Photo courtesy of Myke Hermsmeyer (mykejh.com)

I am good at biting the dirt, or the gravel, the mud, the snow, the rocks, the roots. Making unintended contact with the ground is something I do well because I have worked with horses all my life. When I was younger, I rode green horses, or horses with issues serious enough to make their owners want to pay someone other than themselves to get on their backs. I still ride green horses, but am acutely aware of the finite nature of life at age 45. I don’t bounce like I used to, and because of that I’m a lot more careful than I once was. I fall off horses less often, but still get a lot of practice falling because I now run trails in addition to riding. I’ve been a clumsy human all my life. To no one’s surprise, I am a now a clumsy runner, which means I don’t even need a horse any more to experience the humbling sensation of finding myself face down on the dirt.

Falling off a horse feels a lot like falling while running. Both are sudden, both hurt. Common sense says that falling off a horse hurts more because it’s from a higher starting point. The average horse stands 15 to 17 hands tall at the withers, which translates into an additional five to six feet of height. The human body is subject to the laws of gravity, which say that what goes up must come crashing down, and that the force of impact is greater when the object falls for a longer distance. My various body parts have tested that hypothesis a lot over the years, and can vouch for its correctness. But that’s not the whole story. Sometimes, falling without a horse hurts more because you don’t spend enough time in the air to tuck and roll. Also, the horse usually gives you fair warning in the form of pinned ears and a few preliminary bucks. You can plan an exit strategy. When you fall on a trail run, it’s usually a surprise. There is no time to scout out the best spot for landing, and there is no time to curl into a ball beforehand.

If you are lucky enough to ride in an arena, chances are you will fall into good footing, meaning sand, sometimes mixed with bits of rubber made from (I am not kidding) old running shoes. Riding arenas are designed for minimizing impact on sensitive horse joints and tendons. They also minimize the impact on riders’ bodies that get dumped into them, a useful side effect and one more reason to invest in good footing. On the other hand, trails of the type that appeals to ultra runners tend to be rocky, rooty, muddy, or all of the above at the same time.

To make things worse, runners wear more or less minimalist shoes along with shorts or thin tights, not industrial-strength breeches or jeans paired with sturdy leather boots that prevent twisted ankles. My running falls tend to draw more blood, mostly from my knees, but also from my hands, elbows, or face. On the other hand, the risk of serious head injury or broken bones is higher with horse-related crashes, which is why runners don’t wear helmets. Of course, there are exceptions. Ultra running legend Gordy Ainsleigh suffered a concussion last year and wisely opted to protect his head at Franklin Mountain, instead of scratching:

As an expert on the subject, here are my two cents of advice on what you can you do to stay upright:

1. Focus on the terrain in front of you. Do not gaze at the scenery or at the arm sleeve tattoo on the runner just ahead. Do not fiddle with your pack, do not try to tear open a pack of almond butter, do not check your GPS watch to see how fast you’re going. I have done all of the above, with disastrous results.

Last year, right after trying to rescue my cell phone during a particularly nasty fall on a rock hiding under a layer of slushy snow, I bruised my ribs at mile 20 of the Grand Canyon 100, which ended my race.

2. Run your own race. Don’t get competitive when someone passes you. The people who negotiate rocky terrain at breakneck speed are genetic freaks, related to mountain goats. Or maybe they will crash around the next switchback. Either way, do not use the technical, steep downhill to catch up to someone else. Trust me. Your knees will thank you.

3. In the words of my wise friend and mentor Randi Young: PYUFD, short for pick up your feet, dummy. This should be your mantra. So simple, yet so often ignored.

4. Most of us clumsy runners have two distinctive gears: the careful one reserved for gnarly sections, and autopilot, which is the shuffle reserved for smooth surfaces. This is dangerous because one tiny pebble can flatten you on an otherwise obstacle-free trail, or even road. These embarrassing crashes might injure your knees, but they injure your pride even more.

When you do fall, and you will, unless you are a genetic freak related to mountain goats, it’s of course too late to heed this type of advice. The best thing to do: allow yourself a moment of self-pity, then assess the damage, along the lines of:
Are both arms still in their sockets? Both legs still attached and able to bend and straighten? All teeth present? If so, pick yourself up, and get back on the horse, or in this case the trail. Run if you can, walk or limp if you can’t. It’s almost always better to keep moving than to wait.

The pain will subside more quickly. Many times, it goes away altogether. The blood will mix with the dirt, then dry, which is better than a band-aid. Bruises have less of a chance to settle in. The same is true for mental effects, like post-fall PTSD. So get up, dust yourself off, and wear your bloody bits proudly. You are now a trail runner.

It is a good time to run strong (and upright),
Katrin

This seasoned trail and ultra runner has a confession to make: I used to love road marathons. My first one was the Rock’n Roll San Diego, in 2001. I was 30 years old and admit to feeling excited about running 26.2 paved miles in the company of 20 000 or so like-minded people while loud live music blasted all along the course. My love for trail ultras started ten years later, as a midlife crisis affair, a classic case of the grass looking greener on the other side of the asphalt. But what began as a casual flirtation developed into a serious relationship. The trails loved me back. I broke up with road marathons, except for very occasional weekend flings.

I had one of those recently. A month ago, right before running the Cedro Peak 45 miler, I watched the finish of the 2016 Boston marathon. It was the equivalent of stalking an old flame on facebook and discovering he still looks hot. Overcome by a mixture of nostalgia and severe FOMO, I signed up for the next road marathon within driving distance in the hope of qualifying for Boston. Never mind that I had not done any speed work in years. Never mind that I only had two weeks to recover from the ultra, train for the road marathon, and then taper. But while struggling to add some half-hearted tempo miles to my daily workouts, I had time to think about the differences between the two types of races. It’s important, I think, to point these out to prospective long-distance runners, so they can make informed decisions about who they really want to be with.

Even before meeting a race in person, websites and online advertising gives us a first clue about what to expect. Like the guy on a dating website who sounds just a little too perfect to be real, road marathons minimize any mention of possible discomfort runners might –no, will — experience. They like to bill themselves as flat, fast, and fun. They like to boast about tons of adoring fans all along the course, about water stations every 500 feet, about cheerleading teams, bands, and the like. During Big Sur, a guy in a tuxedo plays a grand piano on top of a hill, against the backdrop of the pacific ocean. A magnificent and welcome sight, forever etched in my memory.

Trail ultras take the opposite approach: they emphasize how rugged and rock-infested the course is, how many tens of thousands of feet runners will climb, how only the toughest runners have a chance at reaching the finish line alive, and how even those won’t reach it unscathed.

Race directors proudly announce things like “You will bleed. You will puke. You will suffer.” The Bandera 100k charmingly defines itself as “a race where everything cuts, bites, or stings.” One particularly sadistic RD who shall remain nameless sends his runners, once registered, a condolence letter.

At the race start, road marathons involve thousands of people crammed into corrals, where runners clothed in sleek, aerodynamic outfits are grouped together according to their projected finishing time. Near the front, superhuman athletes with zero percent body fat pace and prance like thoroughbred horses before the Kentucky derby. Further back, runners of all shapes and sizes wait patiently, conserving energy. They will spend a lot of time after the race has officially started walking or shuffling toward the starting line. Once there, everyone tries to pass as many other runners as possible in the first mile, even though there are 25 miles left to go.

In trail ultras, the crowd of a few dozen to a couple of hundred bearded, scruffy individuals puts on their buffs and hydration packs and multiple layers of clothing, then gathers into a shapeless clump. But the scruffy individuals with just one handheld bottle and zero percent body fat still gravitate toward the front, while the hydration-pack wearers of all shapes and sizes hang back a little. Unless, of course, no one is sure where the front is because no one is sure about which general direction the race goes in until the RD points it out with a casual “Ok, go have fun today.” Then, everyone takes off way too fast, trying to pass as many people as possible even though there are 30, 49, or 100-plus miles left to go.

Road marathons are crowded, but rarely social. It is impossible to get lost because there are always other runners in sight, or even at arm’s length. Usually, though, these runners are focused on their pace, their race strategy, or their mile splits. Conversations are limited to a few quick words of thinly veiled gloating disguised as encouragement while passing each other, e.g. “Keep it up!”

In a trail race, I often find myself alone in the wilderness after the first few miles, which forces me to pay close attention to course markers. It is possible to miss these, or sometimes the local wildlife eats a few of them, or some prankster moves a few of them. In any case, getting off course is not only possible, but likely. When another runner catches up to me or vice versa, it’s a welcome change from the solitude, though it’s no relief from paying attention to course markers. Sometimes, groups of runners get lost, following each other like lemmings. Unlike in a road marathon, runners usually run together and chat for a few minutes or a few hours, until one of them pulls ahead with a few words of thinly veiled gloating disguised as encouragement, e.g. “Keep it up!”

