whether to do MUC this year because…of course I was going to do it. Why wouldn’t I?

I didn’t have a lot of goals this year, except to get in another long run before my April-May races. If I clocked a good time, so much the better. I told a friend beforehand that my point estimate was 8:15, with a 90 percent confidence interval of 7:45 to 8:45. That seemed reasonable, as my previous time on this course (in 2018) was 8:10. I’d run 7:42 in 2019, but that year’s course was cut due to flooding, so the time didn’t mean much.

The last time I ran this race, I relied mainly on smoothies for fuel. That often works well, as it’s an easy way to get both calories and fluid. Unfortunately, that day was rainy and cold–not great for chugging down mango juice. So this year I tried something new: potato puree. Boiled potatoes are one of my race staples: they provide complex carbs, are high in potassium, and when salted also provide sodium. The only catch is that I sometimes have trouble eating them during a long race, particularly if it’s hot. By boiling and pureeing them, I hoped to combine the starchiness and saltiness of potatoes with the drinkability of a smoothie. It seemed worth a try. I cooked four large russet potatoes and one Japanese sweet potato, and blended them with salt to roughly the consistency of a running gel. I was able to fit them all into four large flasks:

The race started just after sunrise, at 6:30am. The course begins with a lot of climbing: almost 900′ in the first mile and a half. This consists of a somewhat gradual road followed by some very steep steps. I’m always struck by how many people start their races too fast, and this was on full display at MUC. As I jogged slowly up the hill, I was passed by many people breathing loudly and hard. I’m not generally inclined to give racing advice–everyone has to find their own way–but I think it’s safe to say that you should not be laboring in the first two miles of a 50-mile race. Keeping it easy, I finished the first climb toward the back of the pack and began the two-mile descent back to sea level.

I briefly saw Megan at the Conzelman aid station (mile 6), where she was volunteering. I didn’t stop, but she later mentioned that maybe 50-60 people had gotten there ahead of me. I continued on to the SCA trail, which on a clear day offers great views of the Golden Gate Bridge. Today was not a clear day, at least not yet–nothing but fog, and a lot of wind.

I finally picked up the pace nine miles in, on the long descent down Marincello. While I always take uphills very easy, I like to take advantage of long, runnable downhills, where you can let gravity do the work. In my previous MUCs, I’d clocked at least two sub-6:00 miles per race: one on the long Miwok downhill from miles 2.5 to 3.5, and one on Marincello from miles 9 to 10. This year I’d resolved to show more restraint, as that seemed fast even for a downhill. I coasted down Marincello as effortlessly as I could, but still clocked a 6:10 mile. I guess I can only go so slow on a hill like that.

After passing through Tennessee Valley, I began the roughly three-mile stretch along Coastal to Muir Beach. This is one of the nicest parts of the course–hilly technical trails and great views up and down the coast–but the day was still foggy, so I mostly kept my head down and focused on the trail.

After Muir Beach, Redwood trail takes you to Heather Cutoff, a series of switchbacks that gradually ascends to Coast View. Coast View then continues the climb to Cardiac. I passed many people along this stretch, although I still didn’t have much sense of my overall place. I stopped briefly at Cardiac for some ginger ale, then continued on. I worked on the potato flasks I’d started with, as I planned to replace them on my return to Cardiac in ten miles. I was liking the puree so far: I mean, it’s salted potatoes without the chewing.

From Cardiac, the course follows the Dipsea to Stinson Beach, where a few blocks of road running lead to the dreaded Willow Camp fire road (dreaded because it climbs 1800′ in two miles). The road stretch is maybe the least interesting part of the course, but this year it proved surprisingly troublesome. From Highway 1, runners are supposed to turn right on Belvedere and continue around the bend onto Buena Vista. They are NOT supposed to go up the Matt Davis trail, which has a trailhead on the north side of Belvedere. I was therefore surprised when I found that trailhead marked with two orange ribbons, one on either side. This clearly pointed runners up Matt Davis.

