October 2023

 I already miss this summer. Not the heat, humidity, spiderwebs, horseflies, dried up creek beds, chafing, or overgrown trails. Not the jar that exploded glass shrapnel into my foot, nor the yellow jacket swarm that sent me into anaphylaxis. 

But I will miss feeling excited and ready to build after a pretty incredible spring. A marathon PR at 41? A trail 100 PR? It was hard to comprehend that I could still do these things after a few years of not feeling confident. 

Training was unusual as usual, but I put in some nice, big days before Frankenfoot. Pacing Cruel Jewel, an epic day in the Smokies, a much better Rim to Rim to Rim experience than last year, and Merrill’s Mile. All left me feeling happily exhausted. Thanks to Frankenfoot, I had to cancel a big run at Mt. Mitchell and the weekend after. But I got back to it without losing fitness and had big runs at Blood Mountain, Brasstown Bald, and Tray Mountain. 

Were they enough? Likely not, but with limited climbs in the terrain I have to work with and the hiccups in training, they'll have to do.

The good news is that I felt differently happy when I finished these runs than I ever have while training. Maybe I'm better at eating more real food and ingesting more calories in general. Maybe I'm going at slower paces. Maybe I'm just more mentally acclimated for the big days. In any case, I didn't feel gutted after these efforts. Sure, I was tired and ready to be done when I got back to the car, but I never felt destroyed in the way that I had previously. Well, maybe Merrill’s destroyed me.

But I didn’t feel like I was edging on depletion with every run. The only time I felt truly spent was after the 2 hour road run I did the day after Brasstown. But I ran a 2 hour half marathon in 90° the day after a 50k with 8,000’ feet of gain. Feeling gutted was not a surprise.

The thing is, as much as I love to race and to have these ebbs and flows in training cycles, I love being in the thick of it the most. The dish rack full of bottles, the Friday evening laundry and grocery shopping session to have my favorite outfit and fresh snacks. The 5am alarm to get to the trailhead at first light and the long drive home, devouring a family-sized bag of chips.

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I’ve biked down Haleakalā, ridden in a Jeep along the coastline of Portugal, swam with dolphins off the shores of Honduras, and gone scuba-diving among the flora and fauna in the Belize Barrier Reef. I’ve run across the Grand Canyon twice, around Mont-Blanc once, and trekked to Everest Base Camp. I’ve taken a boat ride in the dark in the Amazon jungle and drank pisco sours after an afternoon of ayahuasca. I’ve kissed under the Eiffel Tower, ridden in a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park, and shared cones of gelato in the streets of Rome. I’ve haggled in Marrakech and wandered the booths of a souk in Doha. I've awed at the opulence of Catherine’s Palace and swatted away monkeys on the Rock of Gibraltar. I've eaten fire-grilled salmon next to the Taku River and drank a liter of Hefeweizen in a Munich biergarten. I've visited a monastery tucked high in the Himalayas and done brass rubbings at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. I’ve attended a service in a 13th century Latvian church and marveled at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I've sipped apple cider in the Sleepy Hollow cemetery in mid-October and watched Fourth of July fireworks from Times Square. I've skied a black diamond in West Virginia, parasailed in the Pacific, and ridden one of the oldest wooden roller coasters in Copenhagen. I've clapped along to When The Saints Come Marching In at Preservation Hall and sang Sweet Caroline at Fenway. I've gambled in Monte Carlo, shot tequila on a Cancun beach, and drank Bushwackers in St. Thomas. 

And yet, there are days that I feel hollow. That these things are meaningless in the present moment. They read pretentious and full of all the privileges that they are. 

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I seek those days that I feel reckless and strong, pushing my body to places that I know will leave me in a heap when I finally come to a stop. Most of the time, I muddle along, shuffling through an easy run, a long run, even a workout. My mind and body push back and I settle for average at times because at least it's not awful. Those awful ones can stretch for weeks on end, shredding my spirit into a thousand little pieces. 

But on those rarefied days that the world seems to tilt in my favor, those are the ones I keep chasing after. Where my legs seem to be free from my body, hurtling along with power that seems like it belongs to someone else. 

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I'm using a sliver of lavender soap left from our honeymoon 15 years ago. I found it at a market in Corsica, amid booths of local cheeses and flowers on a warm October day. A consumable souvenir that has slowly eroded from a singular large hunk over the last few years.

It's next to milk soap bought in a shop in Copenhagen on the morning we began our journey back home from the Baltics. The trip that draws the line in the sand of what was once physically possible and now what must be different. It was a crisp May morning and I'd gone out shopping alone, no real plan in place other than to wander the cobblestone streets one last time in a city that captured my heart. 

There are two teddy bear soaps sitting on the window sill, tokens of the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel from the northern tip of Yellowstone. There was only a sink in our room and the bathrooms were down the hall. A small desk fanned whirred all night, doing little to combat the late August heat. 

A yak milk soap rests in the back of the pile, one of many purchases made in Namche Bazaar on my return from Everest Base Camp. It says it's made by Nepali women, but who knows how much of this is true. I found myself experiencing in the moment joy so often during the trek that it seemed like an eternal dream.

And the latest addition is a brown paper wrapped soap plucked high above Chamonix in the Aiguille du Midi shop. My entire body was wrecked from exhaustion, but it was masked by my own personal triumph. I had plenty of unused soaps at home, why another one for the collection? 

Maybe one day, it'll be just a sliver and the memories of last month will be whittled into just a few vivid moments. 

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When you're a kid, adulthood seems like some transformation with very set rules. It's hard to imagine that you'll just be an older version of you. I think I believed I'd have it all figured out by now. Surely by the time the crow's feet start appearing, I'd be just some boring evolved person who knew how to move through mundane tasks of a developed world with ease. 