One of the most glaring differences between the two involves the frequency and setup of aid stations. In a road marathon, aid stations appear at regular intervals, like clockwork, every mile or every two miles.

Bright-eyed children offer water or gatorade from paper cups, which runners grab, empty, and then toss on the ground until it looks like the area around the card table has been hit by a small snow storm. No one actually stops.

In a trail ultra, there are aid stations every five to ten miles (except for the final ten miles of Western States, which is basically one long buffet line). Usually, especially late in a 100-miler, runners fantasize about the next aid station long before actually getting there. I have burst in tears at the sight of an aid station. It’s like an oasis in the desert, like a taste of the finish line. It’s a huge accomplishment to reach an aid station, especially when, fifteen minutes earlier, you were sure you would collapse in a heap on the trail and get eaten by a mountain lion. Chairs beckon. Campfires blaze. Food selections range from cookies and fruit to turkey sandwiches or even more elaborate offerings. Sometimes, the smell of soup and bacon wafts through the tent. Friendly people you have never met before bring your drop bag, peel off your smelly socks and doctor your blisters. Aid stations are places of celebration and gratitude. It’s tempting to spend way too much time there getting fed and pampered. That’s why it’s important to have a plan that involves getting back out on the trail ASAP.

Crossing the finish line of any race is a celebration, whether its in a giant stadium or a camp site in the middle of nowhere. Nothing compares to the glowing, fuzzy feeling that mixes with the pain in your quads as you finally stop moving.There is food, there is camaraderie, there is music. Usually, there are pain-relieving drink options. Maybe there’s more beer flowing at the finish of trail ultras, but I can’t be sure — volunteers for a scientific comparative study of post-race alcohol consumption, please send me an email.

There is, however, one important difference: after a road marathon, my white socks are still white, and my legs are pretty much the shade of tan they were when I started. The post-race shower feels great, but the water swirling down the drain is mostly clear. After a trail ultra, that water is mixed with dirt, sand, and often blood. I have worried about clogging the pipes of the Payson Best Western after Zane Grey, where thorny vegetation tears up runners along the course until they look like torture victims. My trail socks, whether or not they once were white, have turned into shades of grey, brown, or orange, depending on the color of dirt I just ran through.

Photo courtesy of Myke Hermsmeyer (mykejh.com)

Today is Monday, 48 hours after my marathon. I am still sore. Road marathons hurt as much or more the day after the race than trail ultras that are twice as long. I think that’s because walk breaks tend to be frowned upon during a flattish 26.2 on pavement. Come to think of it, the differences between trail ultras and road marathons are not as serious as I thought. And some races are crossovers, combining the best of both worlds, like my marathon in Shiprock, New Mexico, on a beautiful stretch of desert highway. 200 runners quickly spread out along the course, and I ran 26.2 blissful miles mostly alone, to a 3:26 PR finish. I qualified for Boston, and might actually run it, but in the meantime, I am going back to my marriage with the trail ultras. I’m sure the trails will understand that my commitment stops short of complete monogamy.

It is a good time to be alive and running, anywhere.

April 23, 2016. My third Cedro Peak 45-miler as a runner, but my first as a coach of sorts. In my real l, i.e. in between running or riding horses, I teach English and German at an international school in Northern New Mexico. For the last couple of years, I’ve also been in charge of the  student running club. Watching these young people from all over the world evolve into fitter, more confident versions of themselves through running is one of the most enjoyable parts of my job, especially when some of them become fit enough, and confident enough, to sign up for their first ultra.

The United World College’s venture into trail racing began last November, when three of my students decided to join me at Franklin Mountain in El Paso for their first half marathon (http://runkat.com/wordpress/?p=456). Though that race ended with spilled blood (mine) and a bit of makeshift knee surgery, they were hooked after that. Undeterred by the potential dangers, they ran another half marathon at Antelope Canyon in February, which inspired a couple of other students to follow suit: four of them signed up for their first ultra, the 45k at Cedro Peak, while a fifth entered the half marathon. Race Director Kim King provided a generous scholarship in the form of a reduced student entry fee, which helped.

Race weekend begins after school on Friday afternoon. We drive to Albuquerque, pick up our packets, and feast on pre-race carbs in the form of pizza. Ana, Ivik, Nico, Jani, and Daniel feel they are ready, though they have not trained as much as they should have. I tell them it’s all about mental readiness anyway, and they seem to believe me. SP, my elite runner friend who sometimes joins our little group for runs that are hard for us but easy for him, is running the 45 mile race, with a real chance at winning. Nico’s father, an accomplished marathoner and triathlete, is joining us to run his first 45k. Most of the other parents are not quite as supportive; some of them think that their kids have gone insane, that racing a distance longer than a marathon is not something a normal person would do. The kids look pretty sane to me, and pretty normal, but I’m probably the wrong person to ask.

Back at our hotel, I feel like Santa Claus, distributing Nuun tablets, Stinger waffles, energy chews, blister bandages, anti-friction powder and what I hope is good last-minute advice about hydration, nutrition and the like. Then, it’s time to sleep for a few hours before the 4:30 a.m. alarm goes off. The starting line in the beautiful Manzano Mountains East of Albuquerque is full of familiar faces, smiles, and greetings as the morning light turns grey silhouettes into shades of intense neon colors.

My husband, who has opted to volunteer at this race, takes pictures of our motley group, then, at 6:30, the 45-mile runners take off down the singletrack. I find a place in the middle of the pack, hoping that my students, who have gone back to sleep on the bus, won’t miss their 45k start an hour later.

The first few miles of this race are mostly downhill and not too technical, so going out too fast is easy. And tempting. After only a couple of miles, I give in to temptation. What the heck. It’s only a 45 mile race, after all. Not a 50, or a 100. A perfect example of Ultra logic. (more about ultra logic: http://runkat.com/wordpress/?p=183)

I catch a glimpse of another female runner ahead of me by mile five. Bobby Keogh at the Juan Tomás aid station tells me it’s Stephanie, and that we’re in first and second place, respectively. My competitive instinct rears its little head and pricks up its pointy ears. Really? The race is on! By mile seven or so, I pass Stephanie, who looks like a very fit young whippersnapper, compared to my middle-aged self. I gloat just a tiny bit, but also worry whether I can maintain the breakneck speed of the last few miles.
The trail is gorgeous, double track undulating its way through the pines. Morning sunlight filters through the branches. Birds are singing. I run fast and I run happy, until I realize I have not seen any pink ribbons in quite a while. Or any other runners. Huh? This is a well marked course. Can I be off trail?
I continue a few more minutes. Still nothing. No ribbons, no other runners. The forest envelopes me in a silence I now find eerie instead of comforting. Time to backtrack. After what seems like an eternity, a pink ribbon, pointing down a narrow singletrack. I am mentally slapping myself. The classic rookie mistake, exactly what I warned my students about: wide tracks or roads look so inviting that it’s easy to miss a turn onto a narrower path. Yes, indeed. I should know better, since I am not a rookie, but a veteran.

A cloud of dark thoughts gathers over my head as I consider the consequences of my stupid mistake: I was only a couple of minutes ahead of Stephanie before adding bonus mileage. Now, I have lost my lead, and about 15 minutes in addition. I plod on, much slower than before,  dark thoughts swirling around me. The climb up Cedro Peak is an out and back, and I see Stephanie flying down as I crawl up, still a long way from the top. But once up there, the view of the Manzanos and the sight of Eddie Dimas dressed like a robed ultra guru at the turnaround, cheers me up again. It’s a beautiful day, and I am here in the mountains, doing what I enjoy most in the world, surrounded by jaw-dropping scenery and the nicest human beings I have ever met. No, running ultras is not about winning or losing. It’s about so much more — it’s about connecting with nature, about feeling alive, about feeding my hungry soul. The cloud lifts, the darkness dissolves into grateful bliss. I pick up speed, resolving to enjoy the experience, no matter what the final outcome may be.

Happiness has returned, but getting lost has zapped my route-finding confidence. I stop a couple of times to look for ribbons, backtrack to the last ribbon, consult with other runners who are wondering which way to go. But at least I pay attention now. The familiar, friendly faces of Ken and Margaret Gordon greet me (in German!) at the Powerline aid station. They say I am only five minutes behind Stephanie now, which gives me another boost of energy. I zoom on, passing a couple of fast-looking runners. My husband meets me at the next aid station, with his camera and emotional support, which helps me negotiate the grueling powerline climb. I am having a good day, but Stephanie has an even better one: by the time I get back to Cedro, her lead has widened to eight minutes again. And by the time I get back to Juan Tomás, she’s once more ten to fifteen minutes ahead of me. Like Scotty on the Starship Enterprise, I am giving this course all I have, but it’s not enough today. I begin to pass the back of the pack of the 50k, some of whom are struggling. As I offer encouragement, I begin to wonder about how my students fared. My hope is they are long done.