Knowing this was wrong, I scanned the street for other ribbons but saw none. Had there been a last-minute course change? I pulled out my phone and checked the course GPX. It said to take the road, so I did. After turning right onto Laurel, I was relieved to see ribbons again. I really hate wondering if I’m on course.

A minute later, I encountered some race volunteers driving the other way. I told them about the Matt Davis ribbons, but they had apparently already heard, as they were on their way to fix them and place a blue ribbon at the trailhead (blue indicates “wrong way”). I was glad they were on it, but I wondered how many runners had been misled by what I assumed was course sabotage.

I got a preliminary answer a few minutes later, when I reached the Willow Camp aid station. Will Gotthardt, who was working there, asked if I knew what place I was in at Cardiac. I didn’t. He said only two runners had passed by Willow Camp–putting me in third–but those two had been fourth and fifth at Cardiac. The first three runners to reach Cardiac had not been seen. It seemed certain they had followed the ribbons up Matt Davis, which was unfortunate for everyone involved. Willow Camp is the course’s toughest stretch, and taking Matt Davis instead cuts a lot of distance and elevation gain: 1.75 miles and 692′, to be precise. In other words, this was not an innocuous detour, and would one way or another affect the outcome of the race.

This kind of situation has no winners. I felt bummed for the lead runners, who were just following the course markings and would be disappointed when they learned of their mistake. I felt bummed for myself, since now I’d never know if I could have caught any of them. I run more conservatively than most, so I’d been hoping to catch at least some of the leaders later in the race. Maybe I could have, maybe I couldn’t, but now the question was moot. I felt bummed for Tim Stahler, the RD, who would somehow have to deal with this. I wondered–not for the first time–what kind of asshole does this shit for fun. This race wasn’t a big deal to me, but there were many people out here–some running their first 50M–who had trained hard for months just for this. Do the people who sabotage courses think about this? For that matter, what do they think about?

I made my way slowly up Willow Camp, taking care not to push it too hard. About two-thirds of the way up, I heard two women behind me: one who would be the first female finisher and another who would finish fourth. I chatted with them about the course confusion, and they were surprised to learn that I thought it was sabotage. They thought it was just bad marking, but I couldn’t imagine any race volunteers being that incompetent.

I left them behind after reaching Coastal, which is mostly flat or gently rolling. The skies had cleared by now, and I took my first and only picture of the race:

The trail to Cardiac was an easy cruise. I finished my potatoes along the way. I grabbed my remaining two flasks at Cardiac, but wished (as Megan had predicted) that I’d instead packed a couple of smoothies. The potato puree was great for the morning miles when it was cool and foggy. But now that the sun was out, I craved something more thirst-quenching. Note to self: choice and variety are good things. I use my drop bags sparingly, so it’s silly not to give myself more options.

I enjoyed the next cruisy stretch along TCC: easy running through the redwoods. On the technical descent down Bootjack, I was surprised to hear the first-place female (Samantha Bear) behind me again. I hadn’t seen her since Willow Camp. We ran together for the rest of Bootjack and up Ben Johnson, talking about East Bay running (she lives in El Cerrito), pros and cons of living in the Bay Area, and NIMBYism. At some point, however, I realized her uphill pace was too fast for my comfort, and I wished her a good race. She said I’d probably catch her on the downhill, but I wasn’t sure. Ben Johnson was taking a toll on my legs.

I didn’t see Samantha again until the Deer Park aid station. She was leaving just as I arrived. I gulped some ginger ale and moved on, up Miwok and onto Dias Ridge. I got a big mental lift when I reached the high point of Dias and began the long downhill to Highway 1: a winding stretch with fantastic views toward the coast. I’d also taken a caffeinated Gu, which I reserve for late in the race, and that put some additional wind in my sails.

