Ozark Trail 100: The Journey Ends

As of today, it has been 4 weeks since this race, for lack of a better term, "happened". I've been working on this for 2 weeks, which is by far the longest I've ever spent writing anything in my life. Sadly, that probably includes my academic career.

I am always torn about when to start writing. For me, it's not just about listing the things that transpired. Obviously, that's important...but I am usually more interested in telling what it meant, or how it made me feel, and definitely how I feel about it after the fact...how it has changed me. It's hard to strike a balance between writing soon enough to remember all the little details and waiting long enough to be able to fully synthesize the experience so I can tell the Whole Story. Not sure that makes sense to anyone else, but...um...sorry?

(Not sorry)


If you read my rambling train wreck of a blog entry from before the race...first of all, I'm sorry...

(Actually sorry)

...but that post revealed a tangled mess of conflicting emotions, rambling thoughts, questionable motives, and wasn't nearly as therapeutic to write as I had hoped. Usually my pre-race rant is intended to let me vent any worries I have while allowing me to really focus on all the positives so I can calm myself down and breathe easy. Instead it kinda felt like I had climbed the wrong way onto a horse and said "Whatever...giddy the fuck up!"

So I never really found that focus and serenity that I wanted. The day before the race was a complete cluster...I slept through my alarm, looked at the clock, flipped out, threw a lot of stuff into a duffel bag, and had to haul ass to make it to check-in and drop off my drop bags, which were not even packed yet. I had planned to wake up early, do some last minute shopping, calmly pack my drop bags, double and triple checking everything, maybe meditate or something, and then set off on the 5 hour drive to the race site.

As it was, I miraculously avoided speeding tickets, but still got lost trying to find the Bass River Resort, swearing constantly, and arrived with about 15 minutes to spare, during which time I had to retrieve my packet and pack all of my drop bags. So I got some of them packed, but realized I would simply have to rely on my crew to hang on to the rest of them for the aid stations they had access to.

I made it back to my parents' house in Rolla, had some dinner, and then attempted to fall asleep. It didn't really work. I was so amped up about everything I may have forgotten to pack and just how hectic the day had been, I think I got roughly half an hour of sleep before it was time to wake up and get ready. Aside from that pittance of a nap, I had been awake for over 12 hours at that point, and I was looking at perhaps another 36 before it was all said and done.

"And miles to go before I sleep." 

The drive out to the start of the race I felt sick to my stomach from nervousness. I've had butterflies before, but never this bad. It was cold at the start, but not awful. It was comforting to spend that last half hour with my dad and a few of my crew members, Heather and Janeé(the rest would be arriving later that day). As the minutes ticked down, I felt this desperate sense of uneasiness...I still hadn't really found anything resembling focus. I wasn't afraid. I wasn't excited.

I wasn't ANYTHING.

Something is about to happen, apparently.

I was just there. And then the race started.

The Gloom

It wasn't a gun. It wasn't a horn. It was a fucking SIREN. How blissfully calming...

So I began shuffling forwards with roughly 75 other people. It was 6 am and still dark, so we all had headlamps on. I was in a serious funk. Not necessarily a bad mood...just a lack of a mood. All of the blahs from the previous few months had apparently carried over. Here I was embarking on the biggest race of my life, and I felt NOTHING! And realizing this in the moment made me feel even more nothing. My feels were broken apparently.

So mentally, I was wonky, but physically I began to settle in. The pack stretched into a long conga line. The leaves had begun falling so the footwork was tricky. I saw a lot of runners stumble and trip, but nobody fell. The combined nervous energy slowly began to wane as everybody found their form. My footwork was pretty spot on, though I did catch my foot on something in the first few miles and the guy behind me joked, "Thanks for spotting that rock for us." Apart from that, everybody was eerily silent for the first several miles.

My pace felt good. I was running 11-12 minute miles, but I still worried it was too fast. But then I worried it was too slow. Everybody says to start slow. But how slow? I just tried to keep from exerting myself. And just like everybody else, I walked every hill. But people started passing me, and I had to battle my ego to stay within my comfort zone.

After an hour or so, as the sun prepared to rise, the sky began to lighten. Not long after that, I shut off my headlamp and let my eyes adjust naturally. I noticed that the guy behind me had been there for quite awhile, and had actually been the same guy who joked about the rock earlier. We somehow ended up engaging in some pleasant smalltalk for the next few miles. His name was Joe and this was his 2nd attempt at this race. In 2011 he had fallen at mile 25 and broken some ribs. And he had made it all the way to mile 80 before DNFing from a time cutoff. He said he just wasn't able to run. So he trudged it out with broken ribs for 55 miles. If that ain't tough, I don't know what is. He and I kept good company up until the Grasshopper Hollow aid station at mile 8. I ditched my headlamp, grabbed some food, and headed down the trail. Shortly after leaving the aid station, I felt a rock in my shoe so I stepped off the trail to get it out. As I was stopped, Joe passed me and I wouldn't see him again for several hours.

As it turns out, there was no rock in my shoe. I put my shoe back on and continued, but I could still feel SOMETHING on the ball of my left foot. I knew it couldn't be a blister...not this early in the race. And that firm knowledge slowly turned into paranoia that I had somehow developed a blister over the course of 8 measly miles. I tried not to think about it, and for the most part failed to do so.

The Kindness Of Strangers

A nice distraction arrived shortly after though. From behind me, I started hearing the faint "click click" of somebody running with trekking poles. I know some people love them, but I've never really been inclined to give them a shot, possibly because I am secretly inclined to make fun of them instead. Well, I'll let you know right now that exactly 24 hours later, I was definitely eating a large slice of humble pie on this matter, and one of my pacers can confirm this fact. But for now, I was about to be passed by a guy using them.

We greeted one another. He asked how things were going. I was still kind of in my non-feeling, unsure, funky mood, so I said something along the lines of "I don't know...I guess I'm just waiting to see what's gonna happen." I asked him how he was doing and he said, "Just fantastic. Any day in the woods is a good day."

Something changed. I realized that he had spoken an exact truth. I was here. In the woods. I was doing that thing I had been training for and fixating upon for well over a year. And so far, things seemed to indeed be going very well. I acknowledged his point out loud and thanked him for his perspective.

His name was Will. I asked him if this was his first 100 miler. He simply said "No." I then asked what other 100 milers he had done. And then he informed me that he had previously finished 24 of them. It seemed like he might have some wise words, so I asked him if he had any pointers for a first timer like myself.

"Just keep going. You'll eventually get there. The only reason I ever stop is if an ambulance is taking me away, or if race officials make me quit because I've missed a cutoff."

It sounded very similar to my advice to Hayley when I began pacing her at the Bear 100. He also went on to say that a lot of first timers go out way faster than they should, but that he thought I was doing an excellent job of pacing myself so far. With that, he completed his pass and left me behind. I thanked him for his advice and encouragement, and I wished him well.

Suddenly I felt better about everything. I was enjoying myself. I was moving well. And I would be seeing my crew imminently at the Sutton Bluff aid station at mile 17. I looked forward to the familiar faces and wanted to get eyes on the blister that, at this point, I was absolutely certain was forming on the ball of my left foot. There was a pretty significant water crossing a few miles before the aid station...both feet wet up to the ankles...so I was doubly concerned and keen to get some fresh body glide and dry socks on as soon as possible.

The mile up to the aid station teased us with a spectacular view as we traversed a bluff, even allowing us a glimpse of the aid station itself before we slowly wound our way down the hillside and crossed the bridge that led to the pavilion.

Drinking ramen out of a cup. That's how they do it in Belgium.

I was pleased to see Heather, Janeé, and my father all waiting for me. They made quick work of refilling my hydration pack and grabbing me some snacks while I stood around going "Ummm...uhh....let's see.....what do I need?" I also switched out my long sleeve and jacket for a short sleeve with arm warmers and then came the moment of truth. The wet socks came off and I looked at my foot.

Nothing.

My foot looked more or less pristine. I rubbed the spot that I was previously certain was a blister. It felt strangely numb, but the skin was completely intact. This phantom blister was simply a weird numb spot on the bottom of my foot. I had never had anything like this happen before, but I guess I was happy it wasn't anything serious. As I rubbed some lube on my feet and put on fresh socks, I made a mental note to check it regularly as my day progressed.

As I left the aid station, I made a decision that I have always sworn I would never make.

I got out my headphones.

This may not seem like a big deal to many people, but the simple fact is that I have never once raced with music up until this moment. The first reason is that a lot of races forbid it. And if I wasn't allowed to race with it, why would I train with it? The second reason is because of the words on this page.

I have always felt that listening to music robs you of some of the richness of a good run or race. I can understand a long training run where I'm not feeling my best and just need to hammer out the miles. But a race is an experience. It's something I want to remember every moment of. It's something I need to learn from and cherish. A possible reason why my race reports are so full of detail and emotion and "life lessons" is that I haven't been zoned out to music the entire time. Obviously this is simply a theory since I've never actually put it to the test.

Until now...

Dancing The Ozark Trail

Once again unto the breach, good friend...

I power hiked up the road for the half mile climb out of the aid station while I dug into my pack to get out my ipod shuffle. My crew car passed me as they left, cheering and pumping their fists. I would run roughly a marathon before I would see them again, and before Emily would join me as a pacer. The lesson I learned at Free State 100K was that, in the wrong state of mind, solitude can be poisonous and debilitating. I didn't trust my current mindset enough to gamble 25% of the biggest race of my life, so I broke my rule. I got the headphones situated and clipped the shuffle to my pack. As my foot once again hit dirt, I took a deep breath, pressed play, and began running.

As I'm slowly synthesizing this experience and getting it written down, a clear theme of this race is beginning to emerge. I'd like to take a moment to briefly introduce it so that you know what the hell I'm talking about when I reference it later...and because I can't really decide where else to put it, it is arbitrarily going right here.

A lot of what I considered going into this race and coming out of it is this idea of self-reliance versus dependance. In my own life I try to do as much as I can on my own. It's the whole "becoming a grown-ass adult" thing. I like how it feels to be living on my own and being financially independent. I want to think that I can translate that feeling into my running life, and for the most part I do ok. Then when I decide I want a pacer or a crew to help me race, I have to give up some of that self-reliance and some of that satisfaction. It's really a matter of letting go of the ego to enhance the likelihood of success. Even relying on music represents a small chink in the self reliance armor.