The finish line is getting close enough to smell it. The last climb, the Tequila aid station. My husband, waiting by the plastic skeleton half a mile from the finish.

I sprint into the campground and across the line in 8:52, good for second place and only five minutes slower than my course record from two years earlier, but fifteen minutes behind Stephanie, who shattered that course record by ten minutes. I suspect she would have beaten me even I had not gone off course, but we’re 5th and 6th overall. My middle-aged self is happy with that.

I’m even happier that my students all have finished. They are tired, sore, hungry, and basking in post-race bliss. Jani’s knee is bandaged from a fall on one of the more technical sections. Daniel has won his age group in the half marathon, while Ana, Ivik, Nico, and Jani became ultra marathoners today — at age 18, they have accomplished something most people postpone indefinitely. Even more impressive is that all of them finished strong. Nico and his father finished together in 5:23, winning their respective age groups. And Ana won her age group. SP came in third overall in the 45 miler, in under eight hours. I am so proud of them all.

Hanging out at the finish line after a race is one of the best parts of running ultras. We refuel, rest a bit, cheer on other finishers, and hang out with old and new friends before hobbling back to the bus and climbing in. Only then do I remember that we need to take a post-race picture. I make everyone climb back out, ignoring their groaning sounds:

A successful day is ending. Thank you, Kim King, for putting on such an organized, festive, welcoming event. Thank you, Ken, Margaret, David Infante, Eddie, Josh, Alex, Jean, Aimee, Bobby, and everyone else who helped make it happen. Thank you, SP, for inspiring the normal humans. Thank you, Ana, Ivik, Jani, Nico, and Daniel, for sharing the experience of your first ultra and/or trail race.

And as always, thank you, David Silva, for volunteering, for taking over 1000 pictures, for supporting, for driving, for cheerleading.

You are the best!
It is a good time to be alive and running.

Two years ago, I ran the inaugural Monument Valley 50 in a sandstorm, loving every minute in spite of the challenging conditions. Last year, I ran the Grand Central Aid Station (aka Three Sisters) with a group of my students at the inaugural (and so far the only) Monument Valley 100. This year, I signed up for the third annual Monument Valley 50, hoping for calmer skies and a PR.

To the uninitiated, Monument Valley seems like a fast, runnable course: not very technical, negligible elevation gain, one steep but short climb up Mitchell Mesa. Harmless on paper. But I’ve run this race before, and have helped many runners finish. I know that the sand is the real challenge. It’s deep. It goes on for miles and miles. But I’m ready.

The weather forecast looks perfect: not too hot, not too cold, not too windy. I am recovered from Antelope Canyon four weeks earlier. My husband David has graciously agreed to crew for me. Even my horoscope sounds promising. I feel optimistic and ready to rock as we line up at the starting line in the pre-dawn twilight before seven a.m. on Saturday. The silhouettes of East and West Mitten framed the rising sun as a Navajo blessing sends us on our way into the desert, for a race among the iconic rock formations that were sacred to the Diné and subject of their tribal legends, long before John Wayne and Forrest Gump made them famous as a backdrop.

I usually run smart races. I usually start near the middle of the pack and work my way up, but not today. Today, I throw caution into the wind. I feel good. The morning sun takes the chill out of the air, pouring golden light over the Valley. The beauty of it touches my heart and quickens my stride. This is what I came for, this is what I live for. I pass runners, until the first out and back leading to the first aid station makes me realize I’m probably in second place, behind my Nuun teammate Laura Swenson. And I leave the aid station in first place. At mile eight. Too soon. Not smart. Laura stays right behind me, too close for comfort. I push the pace even more, partly because of her and partly because it’s too glorious of a morning to take it easy.

Adrian Stanciu, the Dorito-fueled speed demon, feels the same — unable to hold back. We run together for a few miles, trading gear recommendations. He convinces me to try gaitors before he takes off in pursuit of the lead pack. I glance behind me. No Laura. Good. Maybe I have built a solid lead. Aid station two. I duck into the Eco-potty for a total of maybe two minutes, then see her run in at breakneck speed. Time to skedaddle, without wasting another minute shedding my jacket.

It’s warming up. Maybe I should have taken that extra minute. It’s getting toasty in my long-sleeve, but if I stop and tie it around my waist, Laura will pass me, so I keep going. Ultra logic at its finest. We enter a sandy wash that goes on forever. It looks runnable, but the deep footing slows us down. A black dog has adopted me as his running buddy, or maybe it thinks I’m a sheep he needs to herd. Either way, the dog keeps me company all the way to the bustling activity of the Three Sisters aid station at mile 22.

David has said he’d meet me here, but he’s nowhere in sight. I’m 45 minutes ahead of schedule by now, so maybe that’s why. Time to stash the jacket in my drop bag, to swig some ginger ale, to grab a handful of Swedish Fish which, for some reason, look really appetizing. As I get ready to exit, Laura runs in, looking fresh. This means I have no time to waste on the red loop, which starts out rolling and runnable, snaking its way between the iconic rock formations of the Valley and crossing dirt roads on occasion. Bus loads of tourists stare at us with curiosity, pointing their cameras and iPhones in our direction. I wave and grin, hoping that their guides have explained to them that today they might see lots of local wildlife in brightly colored shirts. Maybe they think it’s mating season for ultra runners.

Back to Three Sisters. Mile 27. Still no David, but no Laura either. There’s still plenty of water in my pack. I allow myself a couple of minutes to slather on sunscreen and tear open a Stinger Waffle, then head back out on the white loop. This one’s longer, nine miles total, and sandier, too. There are giant dunes that look like they belong in the Sahara desert, not the Southwest. My legs begin to protest. Two Navajo guides riding beautiful horses, one black, one grey, trot along the trail, offering encouragement.

I am tempted to ask for a ride, trying to remember the race rules. Does getting on horse count as entering a moving vehicle? Probably. We arrive at the Big Hogan, an upside-down bowl of smooth red stone. Even though I know Laura is right behind me, I step into the shady space under the curved roof and glance up through the hole in the center. A special spot. I can almost feel ancestral spirits, benevolent ones, swirling around me.

On the way back to the Three Sisters, I am starting to feel tired, hot, and nauseated. David is ecstatic to see me, happy that I’m leading the pack, but alarmed at my near-bonking state. I have been taking in the scenery way too much, have worried about Laura way too much, and not been drinking nearly enough. Two liters of Nuun filled my pack this morning, and now, 35 miles later, I still have plenty left. Not good. I chug more ginger ale. I take a couple of salt pills. I munch a handful of salty potato chips. I stuff a handful of ice under my hat, another down my bra. While I do all that, and begin to feel better, Laura bounces around the corner, takes a look at me, checks in, and runs back out. My competitive instinct returns with a vengeance. I finish my potato chips, then take off after her, hoping she feels more tired than she looks.

The only real climb of the day still lies ahead. I pass Laura before the trail becomes steep and rocky, but now feel the added pressure of having to stay in front. Passing strong runners like her is like burning matches: it’s tempting do it, but I know I have a limited number available, and they don’t burn forever. At this point in the race, burning a match is a gamble. I may not have another one left, and I know it.

Most of the runners who descend Mitchell Mesa already are wearing green numbers, meaning they’re in the 50k. George Okinaka is one of them, and I spend precious time (well, a few seconds) saying hello. I climb, stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other, when a girl with a red 50-mile number comes flying down, poised and moving like lightning. My dreams of being In the lead, by however narrow a margin, are dashed, but the fight for second place is still on. Up on the Mesa, the views are worth every second of the work it took to get here.

We run a mile along the edge, soak up the amazing view, punch a heart-shaped hole into our bibs, then turn around. A by now familiar silhouette in a red shirt runs up, bristling with energy. Nope, no time to take another picture. I will fight for this second place. The descent down the Mesa is gnarly. My Franklin Mountain PTSD, based on the still shiny new scar on my right knee, makes me cautious. At the same time, my competitive instinct makes me reckless. I try to find a balance, a speed that won’t send me crashing to the ground while keeping Laura behind me. A few more miles back to Three Sisters, for the last time. Four more dirt road miles to the finish. Don’t look back. Don’t walk. Run. I barely pause at the aid station. The beauty of the Valley gives me a last surge of energy. The specter of Laura breathing down my neck gives me wings. David hops into his truck to meet me at the finish, but stops a few times along the way to take action pictures. I feel lucky. Deep down I know that it doesn’t matter where I place. A day like today is a celebration, a time to appreciate everything and everyone in my life.

Still, it’s a race, not a walk in the tribal park. I glance behind me. No Laura, but she has to be close. There’s one last climb to the finish line. I powerhike it, willing my tired legs to keep moving. One last switchback. No, one more. And one more . . .