Approaching Muir Beach, I saw Megan in the “Team Yuch” t-shirt she’d made in 2017 for the Waldo 100K. She’d finished her aid station duties and had run the 10 or so miles to Muir Beach so she could pace me the last 10 miles. (Yes, I realize I’m lucky to have a partner that will do all this.) We headed out, past the Green Gulch Farm and up Middle Green Gulch trail. I felt pretty good at this point and tried to maintain a solid pace up the hill. We were down to the last 10 miles, so it was time–maybe past time–to stop being cautious and run some fast miles. Megan and I talked about the course mishap: she mentioned that the leader, Jonah Backstrom, had reached Muir Beach an hour and 15 minutes ahead of me, and also far ahead of the second-place runner. I figured the Matt Davis shortcut was worth a good 30 minutes, but that still meant Jonah would be leading comfortably even if he’d stayed on course. As for the second and third-place runners, I couldn’t say.

While climbing Middle Green Gulch, I noticed Samantha on the trail ahead of us. We gradually gained on her and finally caught her on Miwok. We were down to the final miles now, and I was trying to run fast, with a lot of encouragement from Megan. We bombed down Miwok to Tennessee Valley, moved quickly up Old Springs, then slowly and laboriously up Wolf Ridge, the last big climb. I breathed a sigh of relief after cresting Wolf Ridge: we were done with climbing and now had two miles of nearly uninterrupted downhill to the finish. This is one more great feature of this race: unless you’ve completely trashed your legs, you can always finish fast. We pushed it down the hill and were done.

After finishing, I mentioned the course sabotage to Tim. He said he was pretty sure he knew who did it. Thinking he meant a volunteer, I said “So it wasn’t sabotage?” He replied that it was most definitely sabotage: he’d marked that stretch of course himself. Apparently there’s a resident of Stinson Beach who doesn’t like runners passing by her house: Tim thought she’d moved the ribbons to send everyone up Matt Davis. Somehow this seemed worse to me than my imagined scenario of teenagers messing up the course for fun. Stupid kids will be stupid kids: it’s unfortunate but comes with the territory. But for an adult to do this just because she doesn’t like a couple hundred runners (this isn’t a big road race!) passing by, once a year, on a public street, when the race organizers have spent good money on a permit–that’s just unbelievably obnoxious and petty. Bay Area NIMBYism at its worst.

In the end, Tim decided to disqualify the three lead runners. That probably wouldn’t have been my choice: I’d have been more inclined to assign a penalty of 30 or 40 minutes. However, these are hard choices, and I respect Tim’s decision. RDs face a lot of pressures, and sometimes get unwarranted flak, because you can’t always please everyone. And it’s true that the race website and pre-race emails cautioned runners to study the course–and download the GPX–because course sabotage is a real thing. In any case, the DQs meant that I finished third. I’d have preferred a worse place in a race that went smoothly, but c’est la vie: I’ll still take the $150 for third place.

On the whole, I was happy with my race. My time of 8:35 was 25 minutes slower than in 2018, but I’m four years older and honestly didn’t push it that hard this year. I was pleased to run negative splits–4:25 for the first half, 4:10 for the second–and to finish strong. I felt good and enjoyed the day. That’s enough.

Yuch’s Birthday Run / Dan’s Farewell Tour (March 27)

Megan recently asked if I could give up races. I suppose the answer has to be yes–ultramarathons are hardly a necessity–but I’m also not sure why I would. Races allow us to see beautiful places on foot, whether it’s the Rockies, the Scottish highlands, the Mt St Helens wilderness, the Swiss Alps, or what. They motivate us to push ourselves. They help build friendships with other runners. So, races have a lot to offer. That said, there are other ways to get these things. The most obvious alternative is the long adventure run: rim-to-rim-to-rim of the Grand Canyon, the Wonderland trail around Mt. Rainier…and the long run Megan, Dan and I did on my 53rd birthday.