The other matter that weighed on me was the size of my crew. Sure, I didn't ASK five people to help me finish this race, but that's the number of people who freely volunteered. I like all of these people a lot and had no thoughts of turning any of them down. But in the ultramarathoning world where doing big races without crew or pacers is considered "badass" then I was on the opposite end of that spectrum. Did it matter to me that much? No. This was my first hundred and I wanted to make sure I could actually FINISH one before I started upping the ante on difficulty/badassery. Was I in any way unappreciative of the help? NO NO NO NO and NO. It was just a thing that made me feel self-conscious. Did anybody else have five people crewing them? I honestly have no idea, but I would suspect not too many. Would a five person crew prove to be excessive? I'll get back to you on that...

The music began and I immediately noted a marked improvement in my mood. I hadn't been in a particularly bad mood or anything...but a switch flipped in my brain. Everything seemed like it was falling into place at mile 18 of 100. My body was fully warmed up and ready to rock. My pre-race doldrums were nowhere to be found. I almost instantaneously decided that the music was perhaps the best decision I had ever made in my entire life. My pace picked up and the miles effortlessly flew by as I began dancing the Ozark Trail. Figuratively and literally.

Something I've realized as I've grown up is that for me, music is a full body experience. If I'm listening to good music, chances are I'm doing any number of the following things: Tapping a foot, bobbing my head, humming, singing, fist pumping, dancing, playing air guitar, air drums, air piano, air bass, or air orchestra conductor(you know, for classical music). I used to be embarrassed by this, but at this point in my life, there is no shame, just a fuller manner of experiencing music that I love.

So there I was, running the biggest, most grueling race of my life and to any casual observer I was flailing like an absolute idiot and singing along to unheard music. And I didn't care. I was doing something I loved and I had some of my best friends along for the journey. Friends like Phoenix, The Decemberists, Pearl Jam, John Legend, Madeon, Daft Punk, They Might Be Giants, Brett Dennen, and countless others. This music was a source of lightness and buoyancy for me, and it most definitely was putting fire in my steps because I started passing people.

I had decided to play a little ultra game that Indi M had told me about. You basically keep score for the duration of your race. Pass somebody? Plus one point. Get passed? Minus one point. I didn't start keeping score until the first aid station because I figured there'd be a lot of that going on in the first few miles. Coming into Sutton Bluff, I had been -2 from Joe and Will passing me. Within a few miles of leaving, I was back to breaking even. And then I started to slowly build a lead. It was a fun little exercise that helped occupy the mind as well as a way to express that tiny competitive spark inside me.

I can say without a doubt that the 25 miles between Sutton Bluff and Brooks Creek were the best miles of my race, and furthermore, some of the best miles I've ever run in my entire life. The terrain was ideal, featuring short climbs and long winding downhills with just enough technicality to make them fun, but not too tricky. I was in a great mood, blasting down the trail to excellent music, and feeling better and better about myself and the world.

I knew that this course featured several water crossings, and a few of them were mandatory foot dunkers. I had planned for this and packed several pairs of fresh socks for the duration of the course, but I really just underestimated how MANY of them there would be. I didn't count, but I wouldn't be surprised if there were thirty of them. Some of them were minor and easily traversed. But the majority of them required at least some amount of strategy, balance, and athletic ability in order to keep your feet dry.

Approaching a water crossing, you began to assess the situation. You'd look for a path of stable rocks to walk across, a fallen log, and a sturdy landing spot on the opposite shore. Usually it was just carefully controlled steps from one spot to the next, but occasionally it required hopping from rock to rock. Early in the race with fresh legs, this was usually not a problem, but I will say that as I passed the 30 and 40 mile mark, it got more and more difficult to execute a 5 foot double standing long jump and nail the dismount. Obviously I didn't succeed every time, but with each challenge met and overcome I celebrated. Keeping the feet dry for just one extra mile could absolutely mean the difference between developing a blister and having happy feet.

Because of the importance of keeping my feet happy, each successful water crossing became more and more joyously celebrated. Early on it was just a quiet self-congratulation. Then it became an emphatic fist pump. Eventually it was a full blown hooting, hollering, butt-wiggling happy dance.

Dry feet are a big deal, you guys.

One particular moment in my race stands out as the clear physical and emotional high. As I was approaching the 50K mark, I had been deep in thought about certain things in my life. First of all, that I was able to be deep in thought AND have music playing was a big win. But there are a handful of very specific things from the past 2 years of my life that I've really been beating myself up over, and I basically just decided to forgive myself for all of them. I am NOT a fool and I AM allowed to feel this way despite all I've been through. With that matter settled, a weight lifted.

And then this song came on.

This is quite possibly one of the happiest songs I've ever heard in my life. But at this exact moment in my life, following my startling revelation and self-forgiveness, it hit me upside the head with about a 5 minute stretch of unfiltered serenity and joy...a grown man running in the woods, bopping his head to music with a huge shit-eating grin on his face, and making absolutely no effort to suppress the happy tears flowing from his face.

At the time I appreciated the moment for all it was worth, but in retrospect I can say that something big must have finally snapped because I definitely have felt like a different person the past few weeks.

During this amazing stretch from mile 17 to 43, despite everything that was going right, I did experience a familiar but minor hydration issue that I've come to know as "old man bladder". This happened at Ironman Florida, at the Perry 50K, and it was happening now. Basically when I underhydrate, I reach a point where I feel like I have to pee, but I can't. It is uncomfortable, but manageable. And most importantly, it doesn't affect my athletic performance. If it hits, I simply have to increase my water intake and then I know it will go away within an hour or so. It isn't pleasant, but the alternative is overhydration, which has nearly ruined me on several occasions. Being low on sodium absolutely hurts my performance, and the lesson I've learned over the years is that I'd rather flirt with dehydration than with hyponatremia. I can deal with Old Man Bladder...I can't deal with feeling drunk, delirious, and debilitated.

There were 3 aid stations between Sutton Bluff and Brooks Creek that were crewed by race staff only. No crews allowed. I have vague memories of each of them because I tried to get in and out of them as quickly as possible. At least one of them involved a sock change, I believe it was Gunstock Hollow at Mile 34. In order to change my socks, I sat down in one of the chairs they had. I dried off my feet with a towel and a quick examination showed they were still intact. I reapplied body glide, resocked, and reshoed while I sipped on some hot potato soup. Once I was ready to go, I stood up. And I immediately decided that sitting down was no longer in the race plan.

In the 5 minutes I had been seated, every muscle in my legs had apparently agreed that we were done running. Apparently they didn't get the memo that we weren't even halfway done. Standing back up I was immediately hobbled by the stiffest, sorest legs I had felt all day. Getting back into a jog was a bit of a struggle, and over the next few miles all the kinks worked their way out and I was back in business.

As I neared Brooks Creek, I was still on top of the world and loving life, but I was a tiny bit conflicted. I was enjoying my music so much that I was a little bummed that I'd have to leave it behind once I had a pacer. But then again....A PACER! Hooray! Emily is definitely a great gal, a badass, and somebody who I think "gets" me. I was looking forward to having her along as I began carving into the real meat of the race. The sun would be going down and the legs would be leaving me at some point overnight. Everything after that would be new territory for me.

On one of the last water crossings before Brooks Creek, during one of my gymnastically fantastic standing long jumps from a rock to dry land, while flinging myself through the air, I wrenched my back pretty badly. My victory dance was cut short as I grimaced from the pain and tried to stretch it out. It wasn't awful, but it's something I could have done without.

My assembled crew of badasses(minus Erica)

I finally arrived at Brooks Creek. My crew was assembled and ready to spring into action. I had a list of things that needed doing. They immediately set to work helping me get those things done. I needed to change out of shorts and into tights for the impending cold night. Add layers. Fill up water. Eat food. Change socks.

Hmm...the changing socks thing seemed a lot more complicated if I wasn't allowed to sit down anymore. Changing into my tights definitely involved not a lot of modesty as I walked behind a car and said, "I'm getting naked." before unceremoniously dropping trou. Once the tights were on, I walked back to my crew who were all scampering around getting me things. I discussed the sock change and the limitation of no sitting. Without a moment's hesitation, Heather squatted down and began removing my shoes and socks, toweling off and lubing my feet, and replacing socks and shoes, all while Janeé held onto my arm for stability. In terms of the self-reliance vs dependance thing, this was definitely a significant moment. And it wouldn't be the last.

Up All Night To Get Buckles

Emily was strapped in and ready to go, so once I was filled up, fooded up, layered up, and content, we ponied up and headed out to the sound of cheers from the rest of the gang. I restated my expectations for myself, that I needed to run the flats and downs, and hike the ups. She verbally confirmed the plan and we began chipping away at the 25 miles she was responsible for pacing me through. I ran in front and she followed close behind as we got the conversation going. We talked about rock climbing, Homestar Runner, light switch raves, skydiving, adventures in Alaska, her stint as a collegiate athlete at KU, and...you know...running until you puke.

The early miles running with Emily were continuing in the excellent style of the miles before she joined me. I was moving well and not hurting too badly yet. As the sun set, we brought the headlamps out. The really serious pain that I knew would eventually come was kept at bay for the time being by the ibuprofen I'd been taking periodically throughout the day. I don't remember exactly when it did hit, mostly because it was such a gradual change. Subtle changes in our runner/pacer relationship started to appear. I started needing to be prompted to run on a flat or downhill section. I wasn't unwilling or unable, it was just no longer my natural instinct to do so. She'd say "Hey, run this." and I'd run it. As the miles passed, the pain and fatigue slowly grew. My response time to "Hey, run this." became slightly delayed, and then more and more delayed.

Honestly the thing that hurt the most was the bottoms of my feet. They'd been pounding the dirt, rocks, and roots for about 12 hours at this point and were getting awfully sore. Additionally, my left ankle...the same ankle that had been giving me trouble in October and for which I tapered a week early...slowly began to indicate its displeasure with the current activities it was involved with. It wasn't necessarily painful, but it just felt less stable than it should have been. The pain came later.