And parts of that are true. I muddle through a 40 hour work week, changing the oil in my car every 5,000 miles, making dentist appointments every 6 months, and prefer to be in bed by 10 pm. 

I distinctly remember both my parents turning 40. We kids thought it was funny to decorate with over the hill banners and black balloons. Their birthday meant that it was a celebration, but there was a layer of sadness that seemed to hover over this next step. 

Of course, I had no idea that 40 was actually still so young. But everyone seems old when you’re young. And no one seems to mention that while your body starts to need oil changes and tire rotations, your brain is often just as youthful as it ever was. Poop is still really funny. 

I guess I just thought that at some point I’d feel like I had arrived. That the journey wasn’t necessarily over, but that I was settled deeply into adulthood. Maybe parts of me are, but there is so much I never would have predicted. Sometimes that feels a little sad, like I’ve missed out on what I thought my life would be like. But a part of me feels excited that as much as I try to predict how the next 10, 20, 30+ years will go, I won’t actually know until I’m there. 

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I imagine your autumn days are also idyllic. That as the sun rises later and sun sets earlier, you embrace all the changes that the season brings. The kids are back in school and everyone has fallen back into their routines. There are soccer games on Saturday mornings and football on the TV in the afternoons. Rakes replace lawn mowers and open windows replace air conditioners.

The younger kids are changing their minds about Halloween costumes and the older ones are changing their minds about college majors. A pot of chili sits simmering on the stove from a recipe passed down for generations. 

You take trips to the apple orchard, snapping perfect photos on the bluebird day. Everyone feels a little crabby after the corn maze, but spirits are lifted after a round of gooey caramel apples. A dozen cider donuts don't last on the ride home, their sugar coating flannel shirts and well-worn jeans.

False holly emits its sweet aroma on your evening dog walks. The weeks you can detect its scent are short, but the smell is discerning and full of memories of seasons past. 

You wear sweaters in the morning and tank tops in the afternoon. But every day, you exclaim how perfect the weather is after a long, hot summer. There are pumpkin carving parties and s'mores around the fire pit and you'll want these nights to never end, despite time constantly marching forward.

The one where I became a UTMB finisher

I was scanning the horizon, searching for a shady patch large enough to fit my body next to the trail. My eyelids drooped, over and over, begging for sleep. I was 55 miles and 18 hours into the race, but still had another 50 miles and who knows how many hours to go. A small patch of shrubbery on the left side of the trail appeared and I lowered myself gently to the ground. I set an alarm for 15 minutes in the future, turned my "I'm sleeping" card to face the trail, laid my head on my pack, and promptly fell asleep.

The sun peeked out of the clouds and I felt my legs warm. Concerned with sunburn, I pulled my rain jacket out and draped it over my exposed legs. A grazing horse neighed loudly nearby. I opened one eye and saw I was safely out of its path.

When the alarm buzzed 15 minutes later, I repacked my jacket in my pack, ate a granola bar, and clipped my poles back into my gloves. Immediately revived, I was ready to continue my journey of 106 miles around Mont-Blanc.

I flew Monday night, having learned my lesson from last year about Eiger and not feeling as though I'd thoroughly shaken the jetlag at the start. Though I arrived in Geneva on Tuesday afternoon, my checked bag did not. I had all my mandatory race gear in my carry-on with the exception of my trekking poles, but all my extra drop bag stuff and casual clothes were in my checked bag. There wasn't much I could do, but at least I had a few days until it was go time.

Roger picked me up at the airport and we stayed overnight at the Geneva Marriott. We had a wee too many drinks and lots of laughs.

I woke up and did a short run of 20 minutes to reset my body and enjoy a 50° morning. It was heavenly after running in 90°+ all summer.

We picked up a few grocery store items for lunch and our short road trip to Chamonix and then went to the airport to pick up Megan and my bag. Thankfully it had arrived the night before on a later flight!

In Chamonix, we got settled in our chalet before wandering over to the expo area for a bit of shopping and dinner. I took a guess on selecting the area of the chalet, but think I nailed it pretty perfectly. We were away from the noise and crowds of being in town, but it was only a short walk to get to the hive. The space wasn't huge, but we had a living room and dining space both inside and out and incredible views all around us.

 

UTMB has 13 races total and a new one that begins each day, starting on Monday. There is activity all week and we watched as runners made their way to the finish line from our table in the town Wednesday afternoon.

 
Back at the chalet, our friend Davide came over for a few minutes until he had to go move his car for the evening. It was fun to catch up with our Italian friend in France. He had started the PTL and lasted 24 hours before pulling the plug and supporting his other 2 teammates still racing. It's pretty wild you can "only" race 24 hours and not be anywhere near the finish.

 
All of us settled in for the night, tired from a full day. In the morning, each of us went for a run and met back for breakfast and lounging. Megan and I could pick up our bibs at noon so after asking multiple people along the way, we finally arrived at the sports center to obtain our numbers, drop bags, and race shirt. They were out of the size I registered for and the women's shirt was a crop anyway so I ended up getting a men's small. Feeling a bit ragey by this slight, I posted to social media in hopes of changing this for the future.

Megan and I both wanted to buy bib belts and a race hoodie so we went back to the expo to finish our shopping. I really wanted to buy a few more commemorative items, but was too scared I wouldn't finish. After shopping, we had a late lunch and then went back to the chalet to put our legs up and try to relax. I made myself some ravioli for dinner, knowing it was going to be one of the last real meals until the race was over.

I slept until 9am race day, but woke up a couple times in the night and had a hard time going back to sleep. Race day was kind of a blur. We spent time putting our packs together, filling our drop bags, and trying to keep the excitement tamped down. I was nervous, but not overly so. I knew it was going to be a really long few days so I was just anxious to get going.