This run was conceived as a way to give Dan a last tour of the East Bay before he moves to Switzerland in June. Dan found a 100-mile route already worked out by someone else: we took the first half with minor changes. We settled on the last weekend in March for several reasons. The East Bay is still green at that time, and the wildflowers are at their peak. It’s a month before the Canyons 100K–which Dan, Megan and I are all doing–and so an ideal time for a long training run. For me, that weekend was the midpoint between the MUC 50M (March 12) and the Lake Sonoma 50M (April 9), so it maximized my recovery time. When it landed right on my birthday, I shamelessly named it Yuch’s Birthday Run and trimmed the distance to 53 miles, one for every year.

The route passes through my three favorite East Bay parks: Briones, Mt Diablo, and Las Trampas. Although I’ve done a lot of running in all three, I’ve never tried to connect them. Fortunately, doing so is easy thanks to the Briones-to-Mt Diablo and Las Trampas-to-Mt Diablo regional trails. Those connectors were terra incognita to me, so I was looking forward to checking them out.

Since this was a point-to-point run, we needed two cars. We met at the finish–the Valle Vista staging area in Moraga–at 6:30am, then took my car to the start: the Mt Wanda trailhead in Martinez. We were off and running by 7:15. Although we expected rain, the forecast said it wouldn’t start until evening, so we hoped to finish before the rain arrived. That morning was cloudy, but it was nice to see the sun peeking under the clouds.

Our first leg took us through Briones, which was hilly and green. The views from Table Top trail were spectacular: Mt Diablo in the distance and wildflowers everywhere. We came across a lone newt. California newts were ubiquitous here only seven or eight years ago, but our ongoing megadrought–the worst in at least 1,200 years–has taken a severe toll. Nice to see a few still hanging on.

We continued along Briones Crest until we reached the Lafayette Ridge Trail, which would take us out of Briones and down to Lafayette. This roller coaster of a trail is one of my favorites: the exaggerated hills look like something from Dr. Seuss.

Lafayette Ridge took us to the start of the Briones-to-Mt Diablo trail. After a few blocks of road running, we turned east onto a dirt single-track. Overall, our route to Diablo involved surprisingly little road running–maybe half a mile in all. We spent a few miles on paved bike path, stopping in Larkey Park to use the bathrooms. Otherwise, we were pleasantly surprised by how much of the connector consisted of dirt trail.

We left the connector trail near Castle Rock regional park, running southeast on Stage Road to Burma Road. (“Road” is a misnomer here: these may once have been fire roads, but they’ve been substantially reclaimed by nature.) Turning onto Burma Road, we began the ascent up Mt Diablo. For those who don’t know Burma Road: this is a steep route up the mountain. The road begins at an altitude of 600′ and ends–with detours on Angel Kerley and Mother’s Trail–three miles later at 2800′. 2200′ in three miles is a lot. As you might expect, this stretch involved some hiking, but also some treats like the mysterious koi pond.

From Burma Road, Deer Flat Road took us to Juniper Campground. This was our first water stop, and we all refilled our packs and flasks. As we headed out, we compared notes on how we felt: tired and stiff all around. It’s amazing how a short rest can cause your muscles to stiffen up, and how hard it can be to get moving again. (Hence the hallowed ultramarathon advice: “Beware the chair.”) But in fairness, we had now covered more than 26 miles and 6000′ of elevation gain, so we could forgive ourselves for feeling fatigued.

Heading up Juniper Trail, we began the final climb to Diablo’s 3,849′ summit. This went quickly, and we soon reached the summit parking lot. We headed up the observation tower, spent a few minutes eating our sandwiches, then headed back down to the parking lot to refill our flasks again.

It’s interesting to watch the climate zones change as you move from west to east. The moisture here comes from the coast, and every successive range of hills blocks a bit more water. Despite the drought, Briones and Las Trampas are still lush and green. Diablo is not much further to the east–ten miles as the crow flies–but the grassy hillsides on Diablo’s western flank are already drying from green to gold. East of Diablo, things are drier still: nothing grows on North Peak but shrubby chaparral.