Finally, the cheers from the finish line. I muster up a last bit of energy to run across it, trying to look like a cheetah, not a snail. My finishing time is 9:14, which breaks my 2014 course record.And after some confusion, it turns out I won the race after all, since the girl with the red number had switched to the 50k at the last minute. A perfect end to a perfect day, like whipped cream on top of a hot fudge sundae.

There is nothing like crossing the finish line of an Ultra. But out of all ultras, the Ultra Adventures series has the best finish line: the smell of pizza is wafting from a mobile wood oven, competing with the aroma of Navajo Tacos one tent over. Exuberant finishers smile from ear to ear. In the afternoon sun, I catch up with old and new friends: George, the rest of Team Nuun, Laura (just a few minutes behind me), Pam (third woman at age 55!), Tana, Matt, and the rest of the gang. Yes, a perfect day.

There is a difference between running a 50 mile race and actually racing it. This one, I raced all the way from the first aid station to the last hill at mile 49.9. Thank you, Laura Swenson, for the competition. It motivated me (and you, too) to leave it all out there, on that sandy singletrack, on that gnarly climb up Mitchell Mesa, on that dusty dirt road to the finish line. Thank you, Matt, Tana, Turd’L, and everyone who helps make Ultra Adventures races into running celebrations. Thank you, all the runners I shared the trail with for parts of this glorious day but whose names my mushy post-ultra brain tends to forget. Please friend me on Facebook. And thank you, thank you, thank you, as always, to David Silva, the best crew, cheerleader, paparazzo, and husband a woman could wish for.

It is a good time to be alive and running. My only wish is that the Monument Valley 100 will return next year.

See you all then!

February 19: my first ultra of 2016, after a long winter without races. My last ultra of 2015, Franklin Mountain, ended in November, with a bloody knee, seven stitches, and a 15-mile lopsided death march to a mediocre finish. Redemption is on my mind as we line up in the chilly darkness of the Slickrock Amphitheatre just before 6 a.m. Also, apprehension. I will be 46 years old in a few months. Maybe it’s time to slow down. Maybe I should hang up my Hokas and take up quilting. But the Navajo blessing ceremony before the start is a beautiful way to chase away the worries and calm the mind. We will run 50 miles with beauty all around us. A day to celebrate.

Matt Gunn, the brilliant mastermind behind UltraAdventures mind-blowing series of races, sends us off, with his final piece of advice: “Have fun out there!” Yes. I start out at a brisk pace, trying to get warm, before settling into a comfortable trot among the mid-pack runners who look fit but not superhuman. We make our way through a wide, sandy wash. No sense in going out to fast (duh!), but no sense in wasting time either. I have never been on this course, so have no idea what my goal time should be. My goal is instead to leave everything I have on that course. I want to run every step except for steep or technical uphills, without stopping.
The first slot canyon of the day swallows me at sunrise. It’s still dark and gloomy inside the narrow, winding track around the giant boulders with their swirly red streaks. Sand crunches under my feet. My headlamp throws long, dancing shadows ahead. A surreal experience. The path narrows even more. The canyon walls almost touch in places. I duck, once not low enough. The back of my head collides with the rocky overhang. Good thing my skull is thick.
After a mesmerizing few minutes, the slot canyon spits us back out into the desert. We now run back through the same sandy wash that brought us here. Groups of runners make their way into the surreal, shadowy world of red rocks. I cheer on everyone I know, and plenty of runners I don’t yet know.
The next segment of the course takes us to Horseshoe Bend, an iconic landmark I know from calendars and post cards. To get there, we traverse a long stretch of hilly, deep sand. The slot canyon looked like it was on Mars, but this desert reminds me of Tatooine, Luke Skywalker’s home planet. I keep an eye out for droids or Jedis, but see none.
Running on sand is one of my strengths. I pass a couple of other women and begin to wonder about my place in the field. From the out and back section, I know there are at least two females still ahead. They are probably half my age, but I still can’t let go of my competitive instinct. A girl in a black tank top appears in the distance. I sneak closer, then pass her with a friendly greeting and a burst of speed I might pay for later in the race.
We cross a highway, then run up to the edge of Horseshoe Bend. The view takes my breath away.No pictures can do it justice. A short pause, a couple of pictures. Yes, I’m racing, but it would be criminal to not stop here.

We make our way along the rim.

Here, slickrock has replaced the sand. Not smooth slickrock, but jagged, pointy-edged, technical stuff. For me, unlike for most runners, this is a problem. Most of my winter miles have been on roads, and my last technical, rocky trail run ended in a bloody disaster, which means my trail confidence is zero right now. The scar on my knee starts throbbing as a reminder. I keep thinking how much it would hurt to fall onto this unforgiving surface. Franklin Mountain PTSD makes me slow down to a cautious shuffle. Adrian Stanciu, the shirtless wonder, catches up to me, then bounces out of sight like a sure-footed mountain goat. I stare after him enviously. The girl in the black tan top passes me next. I try to reel in my competitive instinct, to focus on running my own race, because I remember the reason for my Franklin Mountain fall: I was trying to catch up to someone else, running at their pace instead of mine. Not a good idea.
A short, sandy stretch.I catch up to Black Tank Top, whose name turns out to be Johanna. For a while, we run together, engaged in pleasant conversation. Then, another rocky segment slows me down again. Johanna surges ahead, out of sight. Grrrrrr. My competitive instinct roars. I calm it down, with soothing words about my advanced age and the need for self-preservation. And then, we enter another beautiful slot canyon. Time to savor the scenery, time to enjoy the here and now, not time to worry about competition. Also, time to climb wobbly ladders, which takes concentration.

We cross the road again, approaching the next aid station. Johanna is inside the tent. The Zen moment has passed. My competitive instinct rears its ugly head. I chug some Coke, remember to tear open a Stinger Waffle, and exit in record time, ahead of the young whippersnapper in the black tank top.
More sandy double track. The sun is high in the sky, and it’s getting warm. Hot, even. After a snowy, freezing winter in the mountains of Northern New Mexico, I welcome the heat. Besides, the specter of Johanna in hot pursuit propels me forward, past other runners, most of them wearing the green 55k numbers. The next aid station. My socks have so much sand in them that it feels like I’m wearing weights on my soles. Not good. I sit down and waste a precious couple of minutes dumping it out. George from Team Nuun recognizes my temp tattoo. We say a hurried hello, then I run on. I still feel strong on the sand, can still run on it, and pass more struggling, demoralized runners. A long uphill. I powerhike it, still passing people. Run again. I picture Johanna right behind me. Another aid station. My friend Britta, fellow German and fellow Ultra Adventures ambassador, is in charge. A quick hug. More ginger, another Stinger Waffle. My stomach is happy. I am happy. It’s impossible to be anything else today in this gorgeous part of the Southwest.
The last part of the course. 12 miles or so on a loop trail close to the town of Page. Packed dirt, smooth, runnable. I can still run, so I run, even the uphills. Miles tick by. I pass people walking, I pass people shuffling along. A short out and back section to the last aid station. I don’t see Johanna, which means she is more than five minutes behind me. She could still catch me, though. It’s getting hot. The last few miles of the course are also the least scenic: residential areas, a golf course, road crossings. My energy plummets. I dig for my last reserves. No walking the level parts, or the downhills. Or the gentle uphills. I slow down, but I keep running.
The last aid station. Less than a mile to go, down the hill, across the parking lot, and up a metal chute that leads to the finish line inside the Slickrock Amphitheater. One last burst of energy. 9:17, good for second place. Time to hug my husband (who got lost on the 55k course, but took hundreds of pictures).

Time to congratulate my three teenage students, who finished the half marathon. Time to hang out, to reconnect with friends, to enjoy the afterglow of a perfect day. But maybe it is not yet time to hang up my Hokas.
Thank you, thank you, thank you Matt, Tana, Turd’l and everyone else who makes UltraAdventures races such class acts. I look forward to seeing you next month in Monument Valley!

During part of my four-hour run yesterday, while enjoying the blissful condition known as runner’s high, I listened to a TED talk by a really smart cognitve scientist. His main point was that ideas have a life of their own. They start small, they spread, they give birth to other ideas, they can die. An intriguing concept that makes sense. A case in point: a common belief used to be that women could not, or should not, run marathons. That their reproductive parts would fall out. That their bodies just could not handle that type of stress. Most men, and, sadly, most women believed it. Until one didn’t. And then another, and another. By the time I came of age in the 1980s, the new belief — women can, and should, run as far as men — had replaced the old one.