 We left at 4pm to walk over to drop our bags at the sports center and then sat in the shade for about 30 minutes before heading into the madness of the start line. 

Once we got to a spot that appeared to be the end of a corral, we said our goodbyes to Roger and Casey and hunkered down on a curb.

Soon enough, runners started to squeeze in and we stood, listening to announcements in French and English, standing on our toes trying to see the screen. I always remember seeing runners clapping before the start, beginning slowly and ending quickly with cheers and whistles. Megan and I were surrounded by thousands of men. We were 2 of 200-some women racing in a field of 2800. I remember thinking just how lucky I was that not only was I getting to race this, but in the same field as a woman runner I know and really look up to. We had no plans to stay together, but at least we'd have this shared experience of the start.

 I didn't even hear the gun go off due to the noise, but soon, we were pushing forward and squeezed into the starting line arch. I clicked the start button on my watch and headed into the unknown.

The first mile was wild. People were lined all the way down the streets, 10 deep in some sections, pouring out from hotel windows, screaming, taking videos, putting their hands out for high fives, and creating an energy unlike any other start I've ever experienced. I scanned the crowd, grinning wildly as I made eye contact with people. Megan and I exchanged glances as we ran side by side, unable to believe it was happening. We were running UTMB.

I spotted Casey and Roger screaming at us and waved to them one last time before I'd see them again 50 miles later in Courmayeur.

Megan and I continued on the next 5 miles, chatting and enjoying the freshness and excitement of the early miles. People were lined all along the street and the river trail, cheering and ringing bells, watching the parade of runners.

At the highway, we crossed the road and came to our first aid station at Les Houches. Already a madhouse, we skipped it as planned and used the chance to get a bit further up in the field. At the first climb, I told Megan to please tell me if she wanted to just separate in case I was infringing on her race. I was happy to stay with her and have a friend for as long as I could hang, but I didn't want to stress her out. She in so many words said she was happy to have the company for the time being too and so we stuck together in those early evening miles.

It was mostly forest service type roads in the beginning, which still felt crowded despite the width. There were so many runners that it was hard to find your own groove and so I just tried to stay as relaxed as I could, hoping it would eventually thin out. At one point, we all had to squeeze through a single-person sized gate and came to a standstill as each person slipped between the narrow pass.

As the sun set down over the mountains, I stopped to snap a few pictures of the scenery. It was unreal and we were only a short distance into the race. I remember saying to Megan at some point, "hey, we're running UTMB!" Once headlamps were clicked on, it seemed as though the real race was beginning. Everyone was headed into the first night.

In Saint Gervais (mile 13.5/9:10 pm), Megan and I waved, knowing it was likely we'd get separated at the aid station, each filling bottles and grabbing snacks. However, as we exited the madness, we found ourselves right next to each other! The streets of Saint Gervais were alive with townspeople out for dinner, cheering from their tables and shouting as they made their way home for the evening. It was electrifying to be a part of something that felt so special.

Back out on the course, Megan and I power hiked the ups, jogged the very few flats, and tried to not get trampled on the downs. Runners who we'd been passing on the ups came flying down the descents, clipping our heels as we navigated the rocks and roots. It was very stressful and I felt pushed to go at a pace I was uncomfortable with just so I didn't get knocked over.

At Les Contamines (mile 19.8/10:52 pm), the carnage looked like it had already begun. This was the first crew access point and I remember thinking how odd it was that people already looked spent sitting in this aid station. They were sipping soup, lying on benches, and being attended to by their crew. I grabbed a few cookies and bread, refilled my flasks with water, and used my reusable cup to drink some sparkling water. Somehow, Megan and I found ourselves exiting at the same time again, despite the chaos.

The next section was fairly runnable along the river and though I was concerned about clicking off some miles at a faster pace so early, it did feel good to actually stretch out the legs. I knew that I'd be reduced to a walk/run at best later on so I tried to embrace jogging whenever possible, especially when it wasn't technical.

I was feeling good on the ascent to La Balme (mile 24.9/12:31 am) and I knew that climbing would chip away at the over 30,000' of elevation we had to ascend over the race. I love climbing and felt in my element as I locked into the steps behind Megan, silence falling over the field as we headed into the wee hours of the night.

The descent into Les Chapieux (mile 31.5/2:54 am) was fairly runnable and I felt people hot on my heals as we dropped down into the aid station. It was the first and only place they checked mandatory gear on course. They had small tables set outside the aid station with volunteers and everyone had to show they had an emergency blanket, a smart phone, and rain pants. Once inside the aid station tent, Megan and I used this aid station to sit at the very cramped picnic tables to eat some soup with rice in our collapsible bowls.

Past Les Chapieux, the climb up to Col des Pyramides Calcaires is 4,000' of elevation gain in 8 miles. The lower part of the trail is pretty gentle, but then it turned into a technical rocky snowy muddy mess. Somewhere along this long stretch, I watched Megan pull ahead as I decided I needed to take it a bit easier.

The wind was howling as we neared the top and I felt cold for the first time in the race. Descending was my nightmare, rocky and muddy with sheer drop offs that were only felt in the darkness of the night, not seen.

The time was passing very quickly as I suppose I had settled in for two nights of this in my brain. Once the first light started to appear, I stared in awe of my surroundings. I was in a scree field with the sun splashing light on the mountains behind me. It was stunning. I stopped a few times to take pictures and soak in the moment. Other runners flew by me on the descent, but a few also stopped to take it all in.

Down into Lac Combal (mile 43.3/7:14 am), I was relieved for hot food and a chance to sit. The light in the valley was beautiful and though I was 12+ hours in, I felt a sudden sense of revival after the food and sunlight.