As we delved into the long night, Emily got out her smartphone which had some music saved on it. The first track was Daft Punk's "Get Lucky" which I was still in a good enough mood and had enough spare energy to do a sort-of "running/robot dance/butt wiggle" along to. The next track was apparently Miley Cyrus "Wrecking Ball", but I informed her that I'd never heard it, nor did I have any interest in ever hearing it, so it got skipped. The next track was this delightful techno track whose only redeeming feature was the repeated spoken line, "All day. All night. All day. All night. What the fuck!?" It turns out that Emily only had 12 songs on her phone(one of which was Miley Cyrus), and limited battery, so she only got it out on occasion when the conversation lulled or if I was struggling more than usual.

We were still moving really well when we rolled into and out of the aid station at  Highway DD, roughly the halfway mark of this journey. Staffed by friendly faces, I made good on my promise to deliver smothering bearhugs to Coleen and the rest of her wondrous crew. I added a layer on top for the coldest stretch of the night, which was expected to dip into the teens, and ate something delicious and warm, but I honestly have no recollection of what it was. We passed several people in the mile or two after that aid station, and I was honestly feeling pretty good about things. I think I calculated that I was reasonably on pace to finish in 28-29 hours at that point.

As the night wore on, the wheels on my freight train slowly wore down. Transitioning from a walk to a run involved a bit of a windup, usually 5-10 steps long, before I was able to lurch into a stride of any kind. One interesting thing I noticed was that if I was able to muster it, running fast hurt less than running slow. Something about inertia, or which muscle groups were utilized, or maybe just how I held my body. But it soon became less about what my muscles could do, and more about how technical and uncertain the footing was. Some of this terrain was perfectly runnable, flat or downhill, but as was heavily advertised in the race description, the leaves covering everything were proving very difficult on my increasingly unstable ankle and my sore feet. It would have been fine if I could have just refrained from stepping on rocks and roots, but it was really a crapshoot every time I put down my foot.

So it was from about mile 55 onwards that my pace began to suffer due to the mildly technical and hidden terrain. The only thing I could confidently run was a dry path with no obstacles of any size on it, and not too steep on the downhills either. I came close to face-planting several times. Emily was doing an excellent job of keeping me moving, but I did make the following proposal to her. If I were to fall, I was allowed to lay on the ground for at least a minute before she made me get back up and continue moving. I think she agreed, but I honestly don't remember.

Significant moments in this stretch were when we passed the 15:30 mark which represented the longest time I had ever spent running/racing/exercising in any form. And a while later we passed 62 miles, which was my previous longest distance covered on foot. I then trudged off into the unknown...

As it turns out, "the unknown" was getting increasingly unpleasant, painful, and slow. I am sad to admit that I remember very few details about the miles leading into Hazel Creek aside from the fact that I suffered greatly. Some of the people that I had passed in the previous 10 miles were beginning to pass me back. I do remember that Emily and I were getting increasingly clever and resourceful in negotiating water crossings with dry feet. Occasionally, we'd hike 20 yards down from where the trail crossed the water to find a more suitable path across. One crossing in particular definitely stands out in my mind. The water was several feet deep and a good 30 feet across. I really didn't want to get my feet wet, since they had been good and dry for quite a while now. There appeared to be only one way to get across, and it looked sketchy at best.

There was a tree which had been uprooted near the opposite shore. It had fallen towards the shore we were standing on. Some delicate scrambling allowed us to walk balance beam style across the trunk of this tree to the massive root structure which was now exposed above the water. From the roots of this tree, it was another 7-8 feet to dry land. Emily went first. She climbed around the roots to the other side facing the landing zone, was somehow able to find a solid root to stand on. From her precarious perch, she spied a rock that would allow for a well-aimed medium sized leap followed by a smaller leap to the shore. After seeing what she had done, and not trusting that my fatigued legs could successfully control the landing on such a small target, I basically just went for the gusto and heaved my body straight at the sand. My back wrenched again really badly as my feet struck dry earth. My feet were dry, but not remotely happy. This was the last major obstacle before Hazel Creek at mile 68, where I would be joined by Delaware for the next 13 miles.

I arrived to cheers and hugs from my crew. It was nearly 12:30 am. I was in piss-poor shape, and I know everyone could tell. The whole "no sitting down" thing which had been previously implemented was now a moot point. My legs were trashed and there was nothing I could do that would make them much worse, so I sagged into a chair as my crew sprang into action. I don't remember being altogether coherent, but they asked all the right questions. Heather once again dove into the disgusting and thankless "foot duty". My hydration pack was filled, warm food was brought to me. I got another dose of ibuprofen. This was the point in my race where I had planned to change shoes, and I did so. I still had no blisters, luckily, and having on fresh shoes and socks was about the only thing I had that felt nice. I think there was also some hot chocolate that was wondrous. In fact...I'm gonna go make myself a cup right now. Be right back.

(Author seriously just made himself hot chocolate) 

So there I was, sitting in a camp chair in front of a space heater, watching helplessly as 4 amazing people fulfilled my every need(Erica would not arrive until I reached Berryman). Remember that whole "self reliance" thing? Along with my ego, that was a distant memory at this point. I was incapable of doing any single one of these tasks. Removing my own shoes alone would have taken 5 minutes. I couldn't even touch my toes at this point without experiencing severe discomfort. After my feet were taken care of, Heather even took a few moments to roll out my quads because she's awesome.

This whole time while I was staring around with glazed eyes in a fog of sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion, the aid station captain kept telling me how much BETTER I looked than everyone else who had been coming through. First of all, I know that is complete and utter BS, but at the time I was gullible enough to be uplifted by this terrible, awful lie. My amazing crew had me in and out of Hazel Creek in just about 20 minutes, which is a minor miracle when I consider how I felt. I was hurting for sure, but I was somehow still increasing the time cushion between myself and Cutoff Land. Leaving Hazel Creek I had nearly 2 hours to spare. SURELY, that would be plenty.

An Ode To Delaware and NSAIDs

As Delaware and I left, he was in front and settled right into a modest trot...which looked like a god-damned sprint to me. I immediately informed him that running wasn't quite in the cards yet. I was still moving just as poorly as I had when I arrived at the aid station, basically walking very gingerly and occasionally a slow trot if there was nothing technical to turn my ankle on.

Delaware complied and kept his pace at a purposeful hike 10-20 yards in front of me. But after a few miles I was growing discontent. This wasn't working for me. I needed him back here, talking to me, encouraging me. I'm certain he thought he was pulling me along, but in the dark places of my brain, that 10-20 yards was telling me how slow I was and how pitiful it was that I couldn't keep up. I knew I should just SAY something but the dark places were winning the argument and I remained silent. I realized there were sections that I was walking that I was perfectly capable of running at this point. The only reason I wasn't running them was because I didn't have somebody behind me telling me to do so. You have to try the carrot, and when that doesn't work, you use the stick. I needed the stick. So I found an opportune moment for this to happen.

It was time to take my asthma medicine, so I asked Del to retrieve it from my pack. After taking it, I told him I wanted(needed) to be in front. I didn't explain why, but he excitedly gave me the keys and put me in the driver's seat. From that moment, everything came back together. Being back in charge, and knowing he was behind me keeping me accountable to running what was runnable, I began to run more regularly and for longer stretches.

For certain, the ibuprofen had come through in a big way. Everything still hurt, but it was just enough to take the edge off so I could move effectively. I ran good long stretches and he pumped me up in the best way possible with every effort. And he talked my ear off about all the stuff that Delaware likes to talk about. He told me how great I looked even though I probably looked like a homeless drug-addict zombie shambling through the woods. After 5 or so really great miles, the trail spilled briefly onto a dirt road which led to Pigeon Roost at mile 76. We followed this dirt road for a very short distance, but my mind was blown when I looked up. Being out of the woods afforded us a clear view of the sky on a moonless night, miles and miles from any form of civilization. I asked that we walk the rest of the way into the aid station with headlamps turned off. As we switched them off, I saw the universe in its entirety. I swear I've never seen more stars in my life. It was breathtaking, awe-inspiring, and incredibly moving.

Arriving at Pigeon Roost we saw some other runners taking a breather. One of them was currently being informed that she was 3rd place female. I also inquired about who was the 1st place female. Of course it was Mindy Coolman, and of course she had been smiling when she rolled through. But hey, I was keeping pace with 3rd female, so that was cool. I didn't sit because I was moving and didn't want to ruin that. We got some food and headed back out into the darkness, leaving behind several runners. In terms of the game I was playing, this was as high as my score ever got, and I believe it stood at 10 when I left Pigeon Roost. We could see some headlamps farther ahead of us and I was keen to see if I could catch them.

In the 5 miles between Pigeon Roost and Berryman Campground there are differing accounts of how it all went down. Delaware claims that the wheels slowly fell off over that stretch, but in my recollection I was moving really well until I was 2 miles out from the aid station. And that's when IT finally happened. This is my race report, so I'm going with what I remember.

In the midst of a good section of running, my left ankle rolled really hard. It didn't slow me down too much, and I kept running. 10 seconds later it rolled again, even harder. And that's when my dog and pony show ground to a halt. I didn't know it at the time, but that ankle was done. Finished. Spent. Kaput. Proper-fucked. I knew I had to walk a bit to try and work it out, loosen it up. I knew it'd just take some time, so I power-hiked until such a time as it felt ok to run on it again. And then we made the turn off to Berryman at mile 81.

The crew was amazing, of course. They sat me down and made me eat. My feet hadn't gotten wet again, so no sock change was required. Heather rolled out my quads and calves. It was possibly a religious experience...I might've heard the voice of God. It wasn't time for ibuprofen yet, because I like my kidneys and stuff. But food needed to happen.

Since nightfall, the only aid station food I'd been interested in was hot soup...usually ramen noodles or potato soup. Then somebody said "They've got pierogis." Then I said, "What's that?" Apparently it's some kinda meat-filled pastry-type thing. It immediately sounded like a thing that I could eat and possibly enjoy.