As we left the summit, we were all looking forward to our next leg. Not only were we heading back to (literally) greener pastures, but the next six or seven miles would be varying degrees of downhill: our reward for the brutal climb. We bombed down Summit Trail all the way to Ridge View. I’d never run Ridge View before, but I’d suggested it to limit the route to 53 miles, and it turned out to be a really nice single-track.

From Ridge View, we turned right and ran along Wall Point Road for several miles: a rolling fire road with great views down to the ridiculously large mansions in Alamo. We spent some time talking about those mansions: who owns them, why anyone would want a house that big, and so on. This was an easy and pretty stretch, with abundant wildflowers of all kinds. Wild mustard was ubiquitous, and we all ate some leaves and enjoyed the horseradish-like jolt. Dan even decided to take some home.

Crossing under Highway 680, we once again marveled at the East Bay trail system. It’s remarkable that, in a metro area with more than eight million people, it’s possible to plot a 50-something mile run that’s almost entirely on dirt trail. Even the stretch through the town of Alamo consisted mostly of leafy dirt trails routed between residential backyards. We hear a lot of well-deserved criticism of state and local governance, but the architects of our regional park system got a lot of things right.

At mile 41, we entered Las Trampas: our final set of big hills. After a mile or so on the Virgil Williams trail, we hit the big climb up Del Amigo. This and Sulphur Springs would take us to Las Trampas Ridge, the first of the park’s two big ridges. This was hard climbing, but the wildflowers lifted our spirits.

From Las Trampas Ridge, we descended to the Bollinger Canyon staging area, then began the climb to Rocky Ridge: our last big climb! This was also hard, but made easier by knowing we were almost done. The top of Rocky Ridge was cold and windy, but we still took a moment to savor the views. Diablo had receded into the distance, much as it had been that morning, and we discussed how monuments like that lend perspective to these long runs: a sense of where you’re going and where you’ve been.

The wildflower display on Rocky Ridge was sublime, especially when the sun briefly broke through. My phone can never really capture what it’s like to be there, but I gave it my best shot.

A few more rolling miles took us to the home stretch: the King’s Canyon Loop Trail, which runs alongside the Upper San Leandro reservoir. Dan picked up the pace noticeably here. Megan and I tried to keep him in sight, but I wasn’t inclined to kick it in too hard: I had Lake Sonoma in two weeks and also wanted to take some last pics.

We reached Valle Vista around 7:30–perfect timing, as the sun had just gone down, and the rain had just arrived. We got into the car just in time to avoid getting soaked. I’m not big on birthdays, but I have to say that I really can’t imagine a better one. In the end, according to our watches, we’d run 54 gorgeous miles with 12,500′ of elevation gain. I’ll call that a good day.

On returning to Martinez, we learned that nothing in this world is perfect. While we were out running, someone had broken into my car–for the second time in four months. Each time, someone had smashed a rear window and flipped the back seat forward to examine the contents of the trunk. Each time, the burglars apparently decided I didn’t have anything worth stealing. I actually had a lot of camping gear in the trunk, which makes me wonder what these people are looking for: big bags of cash? In any case, I wasn’t thrilled to find my car window smashed, especially since it was now raining hard. But we’d had a good day, and I wasn’t going to let these morons ruin it. I reminded myself that I could afford the repair, and whoever did this probably had a pathetic life. We met Dan at Los Moles, a Mexican place in El Cerrito, and had a nice post-run meal.

I still see no need to give up races. On reflection, races and adventure runs seem more complements than substitutes: the former help you find your limits, while the latter provide more time to socialize and take pictures. But if I had to give up races, I’d be fine as long as I could keep doing runs like this. So, who’s up for rim-to-rim-to-rim?