There was a short gravel road section leading up to the next climb and I started chatting with Vivian from California as we headed up Arête du Mont Favre. It was a nice distraction from the task at hand and she was able to give me a few tips as she'd finished the race the year prior.

As the sun started to really rise, I was looking forward to changing out some of my gear and seeing my crew at Courmayeur. But first, I had to make it to Checrouit (mile 47.8/9:26 am). It was here that I started to feel truly hungry for real food and made a bread/cheese/meat sandwich that really hit the spot. I'd been eating things from my pack and supplementing from the aid stations, but my stomach was definitely happy to have a few hundred calories of real food. Though I knew it was only a short distance to Courmayeur, I refilled my bottles just in case.

Down into Courmayeur (mile 50.5/10:19 am), it felt very reminiscent of going into Wengen last year at Eiger. Warm, a bit chafed, and facing some monster climbs, I knew I needed to take my time once I got there. Casey was screaming her head off outside the aid again and lied and told me I looked good (after the race, Roger and Casey both told me I looked like pale shit coming into this aid station).

I grabbed my drop bag, found Roger (only one crew member was allowed inside), and he got to work helping me out. He taped my chafed back, forced me to eat some pasta, obtained a couple of croissants, and went through my checklist. I changed my buff, shirt, socks, and shoes. I slathered on sunblock, refilled my nutrition, and finally walked out after 40 minutes of a pit stop.

The climb to Refuge Bertone was full of steep ascents and switchbacks. In the midday heat, I started to feel cooked. Partially up the climb, a runner sat on a large rock, taking a break. I sat in the space next to him for a minute or so and then felt overwhelmingly nauseous. My stomach convulsed and I turned my head away to empty its contents onto the trail. Surprisingly, it was mostly liquid and after I was able to stop and sit for a minute, I continued on the climb.

Along the most beautiful afternoon stretch of trail for running, I was scanning the horizon, searching for a shady patch large enough to fit my body next to the trail. My eyelids drooped, over and over, begging for sleep. I was 55 miles and 18 hours into the race, but still had another 50 miles and who knows how many hours to go. A small patch of shrubbery on the left side of the trail appeared and I lowered myself gently to the ground. I set an alarm for 15 minutes in the future, turned my "I'm sleeping" card to face the trail, laid my head on my pack, and promptly fell asleep.

 
The sun peeked out of the clouds and I felt my legs warm. Concerned with sunburn, I pulled my rain jacket out and draped it over my exposed legs. A grazing horse neighed loudly nearby. I opened one eye and saw I was safely out of its path.

When the alarm buzzed 15 minutes later, I repacked my jacket in my pack, ate a granola bar, and clipped my poles back into my gloves. Immediately revived, I was ready to continue my journey of 106 miles around Mont-Blanc.

As I neared Arnouvaz (mile 61.3/3:52 pm), I knew I was going to finish. A part of me scolded myself, knowing there was still so many more miles left. But a part of me became elated at the thought that I was going to actually do this. I wasn't wildly above time cutoffs, but I was moving and feeling happy.

At Arnouvaz, I finally had to pee again and since there was no crew at this aid station, I didn't dilly-dally too long. Besides, I was most excited about the next section. Climbing Grand Col Ferret! It's the second highest point of the course and climbs 2,500' in and 3 miles. I happened to be climbing in the late afternoon sun and kept turning around exclaiming, "wow, wow, wow!" It wasn’t lost on me that while this was excruciatingly difficult, it was also excruciatingly beautiful. I reached the summit of Grand Col Ferret (mile 63.2/5:34 pm) with the biggest, cheesiest grin on my face.

The descent was fairly easy and I was happy to hit a bit of pavement as we neared La Fouly. It was nice to not think about footing for a few minutes and my feet were feeling pretty beat up. We were on the east side of the mountains so I was keeping an eye on the sky as the sun started to drop between the summits.

 

All of a sudden, Casey appeared out of nowhere, screaming my name. I was so confused. What aid station was I at? Did I skip one? Where was I? I slowed my jog to a walk and let her explain that she could see me at this aid station, just not hand me anything from my drop bag. Ahhhh, ok.

Inside La Fouly (mile 70.4/7:44 pm) I grabbed a few cookies and a piece of bread and headed back out to try to nap. I laid down on the pavement and told Casey to set a 15 minute timer. After chewing some bread, I sprawled out and closed my eyes. 

I couldn't fall asleep quickly though so I got up within minutes, used the restroom, and stuffed my cookies and remaining bread in my shorts pocket.

I was getting updates about Megan and the elites (yay Courtney, yay Jim!) from my crew as I was coming in. It was something to keep me motivated, knowing that others were out there battling, albeit much faster. Casey and Roger told me Megan was moving well and in good spirits and I was thankful we had 2 crew members who were willing to spend 2 days on shuttle busses to see us for a few minutes at weird hours of the day and night.

I don't remember much about the next section other than I was motivated to get to my crew and the potential of having a cot to try to get some sleep at Champex-Lac. I was headed into the second night and preferred to not sleep on the trail again if I could help it.

Into Champex-Lac (mile 78.9/10:49 pm), I shocked my crew by arriving earlier than the anticipated time. As I came into the aid station tent, I saw Roger chatting on the other side of the barrier to another crew member. I walked up to the table separating us and loudly banged my poles on the table, getting his attention. He came running around and helped me get some food and gave me intel (re: shitty) about the next section. I packed a few more things into my bag, including the last of my Spring Energy Awesomesauce that seemed to be working well.

I tried to sleep in the warm tent with the sleeping pads and blankets amongst a dozen or so other runners, but laid there only a few minutes before deciding it was a waste of time. Roger and Casey hung out in the tent, stating the warmth outweighed the smelly shoe scent. I, of course, was obvious to smells and feelings.