The idea that humans can run a lot further than 26 miles is ancient and new at the same time. Like bull riding, which, unlike other rodeo events, has no connection to actual ranch work, modern ultra running did not evolve gradually from the long tradition of road marathons. I imagine the idea that cowboys should climb on bulls was born suddenly, one Saturday night, from a volatile combination of testosterone and alcohol. Modern 100-mile running was born in a similar way, when, in 1974, Gordy Ainsleigh’s horse came up lame right before the 100-mile equestrian event known as the Tevis Cup endurance ride. A crazy flash of “What if . . . ?” hit the Western States trail like a bolt of lightning as Gordy covered the distance without his horse in just under 24 hours. An idea was born. It spread like wildfire. There was no turning back.

Gordy Ainsleigh, who founded  the Western States 100 in 1974, still runs ultras 41 years later.

By 1982, the Western States field had grown to 282 runners, men and women, who had to enter through a lottery process. This explosion in popularity helped Ken Chlouber to dream up the Leadville 100 a year later. A few more 100-mile races started to populate the calendar over the next couple of decades, until Born to Run and the advent of social media ushered in the current tidal wave of selfies, beards, and trail porn. It’s easy to forget that, until just a couple of years ago, ultras were a fringe sport. It’s still a fringe sport according to many, which is part of its appeal, but it’s now a much more popular fringe sport. People still think we’re a strange bunch. At the same time, they sound more awestruck than abhorred when they tell us how weird they find us. There’s a degree of admiration mixed into the dismissive attitude. Clearly, we have arrived. We’re becoming more mainstream, with all the recognition, acceptance, but also growing pains this status brings to a new sport. The wild new idea from 1974 has gained momentum and taken hold.

And yet, it wasn’t such a new idea in 1974. Just the opposite, really. You could say that the idea is older than our species, and that we forgot about it for a number of millennia. Our distant ancestors, who moved from the trees into the open steppes, were slower than most other animals over short distances. At the same time, they had more endurance. They couldn’t outrun their prey, but they could patiently, follow it all day until it dropped from exhaustion. That’s how we evolved into modern humans. Those who ran the farthest got to eat the most. Early homo sapiens had a reason to run long distances, a tangible reward in the form of more and better food, which translated into more surviving offspring. This is how we evolved to run. It’s probably the reason we get to enjoy the strange phenomenon called runner’s high. We don’t consciously remember the days we spent running after antelope and the like during the stone age, but our subconscious still responds the same when we do it. The longer we run, the more we suffer, true. But it’s also true that something transformative happens to many of us after running all day and halfway through the night. We experience something beyond pleasure — a deep satisfaction, an inner peace, the realization that our silly, insignificant human existence is something worth celebrating. This sort of enlightenment tells me that ultra running is in our DNA, deeply connected to the essence of who we are. Maybe that’s why I do it.
My personal belief in what I am capable of has evolved, too. As a child, I did not practice any type of sport. My grades were good, so everyone — including me — believed I was smart, which, for some reason, meant that I couldn’t also be athletic. It made sense, somehow. Being both would have seemed greedy.
I was thirty by the time I started running. Once I did — but way before I considered myself a runner – I used to believe running a marathon was the ultimate test of endurance for any human, male or female. When I crossed the finish line of my first one, at the ripe old age of 32, I thought I could not run another step. A few years later, I first heard about 100 mile races. I thought it was some sort of urban legend. When I found out that some people really did run 100 miles, my belief evolved into an updated version: running 100 miles was impossible for normal people, which meant: impossible for me.
Changing that belief took a long time. I started running trail marathons, where I got to meet ultra runners. They seemed a lot more normal than I had thought. I ran a couple of 50k races, i.e. marathons plus a few extra miles, which didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. My new friends encouraged me to sign up for a 50-miler, a distance of almost twice what I had ever run before. I started, not knowing what would happen after mile 31. I was running on blind hope, against all logic and all reason. But I discovered that there are reserves just waiting to be unlocked inside us, beyond exhaustion, beyond the wall of the marathon. I finished. The next day, I signed up for the Leadville 100. And I finished it, ten years after my first marathon. This year, at age 45, I finished three tough 100-mile races. Running 100 miles will never be easy, but I now know that I can cover the distance unless something drastic gets in the way.

Western States 2015. Words can’t describe how this feels.

Ideas can help us or hurt us. They can keep us in our comfort zones or push us to discover our potential. They can limit our lives, or help us transcend these limits. Ideas can be powerful, but they don’t happen in a vacuum. They are only powerful in the right set of circumstances. I feel lucky to live at a time when ultra running is exploding in popularity, not 50 years ago, when the idea was still in hibernation, waiting for its rebirth, .

Photo courtesy of Myke Hermsmeyer (mykejh.com)

In real life, aka when I am not out running crazy races or playing with horses, I hold down a real job as a teacher at an international boarding school. Part of what I do there – an enjoyable part – is coaching a running club. So when a few of my students wanted to run their first trail race, I happily agreed. We settled on Franklin Mountain because it a) was only five hours away, and b) offered a 25k for my teenage newbies, along with a 50k for me. After running three tough 100-milers, a 100k, a 50-miler and assorted shorter races in 2015, I thought I would cap a successful season with one more 50k. You know, something short and easy. My husband David decided to do the same.

Photo courtesy of Myke Hermsmeyer (mykejh.com)

On race morning, we find the well-hidden entrance to the park at 5:30 am. The 50k race starts at 6 am, so David and I line up while Ana, Ivik, and Gabriel have another hour to kill before theirs. After lectures on trail etiquette, pacing, and fueling the night before, I feel compelled to dole out a few last words of advice:
“Run your own race, always. You can’t control what anyone else is doing.”
Eager nods all around. I confidently project a six-hour finish for myself, then take off, along with 160 or so other intrepid souls. Franklin Mountain State Park is a hidden gem of rugged wilderness right outside of El Paso, Texas. The Franklin Peak rises high above the city, with a network of trails all around and to the top. The pastel light of dawn illuminates a hilly, spare desert landscape, beautiful and serene. I soon find out that there is nothing harmless about this course: after a few rolling ups and downs, we head up a spur trail to the top of Franklin Peak. We do this on a steep, technical path that snakes up and around the mountain in such a way that it seems to go on forever. I keep expecting the top around the next curve, and the next, only to find out that the relentless climbing continues.

Franklin Peak. Photo courtesy of Myke Hermsmeyer (mykejh.com)

Lucky for me, I am a strong uphill hiker, and pass several runners on the way up. For the first few miles, I was stuck in the back of the pack, on singletrack too narrow to get ahead. But this is what I normally do in races: start slow, then pick off runners in the second half. In a long race, going out easy is a good thing. The bad thing is, on out and back sections of a course it’s possible to see how many runners are ahead of you. I count three . . . no, four other women, the fastest a good twenty minutes in front. And I remember, suddenly, that this is a 50k, not a 100 miler. A much shorter distance. At mile 13, we are almost halfway done. Time to get moving!

A f fast downhill . . . fun while it lasted. Photo courtesy of David Silva

After enjoying the view from the top for a second, I fly down the mountain, eager to catch up. Because I have started slow, I feel fresh. And because I know my place in the field, I feel ambitious. A competitive instinct is a wonderful thing. It makes you push yourself harder than you would on a training run. It makes you throw all caution into the wind on steep, rocky downhill stretches.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a couple of mountain bikers ahead. Instinctively, I want to move out of their way, though the mountain bikers in Franklin State Park are the most polite bunch of people I have ever encountered on a trail system. One split second of distraction is all it takes to turn a fast, fun downhill into agony: I step on a wobbly boulder, lose my balance, and crash into the ground.The entire right side of my body makes painful contact with a pile of pointy rocks.
Maybe, just maybe, a competitive instinct is not such a great asset after all.

Curled into the fetal position and yelping like an injured chihuahua, I wave off the concerned mountain bikers. No, really, I’ll be fine, just let me lie here for a bit. After a few minutes of wallowing in self pity, I sit up and assess the damage. Bruised hip, bleeding palm, scraped elbow, all superficial. The knee is a different story. I gingerly remove the pointy rock that has lodged itself right above the knee cap. Blood pours down my shin, but I can bend and straighten my leg. No lasting damage, it seems, though I know swelling and stiffness will settle in soon. Also, the sight is an ugly one. I look away, trying to focus on getting up and moving forward. Mission accomplished, I reassess my race goals. Placing in the top five is now out of the question, but I can still finish. New goal.

I settle into a slow, painful shuffle, punctuated by many walk breaks. It’s physically bearable. The emotional pain of watching people I have passed earlier pass me back is worse. But I do appreciate their encouraging words, their offers of assistance, and of Tylenol. My friend Randy even offers to keep me company to the finish. I refuse to take him up on it. this experience is a good reminder of how I deeply appreciate the supportive atmosphere of the trail running community. I now get to do something I rarely do: chat with other runners, reconnect with old friends, meet new friends, spend extra minutes at aid stations, look around the gorgeous scenery, soak up the beauty of this day. Though my knee hurts worse once the bruises settle in a bit, I feel like the luckiest woman alive. The desert is a beautiful place in the bright November sunshine. I realize once more that what I have told others so many times is true: it’s possible to have a really good day at a trail race even when things go wrong.