I had two. Under normal circumstances I might've described them as "delicious" but at that moment they were simply "edible". I've never really had problems with nausea or keeping food down during a race, so it is perplexing to me that I wasn't inhaling food at this point in the race. I didn't feel nauseous. For the most part, the thought of solid food just made me feel like this.

According to the notes that Heather took while crewing, I was only at Berryman for 12 minutes. Thinking back on the state I was in...I'm actually getting choked up thinking about how amazing my crew performed on my behalf. Until I actually saw the timestamps she hand wrote, I would've sworn up and down that I was there for more than half an hour. But they took care of me, fed me, and most importantly, got me back up and moving...

...this time with Honey Badger Erica Motherfucking Carper at the helm of my slowly sinking ship. And I can honestly think of nobody better suited to the task of kicking my ass, calling me names, screaming obscenities...or whatever it would take to push me through the most painful and grueling portion of a race like this. I specifically wanted her for this stretch for those particular qualities of her personality. As we hiked back out into the darkness, with 22 miles left to go, I prepared to be abused...but I'd be moving.

"We handled this grim section with the well-known technique of struggling." *

The ankle was a problem. A big one. I kept waiting for it to get better. And I waited some more. And then I realized it wasn't going to happen. A few miles passed, clocking in at close to 30 minutes apiece. Maybe once I could get some ibuprofen back on board, THEN....then I could start running again.

That never actually happened. I kept hobbling. And time was slipping away. I slowly began to develop an alarming sense of panic. My 2 hour time cushion didn't seem quite so rock-solid anymore. I kept looking at my watch, trying to do math in my head, failing to do math in my head, and then freaking out just a little bit more, even though I hadn't actually made any new conclusions. I voiced my concerns that I might not be able to make it.

Erica, the badass...the asskicker...the whipcracker...she came through with a nearly instantaneous reassurance that we had "plenty of time". And I believed her. I can't overemphasize how important that moment was. If there had been any doubt in my mind that finishing was still possible, even at my pathetic pace, I really don't want to think about what might have happened. I learned how dangerous despair is when I paced Hayley. It had nearly stopped BOTH of us cold in our tracks. But Erica knew exactly where my mind was, where it was headed, and she stopped THAT thought process cold in its tracks. Honestly, I can't for a moment believe that she wasn't thinking the exact same thing, but the important thing is that she never once let a speck of doubt show.

We were gonna make it...now shut the fuck up, Danny.

That wasn't my only freakout of this stretch, unfortunately. A few miles later I once again convinced myself that I HAD to get moving or I would surely fail. I'm not sure you could call it running, even loosely defined...but for roughly a mile I was able to desperately fling my body forward at a pace faster than walking, only out of sheer terror that I might have come so far only to ultimately fail.

Erica once again reeled me in and reassured me we were ok. She calmly told me not to waste all of my remaining energy at this point because I might need it later. And honestly, I was probably seriously endangering my safety trying to move the way I was. It was entirely reckless and I'm still shocked that I didn't plant my face onto a rock. I did end up rolling the bad ankle several more times during this ill-advised feat. Each time I rolled it again, the slowly growing injury to my back was compounded further.

Once I finally accepted and trusted Erica's assessment that we could finish, I calmed down and settled in to basically hike it in the rest of the way. Normally, my pride would have had a huge problem with this. After all, this was an "endurance run" and I wanted to fucking run! I did finally get that next dose of ibuprofen, and the effect, once it kicked in, only provided about 5 minutes of mild relief from the horrendous pain I was experiencing in my ankle and back.

As the sun began to rise, we approached Billy's Branch, the aid station at mile 90. I was completely delirious and unable to form complete thoughts or sentences. I think somebody I know was volunteering there, but I have no recollection of who it was. Erica somehow acquired a brief spot of cellphone coverage and was able to snap this photo and transmit it to Facebook to show the world that I was "almost done" and looking "great".

This man knows where he is. Probably.

At mile 90, with 13 miles to go, I finally had a familiar distance to calculate splits based on how much time we had left. I had to finish by 2:00 pm, and it was 8:00 am. That's a half marathon in about 6 hours. I'd have to maintain a pitiful pace of 25-30 minutes per mile with another aid station left to go. Think about that for a moment, and then realize that it was a HUGE effort to maintain that pace with how broken my body was.

We continued moving. The only things I remember about the 6 miles between Billy's Branch and Henpeck Hollow were the fall colors. Many of the leaves had fallen, contributing to my current woeful state...but the leaves that hadn't yet fallen were utterly breathtaking. I might have been emotionally moved by the sight, but those parts of my brain were on sleep mode, allowing only for the most basic of thought processes involved in forward motion and survival.

Remember when I made fun of trekking poles earlier? Oh yeah, of course you remember. If you don't remember...I made fun of trekking poles earlier. And my comeuppance is thus! In the last few miles before Henpeck Hollow, I said to Erica, "I would absolutely kill for some trekking poles right now."

It all made sense. I was a fool. Humble pie NOM NOM NOM NOM!!!! I can't believe I ate the whole thing.

Erica found a large fallen branch and handed it to me to use as a walking stick. It was a little flimsy, but it was an incredible idea. I decided to keep my eyes open for another one that might work a little better. And then we arrived at Henpeck Hollow and I completely forgot about that idea for the rest of the race.

This video, taken by Erica who had just finished pacing me, shows the piss poor state I was in with 6 miles to go. Notable quotes:

"He looks as though he may be in some...distress."

"...and then he tried to argue with me about math."

"I'm beating somebody? How is that possible?"

Also, the sunglasses given to me for the end of the race completely disguise how unhealthy I looked. This photo shows the sunken cheeks, which is really the look I was going for.

How to age a decade in 32 hours. 

While I sat there being cared for and fed, Heather grabbed the rolling stick and started working on my quads again. I nearly cried. It was partially from the overwhelming sensation, but it was mostly overwhelming emotion that suddenly flooded into my mind. Gratitude to the amazing people who had given me so much today. Relief that I was nearing the end of my journey. Sadness at how much my race had fallen apart. Joy that I was even here, able to attempt something like this. I had joked that I would probably end up crying in the fetal position at some point in my race, but this was as close as I came to breaking down. But it was REALLY close.

March...WITH PURPOSE!

Heather was taking over the pacing responsibilities for the final 6 miles. Before the race, in my mind, I imagined being so stoked to be nearly finished that I'd be able to overcome any pain I was experiencing and light it up for the end of the race...really bring it home in style, ya know?

(Author pauses to laugh at himself and his silly expectations)

As slow as I was moving up to this point, it only got worse. All throughout my race, any time I was walking a hill, I made a point to "walk with purpose" so that I was still maintaining a decent pace. You can normally power hike a mile in 15-16 minutes. With my ankle performing at roughly 5% capacity, power hiking was really out of the question. Heather did everything she could to keep me moving forward. Every part of me wanted to just lie down for awhile.

At this point in the race, with only 6 miles remaining, my brain kept trying to tell me that we were "almost done" and that we could probably abandon the nutrition and hydration plan now. The thing that was weird to realize is that I was still HOURS from finishing. I wasn't remotely close, and if I stopped eating now, it could cripple me. I mean, I was barely holding it together as it was...I couldn't imagine what would happen if I properly bonked. So I continually had to remind myself that it DID still matter, and I kept choking down my honey stingers and sipping on water when I could.

I had read race reports, and I knew that the final 3 miles involved endless switchbacks up and down the same hill several times. I knew to expect it. I was prepared for it.

I was not prepared for it.

It was 100 times worse than I could have possibly imagined. We wound back and forth up a huge hill, and then back and forth down it. Then we had a water crossing. Then back and forth up the opposite hill. And back down. And then up again. It was torturous, unnecessary, humbling, cruel, and unusual. And would we really have it any other way? Complaining about trail difficulty is like showing up to a rock concert and complaining that it's too loud.

In yet another instance where one of my pacers quite possibly saved my race, Heather made her presence known. Every single time my modest hike slowed to a drunken stumble, she'd give me subtle cues. She'd say things like "Let's pick it up a bit." or "This is flat, let's move a little faster." But my absolute favorite was "March!" Growing up a musician and playing endless John Philip Sousa marches in various community bands, this was a theme I could latch onto. She started singing "The ants go marching one by one, hurrah...hurrah..." and I pictured myself as a civil war soldier marching off to glory and bloody death in battle. And then I joined the game and started humming some of the marches that I had learned by heart in high school and college. Dorky? Yes. But I was moving faster.

Sometimes you really never know what's going to help your body find those unspent reserves of energy. A funny notion, or a strategic distraction...whatever it was, it was pure genius.

The endless hills ended. We topped out on the final painful section of switchbacks. Then trail then slowly wound its way back down towards the Bass River Resort. The last mile or so would be across a flat field. Here is what I looked like emerging from the woods near that field.

And that's as fast as I could move.

That final mile was the longest of my life, and I'm both proud and ashamed that my friends and family got to/had to witness it. To my recollection, I was silent for the majority of it. Even if I did speak, I can't imagine what I might have said. My mind and body were both completely depleted of any kind of spark. And in the final quarter mile, somebody had apparently dug an equivalent of the grand canyon between myself and the finish line.

Seeing this video after the fact, I am still stunned. Even in the moment I could not have fathomed how slowly I was moving. I hiked the final several hundred yards towards the resort. I promised myself that I would try to run across the finish line. It didn't matter if what I ended up doing actually resembled running, but for some reason I just needed to try. We walked past a playground and the final 20-30 feet arrived. My moment was here.

It didn't actually resemble running, but it worked.

My moment. The moment I had fixated on. Dreamt of. Aspired to. THIS moment.

I had just finished a 100 mile race. Something that only a few years prior seemed so far-fetched. It was done. This is normally the moment when I cry. I place a lot of meaning and emotion into the things I strive for, and after training for an entire year, dealing with doubts and injuries, and facing one of the hardest emotional battles of my life...surely the floodgates were bound to burst.

The lady in orange asked me what I needed. I told her that I needed to lie down somewhere.

I was shown to a cot in the finish tent. With a word, without a thought, without any tears, I promptly collapsed into it and fell asleep. I was awoken by my amazing crew as they removed my shoes and helped me remove some excess layers. Much like my first Ironman finish, I wasn't able to fully comprehend what was going on, but it wasn't because of being emotionally overwhelmed. It was because my exhaustion had completely trumped my elation.