 
Leaving Champex-Lac, I nearly got run over by a car in an intersection and happened to be crossing around the same time Chris from Utah was as well. We swapped stories for the next few miles, hating on the crop top race shirt and discussing European trail culture. I was happily distracted and relieved for a bit of conversation heading into the night.

 
Unfortunately, the climb to La Giète was pretty awful as advertised. Very steep and very technical, it was a long slog to reach the top. I hated to stop and put on warmer clothes, but it got quite chilly near the top. The descent was just as rocky and I couldn't wait to get to Trient to see my crew again.

Roger had gone ahead to crew Megan at the next stop so Casey led me into the tent and helped me get in some calories in Trient (mile 89.2/4:01 am). I laughed that I had bread on a table that had seen a day's worth of carnage and could not care less about any remaining germs. I felt like I was finally ready to actually fall asleep and told her to set a timer for 5 minutes. I laid down on the wooden bench seat and promptly fell asleep. At 5 minutes to the nose (according to Casey), I woke up and panicked I'd slept too long.

Casey walked me out of Trient where arguably the worst ascent of the course awaited me. 

The climb up to Les Tseppes is wildly steep. A runner at the base of the climb had his phone open to the Strava segment and I swore it said a 22% grade.

I don't think my heels touched the ground for over an hour. We were still pretty bunched in even at 35 hours into the race and you needed to trust the person in front of you would climb continuously and not fall back. Treachery. I took my gloves off and on near the top, discovering they were actually a bit too tight for my comfort (I gave them to Roger post-race).

I sat at the top of the climb in the hydration tent, using the time to eat something now that I didn’t have to concentrate on toppling over a mountain. Afterwards, the trail started to meander down towards Vallorcine and I chatted with Jörgen from Sweden for quite some time as the sun began to rise for the second time. My spirits were high as I knew we were getting within striking distance of the finish.

Into Vallorcine (mile 96.3/7:47 am), Casey met me for the last time on the course. 

Roger had gone to see Megan finish and I was so pumped to hear she was almost there! In Casey's hands were 2 gigantic croissants and though I only managed to eat half of one, I was so relieved for real food and a tasty treat. The sunlight had revived me once again and I was about to make my final trek to the finish. We parted ways with "I'll see you at the finish line" and it all felt so surreal.

There was a small stretch of a horizontal section along the road, but I was only jogging very small increments. Once reaching the trailhead, I stopped to apply sunblock all over again and then settled in for the next climb. The ascent wasn't all that bad after the prior 2, but I found the rocky descent that broke up this section pretty bad. It was here that I had to extremelyurgentlypoop and sprinted off behind a rock, hoping for the best. My leg spasmed wildly as I squatted and was grateful for my trekking poles to help me up. I'll know if anyone actually reads this by admitting that I used a mossy rock as toilet paper.

I found myself behind Vivian again on the climb to the final summit at La Flegere (mile 103.3/11:20 am) and we stuck together until the aid station. 

I grabbed a few pieces of fruit, topped off my bottles, and died a bit inside when my quads hit the descent of the ski pass. Had I left any ability to absorb eccentric contractions, I might have done more than shuffle down. But my quads were absolutely destroyed and I was so unsure of my footing that I baby-stepped my way down.

The ski pass gave way to another rocky, rooty trail that I cringed with each step. Hikers coming up cheered us on. I smiled on the outside, but on the inside was very annoyed that they were taking up space on the trail. Finally, we reached a more runnable gravel descent and I was able to run for longer stretches. I doused my hat in a creek one last time and started panning my eyes for signs of the town.

At long last, I saw where the trail met the pavement. Naturally, we had to go over a metal pedestrian bridge with a few flights of stairs, but once I dropped to the other side, emotion came pouring out of me.

I was back in Chaminox. The finish line was minutes away. People were clapping and shouting at me all along the river and I had the biggest smile in my face. Volunteers directed me across the street and I followed the markings through town. I wanted to stop so badly, but I wanted to soak in these final moments. I looked around, unable to believe I'd done it. I was about to be a UTMB finisher!

Casey shouted my name and I saw her as I made the final turns. Children held out their tiny hands for high fives and I reached for them all. The noise felt deafening coming into the finish chute as spectators banged the signs wildly. 

A row of photographers awaited me at the end of the chute and I shook my poles high as I ran the final few meters.

UTMB finisher!

I stood in a daze for a few seconds and then started bawling. Roger ran into the finish area and wrapped me a big hug and soon I was bawling in everyone else's arms. Award-winning Shannon had hobbled over to see me and we chatted for a few minutes before I happily handed over my very heavy pack, got some food and a beer, and finally sat down. It was done. I actually did it.

I absolutely couldn't have done this on my own. My family, friends, and social network all cheering me on with messages and posts. All the training hours in the awful heat and humidity with my crew at home. My coach navigating training hiccups with stitches and bee stings. Megan L. giving me pep talks prior to the race and running 50k of the race with me. Roger and Casey for schlepping themselves and my stuff for 2 days, keeping me motivated, fed, and setting sleep timers. Megan H. and Frank hanging with Adam for 2 weeks to help with the doggies. And Adam, who sent me a text sometime on Saturday saying he was having a tough day too but that we were keep pushing and both of us going to get through it. Proud of us. It truly takes a village. 

August 2023

August 2023 - Random Musings


I'd be a liar if I didn't say I had tremendous doubts. I think about how hard it feels doing something a quarter of this difficulty and then compounding it with zero rest in between.

I can't decide if the scariness makes it better or worse.

I will always feel like I've never enough for this kind of thing. There is no real way to practice, and I'm not a high mileage runner, so I just feel all these doubts.

I definitely feel like a poser headed into this race. Maybe others have similar feelings? I dunno. I don't feel that way generally about most races any longer. Road marathons, timed races, flattish 100s, I've done those. I feel like I belong.