The last aid station. I decline the offer of a ride to the finish. Six more miles of walking, shuffling, walking again. My leg actually feels better during the last two. Finally, the finish line, which I cross in the abysmally slow time of seven-plus hours, but still ahead of many other runners, including my husband, who, I learn later, suffers from severe cramps and severe blisters, but perseveres. My students have all finished their 25k, in 5th, 12th, and 24th place. What an accomplishment! They look relieved to see me, but also somewhat horrified. A good learning experience for them, as I point out: You see, this is what happens when you don’t run your own race. I wish I could follow my own advice.

Lucky for me, Shane Rilat, one of the many amazing race volunteers, has extensive medical training. He offers to stitch up the gaping hole in my knee right there, as long as I dont mind that he doesn’t have any Lidocaine or other pain relief. Of course I don’t mind. It beats waiting at some urgent care clinic on a weekend. Several people take pictures of the procedure, and race director Rob Goyen even presents me with a “Best Carnage” award — a good thing to offer in a race as tough and technical as this one.

I will never again underestimate the Franklin Mountain 50k. It’s not short. Really, it’s at least a 53k. And it’s definitely not easy. It’s brutal, in the best sense of the word.

Thank you, Rob, for a spectacular race on a spectacular course: organized, well marked, beautiful. This one’s a keeper. Thank you, Shane, for the seamstress work on that knee. Thank you, all my old and new friends, who helped make this day into a celebration of running, of nature, of community. Thank you, Ana, Gabe, and Ivik for daring to run your first trail race. Thank you, David, for being my partner in yet another adventure. My knee will heal, as will your blisters, and we’ll be ready for the next one.

It is a good time to be alive and running. But I might have to add one more race to my 2015 calendar now. Happy trails!

My carnage award. Well earned.

The RunRabbitRun is a tough 100-plus mile race in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. It’s in September, usually just when the aspen leaves turn golden. It’s also on the very short list of Hardrock qualifiers, unlike Western States or Leadville. So when a bunch of my friends signed up for it, I gave in to peer pressure, adding a third hundred-miler to my 2015 calendar.
There are two divisions at RRR: Tortoises get to use trekking poles and pacers, and they have 36 hours to complete the race. Hares, on the other hand, start four hours later, run on their own, and have to finish in 30 hours. The top seven Hares are also eligible for a substantial amount of prize money. My husband David, usually my source of support, could not get off work, which meant I would not have a pacer or a crew anyway. Like a fool, I signed up for the hare category. Four weeks surely was enough time to recover from Leadville. And six days were enough time to recover from the Imogene Pass run, which I had planned to use as my last long training run but ended up racing as hard as I could the weekend before.

Real Hare, or Hare impostor?

On race morning, I have plenty of time to question the wisdom of my choice. Except for Shannon Meredith, all my friends, even the very fast ones among them, chose to be tortoises. They start at 8 a.m. under low, drizzling clouds.

The Tortoises, just before the start

I have four hours to kill before the Hare start, which I should spend in mindful meditation, visualizing my race, or napping, but instead spend drinking too much coffee and looking up my illustrious competition on ultrasignup. I am ranked near the back of a very deep, very competitive field of ultra running’s superstars. What have I been thinking?
By mid-day, the sky is blue again. I head over to the start, where, considering the ultrasignup predictions, I line up near the pack of the pack, next to Shannon, who apparently had the same idea. At 12 noon, a sea of neon colors and rippling muscles cascades up the ski slope to the top of Mt Werner, the first of many brutal climbs totaling 21 000 feet.
I am a pretty decent power hiker, but feel like a slug in this crowd. Not wanting to wear myself out with over 95 miles left to go, I do not push too hard, with the predictable result that by mile ten, only a couple of hares straggle behind me.
Being in the very back of the pack – behind the fast hares, but also four-plus hours behind the tortoises – feels unsettling. Usually, I start somewhere in the middle, then move up after the halfway point. But now, I wonder about the cutoffs and whether I am staying ahead of them, not something I ever wondered about before. The afternoon passes quickly as I make my way back down the rocky, technical Fish Creek trail to Steamboat Springs and back up another mountain on the other side of the town. The singletrack section toward Cow Creek is among the most beautiful sections of the course: rolling hills, oak trees, sweeping vistas.

The setting sun intensifies the glow of the golden leaves. Squirrels dash across he trail. Larger animals – I try to imagine deer, not bears or rattlesnakes – rustle in the trees. Otherwise, not a soul is in sight. This is my source of joy and peace, my happy place where the chaotic world makes sense.

At Cow creek, friendly volunteers await with hot soup and encouraging words, and my warm clothes and lights are waiting in the drop bag. It’s still warm, but cooling down quickly, so I slip on long tights and a jacket, then slurp a cupful of Ramen noodles. Several empty clif blok wrappers go into the trash. I am sick of clif bloks already, earlier than usual in a 100, maybe because dinner time has arrived much earlier than usual. RRR offers honey stinger waffles at aid stations, so I stuff a couple of these in my pack before taking off, worried about the cutoffs. Luckily, another runner I pass a couple of miles later seems well informed and reassures me that we’re a couple of hours ahead. Relief washes over me. I am not in a particular hurry, since my only goal now is to finish in under 30 hours, which will get me into the Hardrock lottery, but I do want to finish.
Darkness falls. It’s chilly, but not too cold yet. By 10:30 p.m. I hike up the technical section along Fish Creek falls. Though I am careful, I move well and pass several runners. It’s difficult to tell whether they’re Hares or Tortoises, but at least I no longer feel like the last rabbit on the trail. My headlamp dies, much sooner than expected, but my little powerful flashlight is plenty bright.
The honey stinger waffles quickly become my new favorite ultra food. A little harder to unwrap, a little messier than clif bloks, but they taste great, and they show no inclination to come back up once swallowed. One per hour gives me 160 or so calories, which tends to be enough for me. I tear open another package around midnight. Thus distracted, I don’t see a large mud puddle on the trail and slip right into it, landing on my knees. Muddy tights, muddy flashlight, muddy gloves, muddy waffle. I hate to waste food, but this one is beyond salvaging. I’m wet, I’m back in the high country, and it’s getting colder. It’s a consolation to know the Long Lake aid station is just ahead.
I pass another runner, a shapeless figure, bundled up in voluminous layers like everyone else. A familiar voice calls out my name. It’s my friend Rachael, progressing at a slow but steady pace. We get to the aid station with its party atmosphere, where we add more warm layers on top of the ones we already wear. I find dry gloves and dry socks in my drop bags and almost cry tears of happiness. On the other hand, my headlight stays dead in spite of fresh batteries. After a moment of panic, I remember the flashlight, which allows me to continue.
Still feeling strong past the halfway point, I hug Rachael good-bye, then exit at a brisk jog, trying to stay warm.
It’s a cold, clear night. I marvel at the bright stars above me, but the downside is that it keeps getting colder. My breath forms icy clouds as the miles go by, no longer flying, but not yet crawling. This is the part of a 100 I enjoy most: running alone in the dark, under a blanket of stars, following the bubble of brightness my headlamp (or, today, my flashlight) projects just ahead. One foot in front of the other. Breathe in, breathe out. Human existence, reduced to its most basic components. I add some music. The Talking Heads sing It’s a Wild, Wild Life. Yes, it is. I love my wild, wild life.
1 a.m, 2 a.m, 3 a.m. I run alone most of the time, passing others who are walking, among them Shannon, who still looks strong. My stomach cooperates for once. Maybe it has fallen in love with Stinger waffles, maybe it just realizes how important calories are in these extreme conditions. There are more warm layers waiting in my drop bag at Summit Lake. Hypothermic runners huddle by the heater inside the tent. I still feel warm, but add another jacket as a precaution, just in case I have to slow down.
The trail down to Spring Creek looks beautiful, even in the darkest hour before dawn. Leafy vegetation, a creek, narrow wooden bridges. During the climb back up, exhaustion settles into my bones while the first hint of daylight dawns on the horizon.