I had finished in 31:36:12 with less than 25 minutes to spare. I was the 2nd to last finisher. Nearly half the field had dropped or been cut off. I eventually swelled with pride at this fact. People told me how gutsy it was that I basically hobbled the last 23 miles on a bum ankle. I would be proud of this point, except for the fact that giving up hadn't actually crossed my mind. I had come to finish, plain and simple.

I'm really not done heaping praise on my crew, not by a long shot. To say that I could not have done this without them is the November Understatement of the Month. They absolutely made my finish a possibility. 25 minutes is not a lot of time. I can think of dozens of ways to spend 25 minutes in an ultra. There were 5 crew accessible aid stations. An extra 5 minutes spent at each of them? DNF. My pacers kept me moving as fast as I was physically capable and didn't let me slack. For the 50+ miles I was with them, I could've easily slacked away 25 minutes without the proper motivation. They all ended up being so indispensable, and I am overflowing with gratitude towards them for all their hard work and the love they showed me.

I owe them everything.

I have to thank all the usual people again. My family and friends for their love and support. All of my trail running friends who have graciously welcomed me into their community over the past 3 years. Everyone who followed along on Facebook or the live update website. Everyone who commented on my wall or sent me encouraging text messages. Everyone who believed in me. My crew. The amazing volunteers at the race. Really just everyone who has helped me in any way this year. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!

I would recommend this race to anybody wanting to conquer their first 100. It is a top-notch event and I never lacked for support at any point.

I will leave you with my immediate reaction to the race director when he asked for my thoughts afterwards.

"I overestimated how hard it would be...and it still wasn't enough."

Thanks so much for reading!

KTB

* Layton Kor, first ascent of South Face of Washington Column, Yosemite National Park 1964
GPS map readout source: http://jimonyourback.blogspot.com/2013/11/ozark-trail-100-mile-endurance-run-2013.html

The Road to 100 - Arrival and Introspection

This is going to be just a stream of consciousness post. I have a lot of thoughts about what I'm attempting to do in roughly 30 hours. It probably won't be good reading.

A lot of it has to do less with the nuts and bolts of the race itself, and more with my current state of mind and what effect that will have on my race experience, and what effect that experience will have on my current state of mind.

Everyone get that?

Um...

No? Well tough shit...

If you've been following this sordid tale from Day 1...

...well..."Day 1" is kind of a misnomer, actually.

I want to say that this journey began early this year, but the idea to run 100 miles was planted quite a while ago, and way back when I was training for Ironman Florida last year...even then I was itching to get back to my serenity on the trails and try to tackle some longer races. But for the sake of simplicity we'll say it began almost a year ago...shortly after Ironman Florida. I should've been recovering, but I just kinda kept running through December and into January when I started building mileage for Run Toto Run 50k.

SO...if you've been following along this whole time, you know that mentally I've been all over the place. I soldiered through the worst of the heartache early this year by throwing myself at 5 ultramarathons over the course of 5 months, then when my battered and beaten body needed a break, my mental health took a shit because I couldn't distract myself with running for the next two months. In August and September I was back in the game with this race as my primary goal and focus, and I was once again in a decent place. And then I had to start tapering.

The last 3 weeks haven't been easy, and I knew they wouldn't be. Tapering comes with a lot of anxiety just by itself, but when you layer it ever so delicately on top of an existing predisposition towards depression, that's when the fun really begins. But here we are, on the eve of the biggest race of my life and all I can think about is this...

It's not whether my body can physically complete this task...it is whether my mind going to crack under the strain of doing something so physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting.

I hear stories of regular, well-tempered folks who end up crying in the fetal position at some point during their 100 mile races. SHIT, I do that at home sometimes when I HAVEN'T been running for 24 hours straight. How is my brain going to handle this?

Another aspect of my depression, aside from the occasional inexplicable sadness, is the numbness that haunts my idle moments. I sit, I think, and I feel nothing. I think back to some of my best and most meaningful races and how emotionally charged those moments were. Finishing in Coeur d'Alene, PRing at Run Toto Run...what if I experience the polar opposite of an emotional meltdown...what if I finish 100 miles and I feel absolutely nothing? (Well...besides horrible, gnawing, burning pain in every muscle of my body.)

What if it doesn't feel like anything?

This comes around to the Why...

Why am I doing this?

I don't have to explain 100 milers at all to other ultrarunners because they get it, but they don't necessarily know MY reasons.

And I'm not entirely certain I know myself. Sometimes I think it's for the exhilaration, for the sense of accomplishment, to prove to myself that I can achieve anything I put my mind to. For a shiny belt buckle. But right now I'm not really sure where my motivations lie.

To non-runners, or casual runners...you know...people who don't run more than a marathon...and I can identify with both groups. I was once a non-runner and I was also once a casual runner. To those who think about running 100 miles and their mind hits the breaks and says "Does Not Compute"...it's really hard to explain. I try to make it seem like less of a big deal. Like if they trained for it, they could do it too.

And they could. That's kinda the point of my entire philosophy of "What One Man Can Do(another can do)"

I'm really not doing well staying on topic here. I apologize. It's not the How or the If...it's the WHY!

Why do I want to run 100 miles? Why do I need to? To prove what to who?

Well right now, I really just need something to shoot for, otherwise I'd be drowning in something else. Normally, this would be another voyage of self discovery, of challenging my limitations, and breaking through into uncharted territory. I'm not saying that it isn't still all of those things. It's just that it feels like the stakes are much much higher right now. Like my entire year has been pointing to this exact moment in time. Like if I fail, everything is going to completely fall apart and the pieces will scatter to the wind.

And then the wind changed direction...

"You know what? I might not make it...but FUCK IT...I might." - Hayley Esson

Those words could be a new battle cry for me personally. When she dug herself out of ultra hell, she showed a strength and a resilience that I know I have deep down. This race is indeed going to push me to every limit I have, and despite all of this emotional crap I'm wading through, I'm ready for the punishment. I'm ready to suffer like I've never suffered before. I'm ready to curl up in a ball in the middle of the trail at mile 85 and cry until I'm over it, then I'm going to get right the fuck back up and I'm going to continue moving forward. Because that's really all I know how to do. It may not be in the best style...and it usually isn't...but I don't stop. I won't...and I can't...

Well THAT really escalated quickly..."sad and moody" to "FUCK EVERYTHING" in a split second.

So yeah...I'm conflicted, but excited.

THE RACE...

I could talk about preparation, but it'd be really boring. I've run a whole lot this year, and tomorrow I'm going to find out if "a whole lot" was enough.

I've got a really solid crew and team of pacers to help get me to the finish line. I was once again considering trying to fly this one solo, but ESPECIALLY in my current state of mind I think that'd result in a big fat FAIL. Maybe next time I can go it alone, but I feel like I'm gonna need all the help I can get this time.

Lots of runner friends expressed interest in pacing, but it was a group of fantastic Mudbabes who basically told me "We're pacing you at OT 100" and I said "Ok". That and my excellent friend Delaware, who insisted on taking the ONLY leg of pacing that would involve no sunlight whatsoever. The darkest, loneliest, most fuck-your-sanity portion of the race, and I'll have one of my best friends in the universe along to keep me upright and moving. It's really hard to top that. Aside from that, Emily, Erica, and Heather will also be gracing me with their pacing prowess and their asskicking presence(both in the sense that they all kick ass, but specifically that they'll be kicking MY ass), and additionally the fabulous Janee will be heading up the crewing effort.

Earlier this evening I finished writing up my race plan complete with crew and pacer instructions. After consulting the fabulous Sherrie Klover, I have decided I'm going to tentatively shoot for a 28-30 hour finish, but I would honestly be happy with a 31:59:59 if it came down to it.

As always, I'm incredibly grateful for the support I've been shown from my family, my friends, my Trail Nerds and Mudbabes, and my coworkers who all think I'm crazy but wish me luck nonetheless.

Everybody seems to already know I will succeed. Everybody except for me.

But not knowing is sometimes the most exciting part.

I hope you will all think of me as you go about your weekend business on Saturday and Sunday. I'll need all the positive energy, happy thoughts, good ju-ju, and voodoo spells you can send my way.

The end of this road is near...

KTB

Confessions of an Athletic Supporter: Part II - The Highs and Lows of Pacing

Click here to start from the beginning

Race morning arrived and we rolled out of the hotel after the staff kindly set-up their continental breakfast several hours earlier than normal. Lots of really nervous, focused, and tough looking folks lined up on a street in a non-descript suburban neighborhood in Logan, Utah. The sun had not risen, but you could see the ominous shadow of very large mountains looming to the east, and these brave souls would spend the next day and a half running up and down them.

With little to no fanfare, somebody gave the word and a few hundred insane people slowly began surging forward. Not too fast, mind you...it would be uphill for at least the first 10 miles. Once our runners were off on their way into mountainous oblivion, Erica and I headed back to the hotel for 2nds at the continental breakfast, and to check out of our rooms. While stuffing my face again, I ended up meeting a lady who was there supporting her husband. Turns out she had raced in Tahoe the prior weekend and had won her age group. A veteran of 30+ Ironman races, including Kona, and she insisted Tahoe was the hardest she'd ever done! Oh yeah...and she had also done Badwater 11 times, finishing 9 of them. She referred to it casually..."Oh yeah, Badwater is kinda MY race."

For those unaware, Badwater is a 135 mile foot race through Death Valley, finishing on Mt. Whitney.

In August.

Insane. People.

After checking out of the hotel, Erica and I hightailed it to our cabin(AKA a finely furnished double-wide) in Fish Haven, Idaho...only a few blocks from the finish line. After dropping off all the bags that we didn't need for crewing, we decided to grab a quick cat nap before heading back towards Logan to meet our runners at the first crew access point. It was going to be a long 36 hours, so you needed to get sleep where and when you could.

We raced back to catch Sophia, Hayley, and Erin at the 20 mile aid station, Leatham Hollow. We were told to expect them to come through around noon. We arrived 15 minutes ahead of schedule to ensure we didn't miss them. When I checked with the race officials, I was disappointed to discover we had indeed missed them anyways. They were half an hour faster than they anticipated. So it was good that they were moving, but a bummer that we missed them. We realized it's not an exact science, and we vowed that we'd be ahead of the game from then on as we drove to the next crew access point, Cowley Canyon at mile 30.