This is the kind of stuff that feels intimidating.

Which I think as a runner can be exciting in some ways. I'm trying something I'm not really sure if I will succeed. I've been scarred by DNFs. so while I want to always be shooting to finish, I don't want that to mar my experience in general. To be able to go run these mountains, at this race, and hang out in a beautiful alpine town with a couple of my close friends is the gift. The icing on the cake will be to finish the damn thing.

_____


I careen through the forest, my footsteps nearly silent. The green swallows the narrow ribbons of dirt. There is a steep and rocky incline to my left with trees jutting high and wide enough to create a canopy of shade. My body veers towards the incline as I run, staying away from the sheer drop to my right.

On the good days, I can skip over roots and rocks with ease, nary a pause for obstacles. My legs feel strong and effortless as I float down the trail. As much as I enjoy the company and conversation of a companion, it's when I'm alone that I feel the most free.

In those rare instances that fear is outweighed by pleasure, I let gravity do the work. It's hard to put into words the feeling when my mind is completely shut off and my body is at play.

______

Some days I feel as though I have it under control and that while it’s still back there whirling in my brain, I am just going about my life rather easily. I wonder if over time that it will become such an iota of a memory that I will no longer care.

Or will it sit there, staring at me like those moments that no matter how long time stretches, are still following me around. The taste of ipecac mixed with saltiness of soy sauce and mushrooms. The suffocatingly warm stairwell of a Manhattan hotel, the danger obscured by my own self-hatred. A stormy night of Norah Jones and a bottle of YellowTail that couldn’t drown my sadness, no matter how much I drank. Sitting halfway across the world with my head physically pounding, feeling the sharp edges of someone else’s sadness and wanting us both forget for just one night.

The shame marred in excuses of others, but my brokenness has always been there.

If my own expectations are high, just think about how you’ll never be able to reach the ones I set for you. Any achievement feels like it still drips with disappointment.

_____

I watch my ghost ship, wondering all the what ifs in those other lives. I'm drawn to stories about rewriting our own paths, full of time machines and portals and an endless supply of outcomes. It's easier to believe in parallel dimensions when we are free to imagine all the paths that we could have chosen. I've taken leaps of faith, throwing a hail mary to my future self and hoping it all works out. So far, I've managed to escape death and jail, but maybe come a little too close to both at times.

My ghost ships are all there making their own journeys. Some getting swallowed up by storms. Some wandering aimlessly for years upon years. Some washing ashore too soon. All are full of heartache and beauty and pain and joy.

They are full of joyful independence, full of children, full of grief, and full of loneliness. They are happy marriages and tumultuous ones. They are divorce and widowing and rekindling. They are homelessness, fame, wealth, storied careers, and parades of dead-end jobs. They are ended abruptly at age 22, long with chronic illness, and uneventful until age 99. They are ripe with intense and unwavering spirituality and also decades of changing religions as often as the sheets.

They are suburbia with picket fences, vagabonds in vans, brownstones in concrete jungles, couches of friends, acres in the country, ramshackle apartments, and perhaps, a houseboat. They are drinks too much, eats too much, desires too much, lies, cheats, steals. They are kind, forgiving, loving, volunteering, giving. They take lavish vacations and skip meals to save money. They know how to code, perform open heart surgery, perform for a crowd, edit a manuscript, shoot up heroin, shoot a gun, shoot the shit.

They etch their stories into thousands of lives and yet, they all end in ashes and dust.

_______


Where Have All the Cowboys Gone and AC cranked on high. Driving around in the warehouse district, the afternoon so warm and I'm carrying around a sweatshirt everywhere. I should be hanging out with my friends somewhere, listening to this song in someone's bedroom, analyzing the lyrics or talking about the hijinks of the night prior. But instead, I'm welcoming getting back in the warm car with my mom, despising how cold every building is in late summer.

The stories when I feel the most broken come tumbling out easy now. It seems strange that in those years that I can easily pluck out a memory from that exact space in time. The summer of '97 in particular. So much time to myself. Which was dangerous in so many ways. I should have been having weeklong sleepovers with my girlfriends, catching the latest blockbuster at the movies, and falling in and out of love with each passing week.

The summers seemed longer then. The weeks stretched endlessly and without anyone to share them with, I dove further away from the outside world. I remember eating peaches as slowly as clock drug on. Their cold, juicy sweetness the antithesis of that hot, awful summer. I’d walk for hours early in the morning, the humidity drenching my skeletal body. Running wasn’t allowed, but walking was and I, of course, took it to the extreme.

I could only be mad at myself for it was me who made the decision to shrink myself into oblivion. What began as a mild transformation, fighting off puberty and desperately wishing to fit in, took a dangerous turn. People talk about having an addictive personality. I don’t know if that’s actually a thing, but I did easily slip into the madness. And often find myself a little too close to compulsive behaviors.

_________


Is there such a thing as drinking too much champagne? I'm not talking alcoholic levels, but drinking it often enough that it loses its celebratory meaning. I don't know that we celebrate enough.

A gorgeous day. A beautiful run. Making it through another week of work, of a complicated situation, a health scare. A clean to do list. The lawnmower starting up in the spring. A day with sunshine and an evening of rain. 10 hours of sleep. Porch coffee. A really great read. A good hair day. Car repairs done in my own garage. A motherfucking PR. Birthdays, of course.

July 2023

July 2023 - Random Musings

I’ve been here before. The days that you are deep in it and it smothers you from every angle. It’s impossible to believe that you will ever surface. And then slowly you see the sliver of light and there is hope that you will escape the darkness. Eventually, you’ll float along the surface, waiting for it to come grab you again and pull you under. Part of you will miss the struggle, wondering how to go about life with this thing forever etched in your memory. 