The morning sky turns grey, then pink. A glorious sunrise gives me a fresh bout of energy, as do the sweeping vistas of mountainsides covered in golden aspens. Still, the long uphill on a dirt road is no joke. Once up, the sun makes me squint. I am now getting hot in my ten-layer bag lady outfit, puffy jacket and all. This course is like the sharp blade of a serrated knife. Like a shark’s jaw with its three rows of pointy teeth. Like the scariest ride at the amusement park. But at least this is the the last major climb, and it’s over by mile 80 when I get back to Summit Lake. The cold night has taken its toll on my reserves. I actually feel hungry. Time for a hearty breakfast of eggs and tortilla, even a piece of bacon. I strip down to shorts and a T-shirt. My drop bag yields a spare pair of sunglasses and a cap. Thinking I am all set for the last twenty miles, I yell a confident “68 out” and leave. Wait, not so fast: it’s colder than I thought. Back to the aid station for a jacket. Once again, I announce “68 out!” A few yards later, I glance down at my shorts: no number. It’s still pinned to my tights, which are back in my drop bag at the aid station. Time to turn back one more time. The volunteers glance at me, probably wondering about my mental state and whether I am fit to go on. I wonder the same thing. But then I say my final “68 out . . . for good! and leave, for good.
A rolling trail brings me back to Long Lake. According to the mileage chart, it’s ten miles from there to the finish, making the course 102 miles long instead of 100. I calculate a sub-26 hour time, which seems decent enough, considering the challenging conditions. But at Long Lake, I find out it’s 13 more miles. So that means the course is 105-plus miles? Yes, it does. Suddenly, I feel demoralized. Betrayed, even. I didn’t turn on my Garmin until mile 50 (which may or may not have been the actual 50-mile mark), because I wanted to have the comfort of data about miles and pace when I usually need it most i.e. when I get tired. I knew the course was long, but had not realized until my final pass through Long Lake that it’s even longer than the two miles it admits to. Beautiful, but not to be trusted — like a relationship with a really good-looking guy who turns out to be a cheater. My good mood evaporates, along with my hopes for a 26-hour finish.

The undulating trail back to Mt Werner seems never ending. In my deflated, disillusioned state, I walk everything except gentle downhills by now, grumbling under my breath about the unfairness of it all, and about the stupidity of 100-mile races in general. After what seems like hours of wallowing in self-pity, the distinctive smell of marijuana lifts my spirits. Olfactory hallucinations? Is that even possible? No, it’s real enough. I reach a bedraggled tortoise and his pacer, chilling on a fallen tree and passing a joint back and forth. They have decided to get stoned because, they explain, this endless course must be hell, and they might as well make hell a happy place. My feelings exactly! I consider joining them, but know I might never get up if I do. My dark mood is gone. I push my pace a bit more once again. A short eternity later, the Mt Werner aid station appears, a signal that it’s all downhill from there. The final 6 miles, down the dirt road, a much gentler incline than the ski slope we scrambled up so many hours ago.

Runnable, non-technical downhill. All the hares except for me, the hare impostor, have probably finished hours ago, but that’s no reason to slow to a death march. I coax my tired legs into a jog, promising them a short walk break after every full mile. It’s not much more than a shuffle, but I pass other runners who are walking, or standing still. Walk a few steps, run again. I almost wish for another uphill, just so I can walk without feeling so wimpy. One more switchback, one more walk break. Finally, a trail turning off to the left, and a smattering of houses ahead. Beyond tired, I alternate shuffling, walking, and stumbling. The ski village comes into view, and the inflatable arch where this race began, more than a day ago. I cross the timing mat, tired, disheveled, elated, happy to be done, yet a bit disappointed that the clock says 26:29 instead of something like the 25-hour time I had envisioned. But I finished. I can stop.
When the designated hugger hands me my RRR beer mug, I burst into tears – tears of joy, tears of exhaustion. A 100-miler is a physical challenge, a mental test, a spiritual experience even for atheists. It’s also an emotional cleansing, a form of catharsis. I have done it. 105 miles, in tough conditions, solo, without a pacer, without a crew. Later, I hear temperatures have dropped below ten degrees – Fahrenheitn bot Celsius. I also find out that many hares slowed or dropped because of this, and that I finished in 6th place, good enough to win a bit of cash. Suddenly, 26:29 does not seem so slow anymore.

This is an extreme race in every sense of the word — extremely well organized, extremely long, extremely challenging. A source of extreme suffering, but also extreme joy. The prize money is just icing on a beautiful cake. Thank you, Fred, Paul, and every single volunteer who puts so much effort into creating a truly outstanding 100-mile race that has already become a classic in the four short years since it started.

100-mile preparation: pack drop bags. Scope out funeral arrangements.

Leadville, August 22, 2015. Ready or not, it’s my 4th time in a row to line up in what seems like the middle of the night on 6th and Harrison, among 650 or so fit-looking buckle dreamers. Some of us hope to break 25 hours for the big version of the trinket. Others, like me, hope to finish because it’s the only way to exorcise last year’s DNF demons. Most of us wear buffs, beanies, or baseball-style caps, but I have, at the last minute, topped off my outfit with the cowboy hat I wore for the Leadville burro race. I am hoping for added sun protection, and for good luck. At 4 a.m, the shotgun blast sends me my fellow crazies out into the dark unknown. We take off down the boulevard and, a couple of miles later, file onto the single track around Turquoise Lake.
Mile eight or so brings the first low point of the day. I can’t figure out how to change the settings on my new headlamp, which is much fancier than the old one, but much more complicated. Yes, I should have practiced night running with it. Too late now. It’s on a dim setting and stays there. The conga line makes it difficult to find my rhythm. I trip over a rock and and fall. Sharp pain, a bloody knee, colorful language. The DNF demon wakes up briefly. I can hear him chuckle. But it stops hurting after a few minutes. and the demon goes back to sleep.
I reach May Queen in 2:16, right on target for a sub-23 hour finish, right behind the Dorito-fueled speed demon Adrian Stanciu. We climb Sugarloaf together. The weather forecast has predicted a zero percent chance of rain, but clouds are moving in anyway. A brief rain shower feels refreshing.

At the top, Adrian gallops off into the distance while I run down the powerline at a decent but controlled pace. Most importantly, I remain upright the entire way, which must mean I’m getting over my twisted-ankle PTSD. I arrive at Outward Bound in 21st place, bursting with energy.

Leaving Outward Bound, working my way up to 4th place, and to a bonk.

On my way through Half Pipe, Twin Lakes, and even up Hope Pass I pass other runners. By the time I get to Winfield, I have worked my way up the women’s field to 4th place. A brief stop to change into dry socks, a bite of turkey sandwich, and I’m out of there.
My energy level takes a sudden, steep dip on the return climb. I can almost hear the bonk happening. Maybe I should have had more than one bite of that sandwich. I look at the uneaten clif bloks and stinger waffles in my pack. What are they doing there? I think back beyond the Winfield sandwich, adding up my total food consumption since Twin Lakes inbound. The grand total is . . . two ginger chews. Ooops. I was so busy catching people that I forgot to eat. On the way back up Hope Pass, I regret my dumb nutrition strategy, but it’s too late. My stomach has stopped cooperating. I feel depleted, too weak to climb, but too nauseated to eat. I stop. I take a few steps, stop again. I dry-heave. I lean against a rock, doubled over. The nausea passes. I take another few steps, then repeat the process: stop, dry-heave, walk a few steps. I am not making much progress. Everyone I passed on the way down passes me back while I stand there with my hand on my knees. I feel to lousy to care. On a normaI day, I’m a pretty strong uphill hiker, but not today. Relentless forward progress becomes more and more difficult. I wish I could puke, but can’t. This whole race sounds like a really stupid idea right now. I curse Ken Chlouber for coming up with his hare-brained scheme in 1983. I curse my own stubbornness. I curse whoever designed this trail – a sadist who deliberately left out the switchbacks. In between cursing sessions, I try to think along more positive lines: Things could be worse. A lot worse. I could be injured, or have strep, like last year. Instead, every step, no matter how slow, brings me closer to the top. Not in time for a fast finish, but still under the 30-hour cutoff. Finishing becomes my goal because a 2015 version of last year’s DNF is too scary to even consider. The DNF demon, at home on my shoulder for the last 364 days, whispers familiar words into my ear: “Slowpoke. I knew it. You don’t have it in you. You are, deep down, a quitter.” I don’t have the energy to argue back. Step. Pause. Swear. Step. Dry heave. Repeat.
I eventually reach the summit. Even better, I let out a giant burp. This might mean my stomach has decided to go back to work.
Yessssss! Happy thoughts come back, along with optimism, and some energy. The DNF demon shuts up. Time to start running, down toward oxygen and the comforts of Twin Lakes aid station. Time to look forward to seeing my crew, to hugging my husband. I am beginning to feel more human again after I slurp some hot, salty ramen noodle soup at Hopeless.

Trying to smile for the camera at mile 58, but not fooling anyone.