Upon arrival, we immediately found Taylor who was out there crewing for her boyfriend Robert, who was doing his first 100 miler WITHOUT A PACER! Ridiculous, right? She was a delightful source of company, currently working on nursing school so she and I had plenty to talk about, and she ended up being a huge help in our shorthanded efforts to crew 3 runners. We cozied up and started waiting. Erin had given me her camera and wanted me to try to get some photos of them on the course. I monkeyed around with the zoom lens so that I'd be ready to snap away once our runners came into sight...

...which they eventually did! Robert came through looking super strong, followed shortly by Erin and Sophia who were trucking right along together, and finally Hayley. Erin was my primary concern since I was responsible for her later that day, but I really didn't have to do much for her. She was, as advertised, very self-sufficient and needed very little. I refilled her hydration pack and grabbed some food from her drop bag and she was off to the races. Hayley came through and I went ahead and helped her out as well. I inquired about her fluid and nutrition and was concerned to discover she hadn't really eaten or drank much at all for the first 20 miles. I made her promise to increase her intake on the next leg as we sent her on her way.

The next aid station was Right Hand Fork, a very picturesque location next to a very cliche bubbling brook and the greenest grass you could imagine. Erica took the opportunity to take a nap and I promised to alert her when Robert came through so she could shake off the cobwebs and get ready to crew. I began to recognize other runners, and more importantly what order they were coming through, and in what relation to our runners they were doing so. And I ended up meeting several other friendly crew members who were waiting for their runners. So when So-And-So's runner came through, I'd know we had maybe 10-15 minutes until our folks came through, assuming everyone was maintaining a predictable pace.

While waiting for all of our folks to arrive, this guy came into the aid station with a seriously TORN UP knee and shin. Blood was EVERYwhere! Taylor sprung into action, grabbing a first aid kit she had brought from home, and leading the guy into a makeshift med tent they had set up. She reassured the guy that she had experience in a medical setting, and that her friend Danny was even a NURSE.

He looked at me.

Oh. OH! RIGHT! That's me! The nurse! I'm a nurse. 

Being so focused on my primary task of crewing, I completely spaced that HEY I'M SORTA QUALIFIED TO GIVE THIS GUY MEDICAL CARE! I went into the tent, gloved up, and started digging(literally) into getting this guy's poor knee cleaned up and properly bandaged. When I got all the dirt and pebbles out of the wound, he still had a half-dollar sized flap of skin which I was entirely uncertain what to do with. So I asked him. "You want this skin?" He replied, "It's gotta come off at some point...may as well just do it now." So I gave the medical scissors a thorough wipedown with some alcohol and cut the damned thing off. If it hurt, he gave absolutely no indication. We threw some gauze on and wrapped it up. He had also hit his head, and after a quick assessment revealed he was entirely appropriate with no noticeable signs of concussion, I instructed him to seek medical assistance if he started feeling any dizziness, blurry vision, or nausea. Which...in retrospect...in a 100 miler...seemed REALLY dumb advice. But our big win from that situation was that we ended up seeing him like 40 miles later and that bandage was still holding strong!

Robert came through, Sophia came through, Erin came through, and Hayley came through. Everyone looked strong. Sophia was pulling away from Erin, and we could all tell she was in full redemption mode from her DNF earlier this year. Erin was a rockstar and once again needed very little. Hayley still wasn't eating or drinking much, so we made her sit and have a snack.

The next aid station was Temple Fork at mile 45. Sophia had gained the lead in our group of runners and Robert was starting to slow a bit. Erin came through looking strong and consistent. I even got some badass pictures of her leaving the aid station up this really nasty looking hill. I still have yet to see any of these pictures since Erin hasn't posted any of them yet, but she has assured me that a few of them are decent. Hayley came into the aid station just as it was getting dark. Despite still not really having increased her fluid or food intake, she was still moving pretty well. We sent her on her way and headed on up the road to sit and wait at the next station.

Tony Grove...mile 52...elevation 8000+...COLD! This was our first taste of the night and our first taste of the mountain cold. It was well below freezing when we arrived. There was a big fire next to the aid station with runners and crew huddled around it for warmth. While waiting for everyone, I made myself helpful to whoever needed it. I saw a runner vomit roughly half a liter of whatever he had just attempted to eat. I wondered if he was done for, or if he was going to rally. I saw another woman who came in so hypothermic that she could not remember her spouse's name. Our runners all came through, dreading the last bit of climbing out of this aid station before they got some blessed downhill all the way to Franklin Basin at mile 61.

Sophia was still an unstoppable force. Erin was still looking strong and badass. Hayley showed up last, shivering uncontrollably. She was a popsicle. I worried about hypothermia, but she was still completely "with it", so my worries were put to rest. We got her in front of the fire for a bit, but it wasn't quite doing the trick fast enough. I thought quickly and ran to the car. I pulled it around and told her to get in. I cranked the heat all the way up and made her sit there. She slowly warmed up, changed into dry clothes, and after 20 minutes at the aid station, she was ready to go. Erica was responsible for pacing her from this point until the finish. We were worried about her knee, which had been stitched up less than a week prior, and it was still swollen and seeping. Not only was her mobility somewhat inhibited, but if she took a digger, that knee was just going to rip right back open. They ran off into the darkness as I packed the car and drove off.

I arrived in Franklin Basin and again began waiting. I found Taylor and we huddled under blankets in camp chairs right by the aid station until we realized that she had parked her car right next to where the runners were coming in. So we relocated to her car, blasted the heat, and kept our eyes open. Sophia and Robert came through doing just fine. At this point, our group was getting so stretched out that Taylor agreed to take over crew responsibilities for Sophia since she and Robert were coming through close together. That left me only responsible for Erin and Hayley until mile 75 when I'd begin pacing Erin.

We spotted Erin's orange running skirt from the warmth of our car. I jumped out with her drop bag ready to go. I gave her some food and some ramen noodles or something. I asked her how she was feeling. She said "Everything hurts". Not sure why I asked. She seemed to be doing alright. The "blessed downhill" that they had been looking forward to on the previous leg had been completely coated in treacherous glassy ice. According to Erin she had "yard-saled" several times, a term I was unfamiliar with, but context told me that it meant "eating shit". She was hurting, but she called out to the radio operators that she was leaving the aid station and headed out.

I went back to the car to begin waiting for Hayley. 20 minutes later, someone knocked on our window.

It was Erin. She said something to the effect of "I'm in trouble."

She couldn't run. She could barely walk. She couldn't put ANY weight on one of her feet. She said it felt like a cramp-from-hell, but she hadn't had any success trying to stretch it out, so a mile out of the aid station, she knew she wasn't going to be able to continue in her state, and she turned around.

We sat her in the car with her leg elevated. I fed her various forms of electrolytes, sodium, potassium, and calcium(that was my best theory). I alternated between massaging her calf and stretching it, resulting in the closest I've ever seen her come to shedding tears. She looked like she was in absolute agony and she was asking me to push harder, stretch more. I knew how bad she wanted this, but with every passing minute with no improvement in her calf, I could see the spark drain from her eyes. She knew well before I did. I kept working on it and had her stand up a few times to see if it was any better.

I felt like it was my job to fix her since I was her crew. I felt helpless because nothing I knew was working. After nearly an hour, we all admitted out loud that there was no way she'd be able to continue the race. We would find out the following week from her doc that she had strained her gastrocnemius and that nothing we could have done would fix it...but I still felt like a failure. I felt awful for her, knowing how much work she had put into training for this race, and how certain her finish would have been without this injury. It must have happened during one of her "yard sales" on the icy downhills. It didn't seem fair. I reluctantly hiked over to the radio operators tent and told them Erin's bib number and that she was pulling out.

Seeing what the ice had done to Erin made me concerned for Erica. I hoped she would arrive in one piece. One consolation that Erin suggested was that now I was free of my pacing responsibilities to her and I could help pace either Sophia or Hayley. There was no question in my mind who it would be. Sophia was already a multiple-time finisher of 100 milers, and she was absolutely crushing. I decided at that moment that if Erica would relinquish her duties, I would take over for her and make damned sure that Hayley saw the finish line.

Hayley and Erica rolled in, thankfully all in one piece. The previous leg had proved just as harrowing for them, in many spots involving sliding down on their butts to avoid catastrophic falls near intimidating dropoffs. I asked Erica how she was doing and she confided in me that she didn't think she could keep it up much longer, but didn't want to let Hayley down. I talked to Hayley and she confided in me that she was really worried about Erica, but didn't want to ask her to quit pacing. I thought to myself how silly this was and I brought the two of them together and said "HEY ERICA, you don't want to pace anymore, and Hayley doesn't want you to pace anymore. PROBLEM SOLVED!"

"Oh, and by the way, Erin's all jacked up and had to DNF. I'm your new pacer."

It all happened in a flash, it seemed. Probably too fast. I was in comfy crew mode, not expecting to be running until the sun was up. I was 1:00 am and suddenly I was gearing up to run 40 miles instead of the 25 I was planning on, and with a runner I was completely unfamiliar with instead of the consistent machine that I knew Erin was. Knowing that Hayley was slowing and creeping closer and closer to cutoff land, I made haste in prepping myself. I forgot lots of things. I lubed up my feet, but forgot basically everything else. If you need to ask, you're probably better off not doing so. I forgot my asthma meds. I forgot my compression socks.

But we needed to roll, so we did. If you want a more succinct version of the Hayley's race, you can read her wonderful race report here. Otherwise, if you're not into the whole brevity thing, continue reading. I'm not even halfway done.

El Duderino is NOT into the whole brevity thing.

Straight out of the gate, we were heading uphill at a power hike. I tried to assess how Hayley was feeling, how much she had eaten, and how fast she felt she could go. She told me to set a pace and she'd see if she could follow. I began doing all I knew how to do as a pacer, as demonstrated to me by Matty Mullins when he took care of me at Free State. I started talking. Telling stories. Telling jokes. Telling her how utterly fabulous she looked. Suggesting she eat something. And eventually I was forcing her to eat, because my suggestions were largely ignored. 