It’ll feel too forced at first. But you hope that one day, you’ll be able to tuck it away and feel so far removed from it that you don’t feel tempted to be pulled again with the same intensity. As the months trickle by, it does feel a bit easier. The memories slowly losing details and intensity over time. 

_________

They were deep in the pain cave, their eyes sunken from the effort, blinking through the driving rain. There is a connection of endurance, our spirits intertwined by this innate thing that drives us to see what our bodies can handle. As much as I enjoy a warmed, flaky croissant and thousand thread count sheets, I also am drawn to scraping my soul by moving my body when everything is screaming to stop. 

And I wonder just how much darkness you can handle. I wonder how much darkness I can handle. 

Maybe there are the good ones out there who have fewer demons to battle. Maybe they are able to separate their imperfections from sport and are driven by goals rather than punishment. When things are good, I think it's easier for me to walk away from the pain. 

_________

It’s our discomfort that connects us. The pain of sore feet, blistered skin, legs cramping running downhill, and lungs exploding climbing uphill. For all but a few at the top of the sport, there is no material benefit. Everyone exclaims never again and then they find themselves on a starting line, a Groundhog Day of Saturdays with no one but themselves to blame. 

For those that don’t run, they cannot fathom the distance covered on feet. It seems unreal that people not only want to do this, but they pay for it, repeatedly.

I sometimes stare at a map and wonder how I ran that far. I know my body did it, but it seems unreal that it can.  

_______

I waited for the tears to meet the raindrops. As the sky opened up, I felt vulnerable with my emotions. They surfaced briefly, the grief and anger and sadness all taking their turns, trying to push their way out. I was tired and dehydrated to start and drug myself through the warm, thick humidity. Nothing about this felt easy except the familiarity of being uncomfortable. 

Uncomfortable with my thoughts. Uncomfortable with my movement. Running from the discomfort. Running through the discomfort. Running home to the discomfort.

_______

I write about the same things over and over. Worrying about the future that I cannot predict. Feeling helpless to make things any better now and feeling even less helpless to make them better as we transgress through these stages. I am often at a standstill. The toilet is leaking, albeit extremely slowly. And my immediate reaction is to just simply walk away from it. To acknowledge it would require me to take action. 

I don’t want to take action. I’m tired of taking action. 

All the things that I must keep track of swirl about in my brain. I try to see that I’m on the fortunate side of things. But is it so wrong to wish that the dishwasher is loaded the wrong way or the lawn mowed a few days later than I wanted?

I am standing in the garage, sweat dripping off my nose and splattering onto the concrete floor. The evening is still oppressively warm. I cut a piece of trimmer string and it is way too long. I work it carefully around the cylinder, hoping that I don’t lose my grip and forcing me to restart. Part of me wishes that this is the last time that I ever have to follow through with this mundane chore. But a part of me feels a certain sense of sadness that if I stop doing even the things I loathe, will it be because I am no longer able to do them myself? 

I forget the destruction of my legs each summer. They were first covered in patches of poison ivy, the wounds fading to pink splotches over a few weeks. As they were almost cleared, I tumbled over nothing along the cruisiest stretch between Lance Creek and Jarrard Gap. My knee was freshly scraped and faint bruises covered the length of my quadricep. I somehow managed to avoid sunburn in the high elevations of the desert, but back at home, the unkempt Duncan Ridge Trail obliterated any exposed skin. A yellow jacket managed to pierce my left calf and 24 hours later, my entire lower leg swelled.

So when I finally restrung the trimmer and stood behind it bare-legged, I didn’t think twice about it slicing my ankles and shins. They were already beyond repair.

The heat is troublesome enough to run in the summer, but I forget all the other things I hate about this time of year. The extra chores that must be done to maintain the yard. The mental health walks that leave me sweating just 5 minutes in. Even with the air conditioning cranked low, it still feels hard to sleep. 

__________

Alive.

Awoken.

I was a volcano. 

Too many years had passed.

Instead of slowly seeping out.

I erupted.

You didn’t know how it would chase you.

How it would snake around your ankles.

The ash in your every breath.

I’m smoldering now, fire waiting to be stoked.

Will you idle with my soot coating your insides?

I could hurt you.

Are you afraid I will fool you twice?

__________

I imagine that your summers are idyllic. Dripping ice cream cones, shrieking laughter on a worn out dock, and golden hours splashed with lazy sunshine. It's hard to get there; packing up the car and closing up loose ends at work and at home. The kids are fighting ruthlessly in the backseat and it feels as though you're headed to hell rather than paradise.

But as soon as the brackish air reaches your nostrils, there is a sigh of relief. The days are to be spent without an agenda, save for the meals. And even those are relaxed affairs. Hot dogs, sandwiches, and bags and bags of chips. The sun and water makes everyone exhausted and the littlest ones often fall asleep before they make it to the table. Everyone sleeps well with the creaky fans cooling their warmed skin, night after night. 

Even on the days it rains, it manages to be a wholesome afternoon with board games, puzzles, and naps. It's a time to read unremarkable paperbacks while curled up on a cozy chair on the screened porch. No one seems to miss their phones, tablets, or TVs. The adults scold the children for this at home, but it's often them that need the break.

There is sand in everything and the laundry is piling up, but no one seems to mind the mess. You crack open crabs on newspapers with a towel wrapped around your waist. Glasses sweat and leave puddles wherever they are placed. By the end of the week, your feet are a little more tough and your soul a little more tender. 

 

Merrill's Mile 6 Hour: A Visit to the Pain Cave

Funny how 8 years ago my experience at the 6 hour Merrill’s Mile was the penultimate in mileage and time. It was my first ultra and each mile after 26.2 was a journey into the unknown. At the time, I chose the daytime 6 hour distance and somehow lucked out on an overcast day. But I’ve learned that flat paved loops in July with zero shade are better at night and have only run the nighttime option since 2016. 