I splash through the river, and then through a series of mud puddles, reaching Twin Lakes in the glow of the late afternoon sun, an hour off my goal time, which is not my goal time anymore.
Goals in an ultra, especially a gnarly 100-miler, need to be flexible. I usually start with a dream goal, an A-goal, and a B-goal. Today, the dream goal was a sub-23 hour finish. My A-goal, the sub-25 big buckle, is still within reach. Time to adjust, to regroup. I actually feel hungry now. Normally, I try not to fritter precious minutes away at aid stations, but now I sit down for a while and get some much needed calories in: potato chips crumbled into chicken broth, a divine combination of flavors and textures. An aid station gourmet meal that sounds appalling in real life but works magic in an ultra. I have a Fig Newton for dessert. Nothing has ever tasted better. We strategize. Our friend Rachael has dropped because of her knee injury, so her pacer, David (Infante), will run with me from Twin Lakes to May Queen, from where my wonderful crew captain-photographer-pacer-motivator combo model David (Silva) will take me to the finish. A much better plan than the original one of running without a pacer until mile 87.
We climb out of Twin Lakes until we hit the rolling singletrack through serene aspen forest, my favorite section of the course. The setting sun filters through the leaves, creating speckled patterns of light on the forest floor. Our pace picks up. Soon, we begin to pass people, most of whom I recognize: I have passed them on my way to Winfield, they have passed me on my snail-like crawl back up the pass. Darkness falls right before we reach Half Pipe. Unlike at Western States, I have brought my head lamp. And a flashlight. Yay!
We keep running strong and passing more people on the road to Outward Bound. After that, it’s time for the infamous powerline climb. This is the final insult of this course: several miles of going straight up at mile 80. At least five false summits. A deceitful, dishonest mountain that stands between runners and the finish line. The first time I climbed this, three years ago, it left me crushed and hallucinating. Now, I know what to expect, but I still can’ remember which false summit is the last. This one for sure, I tell my pacer . . . no, I lied. And I lie again. We go up. We level out. We go up again.
An intermittent sound keeps coming from above. Like a mooing cow, only deeper. A mooing rhino? Wait, what sounds do rhinos produce? And why would there be one at midnight on the top of Sugarloaf? It keeps getting louder. The unmistakable odor of weed wafts in our direction. Am I hallucinating again? No, we have reached a new addition to the Leadville course: the most surreal inofficial aid station of any race, on the Sugarloaf summit — the real summit, finally. Greenish light bathes the scene in an otherworldly glow. The mooing sound is some kind of horn instrument. People in Darth Vader masks offer bong hits and whisky shots along with more standard aid station fare.

Yes, it was real. A welcome sight on the powerline summit.

I am tempted for a second, knowing that THC or alcohol would send me into a deep state of relaxation, which is not what I need right now. I have visions of me sitting down in the middle of the trail, without any desire to move ever again, while my exasperated pacer tries to nudge me back into motion with a cattle prod. No. I opt for ginger ale. Refreshed, we cover the last few miles to the lake at a decent pace. My hamstrings are done for the day by then, but I still have some downhill speed left. David claims he has a hard time keeping up.

My husband is waiting at May Queen. Like a pony express rider, I exchange a tired pacer for another, fresh one – one David for another. The last twelve miles. Time to dig deep. I scrape up my last reserves, like from an empty jar of peanut butter. Here and there, I find leftover bits of energy. We jog, we powerhike. I want to slow down. David tries to make me run. He reminds me of how badly I want that big, shiny buckle. He reminds me of the layer of tarnish on my old one, and he exaggerates quite a bit in his description. I do what I can, but exhaustion is settling into my bones. It’s dark. It’s cold. It’s one a.m. All the hard running I did from mile 60 to mile 90 is taking its toll. Because I know that the next time I stop will be the finish line, not another aid station, I scrounge up every last ounce of strength. Run, walk, run. David lets me take one-minute walk breaks on the uphills. I suspect they’re more like 30-second walk breaks, but he can be pretty convincing. We leapfrog a couple of other runner who use a similar strategy. Then, finally, the paved road. It’s a mile to the finish, a straight shot up 6th street. Time to dig deep one last time. David makes me run every step, which is why I look like a crazed lunatic on the finish line picture. The red carpet. The clock. 23:34, 34 minutes behind my dream goal and 18 minutes behind my PR, but much, much better than I had hoped after the return climb over Hope Pass. It’s good for 5th woman and first in my age group. And good for a tarnish-free, brand-new big, shiny buckle. I hope the DNF demons will take one look at that plate-sized thing  and shut up for good.

100 mile races are like roller coaster rides. They’re exciting. They’re scary but irresistible. Once you start, you have to enjoy the ride. You can’t control much of what happens. There are highs and lows, nausea and giddiness taking turns. After finishing, you have bragging rights. The only difference is: at the end of a roller coaster ride, I wish it had lasted longer. At the finish line of a 100-miler, I am happy to be done. But a day or a week later, I can’t wait to sign up for the next adventure.

Thank you, everyone, who helped make this weekend happen. Thank you, everyone who puts up with my ultra habit, most of all my poor husband, who signed up to run the Leadville 100 and selflessly gave up his spot to crew for his wife.* I appreciate you more than you know.

*Actually, his entire training program consisted of about 15 miles, spread evenly over the course of the eight months preceding the race. He tried to make up for not running by paying extra attention to nutrition, but no matter no matter how many burgers and fries he consumed, he did not feel prepared for the Leadville 100 and decided to crew instead. I thought that “selflessly gave up his spot” sounds nicer than “chickened out at the last minute.” And I really did appreciate his crewing and pacing.

August 2014. The end of the trail at Winfield.

I am a skeptic. I roll my eyes at the mention of ghosts or spirits, benevolent or otherwise. I do not believe much in gods, devils, guardian angels, and their ilk. I used to not believe in demons, either. But after my first DNF in last year’s Leadville 100, I have changed my mind. These little monsters are real. They’ve been with me ever since I cut off my wrist band in the medical tent at Winfield. They come in pairs, one sitting on each shoulder. Most of the time, they resemble ugly, ratlike creatures with pointy noses, long, hairless tails and screeching voices they use to assault my ears whenever I feel inadequate. “Quitter!” they scream, in stereo, or “Ex-runner!” When they yell at me like that, I argue with them. I yell back. I tell them I am still kicking. I remind them that have finished other races, including two other 100s since the DNF. I show them my silver buckle from Western States. Sometimes, I can shut them up that way, but not often.

If all they did was insult me, the DNF demons would be annoying, but not dangerous, like mosquitoes, or like athlete’s foot. But that’s not all they do. Their tactics can be more sophisticated, more manipulative. They disguise themselves. When I’m exhausted, or when an injury niggles, they put on kind, motherly masks and lower their voices. “Maybe you’re not cut out for 100 milers” they suggest, in a soothing tone. Or: “You’re 45 years old, maybe it’s time to retire from this silly sport.” Or: “It’s bad for your heart/knees/body part x anyway.”
Sometimes, when I feel particularly fragile or vulnerable, they whisper. A soothing, barely audible sound. “It’s ok to sleep in. You quit once, you can quit again. You don’t have to run. You have nothing to prove. You’re perfect the way you are. You can gain a few pounds and still look beautiful. Wouldn’t you rather watch television, like normal people?”
It feels good to hear these things. Like a caress, a blanket validation. I feel tempted to crawl into the cocoon of warmth and unconditional acceptance they offer. It takes me a while to figure out the false tones in these lines, the innuendo underneath the fuzzy, inviting surface. The hidden message, which, behind the nurturing facade, still remains a loud, screeching: “Quitter!”

So I run. An exorcism is “the act of driving out, or warding off, demons, or evil spirits, from persons, places, or things, which are believed to be possessed or infested by them.” Running is my exorcism. Whenever the demons start talking to me, I lace up my shoes. Often, the demons are  at their most active for the first slow miles, while I get my middle-aged self into gear, before my muscles are warmed up, before my stride feels smooth and easy, before my body begins to feel like a well-oiled machine. While I lumber along, while my joints creak, the evil spirits rise to the surface of my mind like carbonation in a can of soda. The bubbles of negativity come floating up from the murky depths of my subconscious. It’s uncomfortable. It’s tempting to turn around, to curl up in a comfy chair with a good novel for a couple of hours instead of slogging around in the wind, or the heat, or the cold. But on most days, about 30 minutes into my run, the demon-bubbles pop. They disappear into nothingness, leaving a blissful clarity in their wake. The grass looks greener, the sun shines brighter, life makes sense. I run happy, at least until fatigue sets in.

I know that this type of exorcism is temporary. The demons will return. Whenever I feel weak, old, insecure, or out of sorts, I can count on them and their seductive whisper. There is only one way to drive them out for good, and that is to finish Leadville this year. I hope to exorcise the demons permanently. I hope they will go back into the dark cave they crawled out of last year. I hope I never hear from them again once I reach that red carpet, once I cross that finish line, once I hug Merilee, once that medal hangs around my neck, once that buckle is on my belt. And yet, in a strange way, I will miss the evil DNF spirits: they, and their annoying comments, have motivated me for the last year to train harder than ever. Thank you, dear demons, for that. But I am determined to say good-bye to you sometime Sunday morning.

I hope to get there again this year: The Leadville finish line, 2013