One of the stories I told was an explanation of an old rock climbing phrase which I intended to use as a metaphor for the remainder of her race. I told her that as a climber progressed in their abilities, they inevitably hit a plateau where their brain, not their muscles, was the thing holding them back from improving. At this stage, a climber would need to learn to "climb to failure", or in other words, they would need to push themselves until they fell off, rather than willfully letting go at an opportune moment, or when the fall was less frightening. This involved climbing farther past your protection, and having less control over the circumstances of a fall. Don't let go...keep going until you fall off.

She waited patiently for me to say something that had any relevance whatsoever to our current situation. I said, "Hayley, I want you to promise me you'll Climb To Failure. If you're going to DNF, it's going to be because somebody MAKES you stop...because you missed a cutoff...not because you're quitting." As she realized what I was getting at, she nodded her head in agreement.

The climbing continued for several miles until we finally topped out on something really big and got to do some actual running. The trail met up with a small stream and followed it with some gentle runnable rollers. This lasted a short while until we finally hit the downhills...

...which were, as foretold, completely unrunnable. I could have possibly run them, but even with fresh legs and really good trail technique, I was almost guaranteed to have bitten it at least a handful of times. Hayley, on the other hand, was 60 miles in and after seeing what happened to Erin, was very tentative about this terrain. I didn't blame her even in the slightest. It was a slip-and-slide affair on this glassy smooth frozen mud. We eventually worked out a system on the steep inclines with no trees to hang on to. I would walk in front and hold my arm out for her. I'd inch my feet along, making sure to find the best footing possible, and she hung on for dear life. I'd like to say that these sections were few and far between, but there was a LOT of it. It seemed unfair to have spent so much time ascending, only to have to spend just as much time descending. Along with Erin's unfortunate DNF, these were my first thoughts of the concept of "fairness" of the day, and definitely not the last.

Eventually, we had descended long enough and far enough that trail was no longer frozen. We FINALLY got to open up and run a bit! We had a continuous downhill for the next few miles into the Logan River aid station at mile 68. I began taking stock of where we were time-wise, and we started shooting for sub-22 minute miles to make up what we had lost and to keep ahead of cutoffs. We were moving really well together and Hayley seemed in pretty good spirits. We kept seeing lights and thinking we were there, but it was just some campers, or a group of hunters with ATVs. It flattened out for just a bit before we finally arrived, and we were thrilled to discover that we could power-hike at a 17 minute pace! That'd be plenty fast enough to finish within the 36 hour time limit!

Logan River was an excellent aid station. There was no crew access, but they had a warm cozy fire and incredibly helpful volunteers. I fetched some new hand warmers and some ibuprofen for Hayley while a volunteer massaged her legs. We were deadset on spending as little time there as possible, especially after she had spent so much time at the previous two stops. We headed out of the aid station, with a short river crossing and some climbing ahead of us. We were in great shape, especially because very soon the sun would be rising! Instant morale boost!

Or so I thought.

We got across the river, ran through a meadow, and then began hiking up a long but shallow incline. The predawn light was beginning to warm the color of the sky, and with it I assumed we'd pick up some steam and start putting "money in the bank". Another metaphor I made up, in reference to keeping our goal pace. Each mile faster than 22 minutes was money in the bank that could be spent at a later time when the terrain was harder, or when we weren't moving as well. I'd say "We need to make a deposit, not a withdrawal!" on easier terrain.

So as I looked forward to getting a nice cash cushion heading into some more difficult terrain, with the impending sunrise, the unthinkable happened.

Hayley began to slow a bit. Then a bit more. Then she stopped talking. She stopped responding. Her power hike became a walk, and her walk became a slow shamble. And that eventually became a drunken forward wobble.

Much as I feared due to her low nutrition intake for the past 24 hours, Hayley had bonked, and she had bonked HARD. We were barely eking out a mile in 30 minutes, and the terrain wasn't remotely steep. I tried to engage her in conversation and was basically stonewalled. I watched her face slowly transition from a look of focus and determination to one of sadness and despair. I knew in my heart she was giving up right before my eyes, and I felt completely helpless to stop her. I'd occasionally hand her a honey stinger, and she'd dutifully eat it. We were just past 70 miles and Hayley had completely checked out.

This is what I feared. Not that my runner would meet with difficulty...that is virtually guaranteed, but that I wouldn't be able to put their sinking ship back on an even keel. That was a pacer's job. And I was utterly failing. I couldn't get her to talk, couldn't lift her spirits, and I couldn't look her in the eyes and tell her that we were going to make it...not at this pace.

The only thing I could do was to keep moving. I walked ahead of her, and every few minutes I'd get a little too far ahead, so I'd stop and wait. I felt bad for this, because I worried that instead of inspiring her to pick up the pace, she'd feel even worse for not being able to keep up with me. But I didn't know what else to do.

I finally came to the conclusion, based on her mood, her pace, her spirit...she was probably going to drop at the next aid station. I fought the notion, but eventually it stuck...and with that I prepared myself to be done as well. Just like Hayley, I checked out. A few more miles of miserable hiking and we could be done with this disaster of a race and I would go home a complete failure as both crew and pacer. It's terrifying how contagious despair can be, and how quickly it can completely overcome and cripple you.

We got passed by somebody who was quite chipper and definitely benefitting from the free morale provided by the rising sun. He cheerfully informed us that we had less than a mile of climbing and then it was all downhill to the aid station. I thanked him for the beta, but looking at Hayley it didn't seem like it had improved her mood at all. We finally reached the top of the climb and took in a breathtaking view before we began the slow trudge downhill.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Again.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, after possibly half an hour of complete silence...Hayley speaks.

"Hey...you wanna stretch out the legs a bit?"

What??? Like...you want to run? (As if it were the most foreign unheard-of concept ever). Are you kidding me?

Hell to the Damn to the Yes!!!

So we start jogging. It's mildly technical, and not too steep, so the terrain flows effortlessly below my feet. I hoped it was similar for Hayley, but she was keeping up. I was pleasantly warmed by the movement, perhaps our first running in 2+ hours.

I had to use the facilities, so I told her to keep moving and that I would catch up to her. Didn't want to interrupt whatever groove she had just found. I was still pretty sure she was going to drop, but I figured it would still make her feel better to run a little bit before she hung it up.

I pulled off the trail, did my business, and then picked up the pace to catch her. I figured it wouldn't take long. But then again...where the hell was she? I rounded a corner, hoping to see her easily trotting along. Nope. Then I pulled into a straightaway, where I KNEW I'd see her. Nope.

My runner had vanished.

I put the hammer down, not really understanding what was happening. I finally spotted her far up the trail and she was HAULING ASS!

I caught up to her. I said nothing. She was laying down a really solid pace, and like a delicate flower, I didn't want to touch it. Like a pitcher on the cusp of throwing a perfect game, I dared not change a thing. My runner was moving and that's all that mattered to me.

Hayley finally spoke. And she may as well have breathed fire while wrestling a bear, for she chose and meant every single one of the following words with every fiber of her being.

"You know what? I may not make it...but FUCK IT...I might."

In this exact moment, the way I viewed this woman changed forever. Hayley was no longer this tiny little girl who liked running. She was a tough and stubborn ultrabadass who had just dug herself out of the deepest hole in the universe. She had gone to hell and back, and we were back in the hunt for a belt buckle.

I still didn't know myself whether we could still finish, but now that she was gung-ho for giving it her all, I was gung-ho to do every god-damned thing I could to make it so. We burned through a few miles of downhill, including scaring a herd of cattle off the trail so we could pass, and as we rolled into the Beaver Mountain aid station at mile 75, I proudly proclaimed to the world that We Meant Business.

"Hayley's got the eye of the tiger!" The crew members were visibly relieved to see us, and seemed excited that things seemed to be going well. Little did they know how close we had been to oblivion. Erin had taken over crewing and informed us that we should aim for 20 minute miles from here on out. We had several miles of climbing ahead of us, then some flats after the next aid station.

With our renewed resolve, we charged out of the aid station through a short flat section and then got into the business end of five miles of climbing. We powerhiked like we were born to do it. We passed people. LORD, did we pass people. We crossed into Idaho. We continued climbing. Every now and then we'd get a short flat or downhill section, and I'd urge Hayley to "run to that tree" or whatever landmark seemed fitting. We were moving uphill and still putting money in the bank. The aid station was approaching, and then a few miles of flats which we planned to try and run.

We were in and out of the Gibson Basin aid station at mile 81 relatively quickly. We then started out across a vast meadow on a road that was pretty muddy. And by pretty muddy, I mean it was a completely soul-sucking bog. Unrunnable. Unfair. It was slicker than snot, and even walking it was difficult. We were at a pretty high altitude once again, and this had all likely been frozen before sunrise. As it was, it was thawed and miserable. Here was yet another portion of trail where we expected to make up time, and were once again stymied by crappy trail conditions. I began to wonder if the rest of the trail would be like this. And that worried me a lot!

Up to this point, Hayley had been doing calculations in her head(honestly, how she was still capable of rational thought was beyond me). She kept insisting that if we made it to Ranger Dip at mile 92 with at least 2.5 hours to spare, we'd make it. Doing the math in my head, I wasn't sure what kind of math she was doing, but I didn't want to tell her I thought her math was wrong because I didn't want to risk discouraging her in any way. Her plan remained "the plan" for the time being.

Finally out of the muddy meadow trudge, we ascended more. We were doing pretty well on our time splits and when we finally reached the next section of downhill, we were pleased that only parts of it were too muddy to run. We tip-toed the nasty sections and ran the still-firm parts which were in the shade and hadn't yet thawed. The next aid station was at Beaver Creek, mile 85. This one had crew access, but we didn't see them there. We assumed we'd see them at Ranger Dip just before the last brutal climb of the race.

All through the previous 10 miles, I kept doing math in my head. I'd go back and forth between "Shit, we ain't gonna make it" and "Hot damn! We're gonna make it!"