At Merrill’s, I’ve dabbled in the 12 hour distance, volunteering, etc., but found myself doing the exact same thing as I did in 2015 - using the 6 hour race as a training run for a late summer race. 

This time, I went in with zero taper and with my legs and body still in recovery mode from the R2R2R effort 2 weeks prior. Flat paved loops are pretty far from ideal for UTMB training, but the mileage and running fitness would serve me well in the big picture. And though I didn’t know it when I signed up, a trip to the pain cave would help me build some mental fitness. 

I completed a 90 minute steady state workout on the Tuesday leading up to the race and hill repeats that Thursday. Again, zero taper meant that I was going to be feeling far from fresh, but I was hoping that long and slow would feel reasonably okay.

Casey wanted to come run a few laps and volunteer so she offered to drive us up that evening. We got there at 8pm and true to every Merrill’s it had just stormed, blowing over 10x10 tents and pummeling runners with hail. Fortunately, it had subsided to a drizzle by the time we got there.

People were asking me what my goal was all week and I said somewhere in the 30s. Which was true, I wasn’t sandbagging! I’d had an incredible winter/spring of racing and have been feeling great lately, but I also knew the weather was going to be trash and I was going into it on fumes from recent efforts. 

Last time I ran Merrill’s, I started in the 12 hour and bailed after 50k. So I just wanted to make it to 50k and whatever else I could squeeze out in 6 hours. 

At the start line, I saw my watch (brand-freaking-new-as-of-May-watch) was frozen in between screens. I started mashing every button trying to get it to move, but it wouldn’t budge. Casey offered me her watch, but I just shrugged and hit start when it was go time thinking it would correct itself. At the end of the first mile/loop, it was still wonky so I threw it to her and asked if she could try to reset it. She worked her magic and tossed it back to me when I came around again. Technology…

Given that it is a one mile loop and they have a timing clock out, it wasn’t like I actually needed the watch. But you know, gotta get those stats!

I followed another couple of runners around the first few laps, letting them set the pace. But then I realized it was a little slower than I preferred so I passed them and tried to settle into something relatively comfortable. 

I grabbed my handheld after a few miles and got right on track with eating something every 30 minutes. Unfortunately, I think the heat and heavy sipping of electrolytes all day leading up to the race caused something to go haywire. I was so freaking thirsty and after finishing a 0.5L bottle of Skratch, I pretty much just chugged water for the rest of the run. I was drinking almost 0.5L every 2-3 miles towards the end! 

After about 90 minutes, I started to feel the discomfort come over me. My stomach felt unsettled, I was unable to quench my thirst, and the soles of my feet started aching. I stopped to use the portapotty and loosened my shoes a bit and that seemed to give me a little bit of relief. But after a few more miles, I had to loosen them again.

I was trying to just zone out because cardio and leg-wise, everything was great. A few miles in the middle were okay and I was hopeful that I could turn things around mentally. The weather wasn’t really bothering me too much for a few hours, but as the evening wore on, I actually got pretty warm. I decided to start using ice to cool down my core and shoved a few handfuls in my sports bra and in the pocket of my shorts. Thankfully, this seemed to help so I continued to do this every 5ish miles or so for the remainder of the race. 

My feet were still bothering me even after loosening the laces a few times so I decided to switch from the NB Supercomp to just the NB 1080. This was very reminiscent of The Stinger in that apparently my feet just don’t like carbon plates for timed races. Though I felt immediate relief, the damage had been done and the soreness was just no longer increasing. 

When a race is going great, the minor annoyances seem unimportant. But when a race is a mental battle, minor annoyances are magnified. The loop is fairly wide and 4 runners could be comfortably next to each other without bumping elbows. As the night wore on, I found myself getting more and more frustrated with weaving around groups of runners. I had to check my own attitude a few times, realizing that I was getting worked up about things out of my control. Control the controllables.

Timed races are always a little bit of a mind game in that I often feel like I spend the first 75% of them trying to get to X miles and the last 25% trying to squeeze out what I can in the time remaining. This one was no different. I knew where I wanted to be at the marathon and 50k mark and found myself behind a bit compared to prior races. Meh.

Once I finally got to the last hour, I was calculating out what I thought I could do in the remaining time and that became my goal. I’m not sure if it’s because water/food intake finally settled out or if it was more just the idea that I only had one more hour to run, but I did finally feel much better towards the end!

As I was looping around the last few times, I told Casey 4 more laps, 3 more laps, etc. When I saw that there were still 19ish minutes left and I had 1 more lap, I fought with myself about pushing for another one. 

It’s a training run with a bib pinned on. 

It’s a race! 

You don’t have anything to prove. 

Why would you not try for one more lap?? 

35ish miles is great. 

Why don’t you go for 36ish miles?? 

Part of me likes to think I was being prudent when I stopped, but really, I was just ready to be done. I was ready to sit down. I was ready to put on dry clothes. I was ready to eat something that didn’t come out of plastic package. I was ready for a beer. I was ready to go to sleep. 

I was proud that I ran the whole time and managed to keep a relatively steady pace throughout. It was good training for night running and I didn’t find myself sleepy at all thankfully. I’m hoping that I can go through the first night of UTMB without feeling too terrible due to the sleep deprivation. The second night of no sleep will just be a “fun” new place to experience. 

Anyway, to come full circle to my first paragraph, it’s funny how running 35 miles in 6 hours now feels like just another humdrum weekend. And it certainly isn’t, but sometimes I think about how these achievements get buried when the bar continues to be raised. I almost didn’t write a race report because I didn’t feel as though it warranted a story!