The long climb out of Beaver Creek was no exception. It was steep and muddy. Parts of it were difficult to get past without a sturdy branch to grab. We passed a runner and pacer coming the opposite way. The woman had turned her ankle and was unable to continue, so she was retreating back to the aid station. So much training, so much work...my heart broke for her, and I remained vigil, promising myself the same fate would not befall Hayley. I was going to look out for her and keep her safe.

We faced endless climb after endless climb. Hayley was hurting so much and it was all I could do to keep us moving at a good click. We were past the point where it would do any good for me to say "We need to pick it up." She already knew, and she was already giving me everything she had. One thing I decided to try was to really overemphasize and exaggerate pumping my arms as I hiked. I thought that maybe it might subconsciously convince her to do the same, and maybe we could squeeze an extra 30 seconds off of that mile? It seemed silly, but I had nothing to lose. (I later found out that this technique worked EXACTLY as I had intended, and did actually get her moving a little faster).

Time was still really tight. Every single mile, every single climb, every single step felt like it mattered. And it did. I knew we were going to come down to the wire. But we were making up time still. I called out our time split every mile. We looked forward to some good downhill and we really really REALLY hoped it would be runnable. If it was, we were gonna be golden!

It wasn't. Not even remotely.

After topping out a long arduous climb to our first view of the spectacular and breathtaking Bear Lake, we looked at the dreadful state of the fire road we had to descend. It was awful. There wasn't a single spot you could stand still without your feet sliding downhill. It was just too muddy and too steep to run. This seemed like our worst nightmare was coming true and our successful finish was once again called into question.

As I negotiated the mud, I began to really fixate on how unfair this was. Again with that WORD! Who the hell am I? I don't even believe in this crap. Life is neither fair nor unfair. Life simply happens, and you do the best you can with what you have. But here I am, cursing fate that we would come so close to victory, only to have it STOLEN from us by these lousy trail conditions. I even began to convince myself that the race director was probably going to make a special allowance for this and extend the cutoff by half an hour.

RIGHT. In all reality, when I'm being a normal human being, I have a philosophy which guides and defines why I am absolutely in love with trail running. It is as follows.

"You accept the trail for what it is, and the trail accepts you for who you are. You are grateful for the opportunity to experience the trail, regardless of its condition, dry, muddy, or snowy. In exchange you get to be yourself, complete with all of your flaws and faults, and the trail allows you judgement free passage." Good luck finding another single place where this holds true.

So I was a bit out-of-sorts with all this fixation on fairness, but I thought it, so I have to write it. Them's the rules.

The Ranger Dip aid station at mile 92 took Fucking Forever to reach. We were through the hellish mud and were on a pleasantly solid road that was slightly downhill. Hayley was in so much pain she could only run sporadically. Over the past 5-6 miles she would occasionally come to a complete stop and simply say, "I just need a moment. Just need to regroup." I allowed these stops, and smartly took them as an opportunity to make her eat something. I kept reminding her how close to the razor's edge we were, and that if she was going to ask her body to respond when it was do-or-die, she'd better have something in the tank to back it up.

Approaching Ranger Dip...we kept seeing people standing on the side of the road and thinking "Oh thank you! The aid station!" But no...it was just folks watching. No aid station in sight. This happened roughly a thousand times(slight exaggeration) before we ACTUALLY reached the aid station. To my slight dismay, our crew was not there. Luckily, we didn't really need anything from them, but it would have been nice just to see some friendly faces. Just as Hayley had predicted hours and hours before, we arrived with almost 3 hours left to negotiate the final horrendous climb and hopefully the final descent would be runnable, otherwise we were going to have problems.

Needless to say, we could not linger long. We each got some snacks and inquired about the upcoming section of trail. The volunteer told us it was 1.5 miles uphill with an elevation gain of 600 ft. Then downhill the REST OF THE WAY!

I did not have the heart or inclination to tell Hayley that my hydration pack had been empty for the past several hours. This was her race, not mine. I was not going to take up precious minutes filling my pack only to have her miss the finish cutoff. No fucking way. So I sucked it up and we turned to face the bad mamma jamma climb to the final summit, appropriately named The Gates of Paradise, elevation 9000 ft.

As an interesting sidenote, in retrospect, I look at how focused I was on Hayley's well-being, and how much I neglected my own. I know for a fact that if it were ME out there racing, I would have blown up big time if I ignored my own hydration and nutrition so badly. For some reason, however, since I was not the focus, since I was not important, I was able to just deal with it. There's a lesson to be learned in there somewhere. Still digging that one out.

The final climb. It was less than 1.5 miles, but DEFINITELY more than 600 ft elevation gain. And it suuuucked! Parts were so steep, you absolutely had to grab trees and branches to get up. And when there weren't trees or branches, you had to had to literally claw with your hands for traction while your feet did the best they could.

After about a mile, we reached a false summit and the trail turned back downhill. Or at least, I THOUGHT it was a false summit. I knew at any moment we were going to turn a corner and we'd have more climbing to do. I just knew it, and I dreaded it. I knew Hayley was near her limit, and I feared she would explode at any moment. This amazing woman had been fighting for 33+ hours at this point.

The trail continued downhill and began to switch back and forth down the hillside. I eventually let my guard down and admitted to myself that we were DONE climbing for the rest of the day! Many sections of the next few miles were very runnable, and we ran quite a bit of it. And slowly and terribly, the descent steepened to the point where even MY legs were too fatigued to handle it, much less was there any hope Hayley could do it. So we hiked down some more. We were now within 5 miles. Every mile, Hayley demanded to know what our previous split was, how many miles remained, and how much time we had before 36 hours would elapse. If the math was easy enough, I'd even throw in a bonus of the minimum average pace we'd need to maintain to make it.

The results were encouraging. It seemed we had gotten over the hump and we were more likely to finish than not finish. But suddenly I got paranoid. I was basing my predictions on the assumption that the course was exactly 100 miles. Or that my Garmin was fairly accurate. Oh shit! Any one of these things being off could spell disaster! What if the course is a mile long, or if my watch is reading a mile short?
As we exited the woods, we were rewarded with a view that was filled end to end by possibly the most beautiful lake I've ever seen(For reference, I was JUST in Tahoe). Bear Lake is an unbelievable hue of blue that almost glows. We're still on a fire road that is too steep for our worthless legs to run, so we're still hiking. But we can SEE where we will finish. It seems impossibly far, but we know we won't run any farther than the lake's edge. The small town of Fish Haven, Idaho stretches out in front of us.

Like that, but more so.

A friendly fellow jogs past us going the opposite direction, telling us we're almost there and that we look great. At first I think he's just a rando, but after he passes us a few more times, I realize he actually knows this course and is just out running back and forth on the last few miles encouraging runners. HE KNOWS THE COURSE! He tells us we have a short climb up to a water tower, then a short downhill and 2 flat miles to the finish line. My fears are alleviated as this information proves beyond a doubt that we've actually done it! My calculations show that we have to average at least 30 minutes per mile for the final few miles. Despite the new knowledge that we are absolutely going to make it, Hayley still asks for the splits every mile. We fight up the final short climb, descend down to the road, and Hayley kicks it into high gear. And by "high gear" I mean an 11:00 pace...but it still feels like a god-damned sprint. Still fighting and clawing for every single minute, my respect and admiration for this woman grows even more.

We're on the final straightaway. We pass our cabin. I tell her it's another 100 yards to the road, quick left turn, quick right turn...and bingo. She charges forward and before we know it, we're in the finishing chute. I run stride for stride with her, clapping and encouraging some damn cheering from everyone there. I am not entirely certain how I'm going to react to her finishing...maybe I'll give her a huge bearhug. Maybe I'll cry. Guess we'll just wait and see.

Hayley Esson finished her 100 mile journey in 35:25.

Bringing it home, complete with warpaint.

She celebrated her finish with Sophia, Erin, Erica, and whoever else was there to greet her. The next few minutes aren't entirely clear in my memory, but as in previous race finishes where I wasn't in entirely good shape, I knew I wanted to lie down somewhere. Having spent the last 14 hours running 40 miles and completely neglecting myself had left me in a pretty sorry state. I also knew I had been out in the sun for quite a while and hadn't been too diligent with my sunscreen use. The finish line tent was casting a nice shadow behind it. I stumbled over there, away from the light, the noise, the commotion. I dropped my long-since empty hydration pack on the ground and laid down in the grass. My head was swimming, but the shade felt good. Being off of my feet felt wonderful. I was still breathing hard. I was wheezing a bit. And then I was wheezing a lot.

Remember how great Singulair and albuterol have been working for me all year? Well, they are slightly less effective on my asthma when I don't TAKE THEM. My wheezing turns into coughing, which turns into more coughing, which turns into panicked wheezing and coughing. Having learned this lesson last year, I realized that the patency of my airways is slightly more important than my overall bodily comfort, so I sit up and assume a squat so that it's a little easier to breath. It helps, but only a little bit. Sophia sees me sitting there coughing and wheezing. She asks me if I need anything. I cough and sputter a few sounds that don't quite qualify as words from the English language, and after a moment she realizes that I'm having an asthma attack and asks if I would like to use her inhaler.

She goes and fetches it. While I am waiting for her return, another concerned bystander approaches me and I Shit You Not, she asks me "Are you wheezing?"

I still was unable to verbalize anything, but the sheer ridiculousness of the question would have left me speechless anyways. After seeing my labored breathing, my bloodshot eyes that were streaming with tears, and yes...hearing my wheezing...she did offer to get me her inhaler, but since Sophia was imminently arriving with hers, I politely declined.

A few puffs and I was back in the business of breathing like a normal person. Hayley, upon seeing me, reportedly exclaimed, "Oh no, I killed Danny!"

How adorable. I cannot say enough words to fully explain how amazed I am by this woman, and how proud I was of her at that exact moment.

It is overwhelming how meaningful this entire experience was for me. I mean, pacing seems like such a simple proposition. Just run with them when they get tired...keep them moving...make them eat. But it is so much more than that. Or at least it was for me.

It wasn't my race. It was hers. But at a certain point, I was just as emotionally committed to her finish as she was. Her highs and lows were my highs and lows. I can't get over how much it meant to me to be able to give myself completely to this task to help another human being achieve something so great.

In many ways, this entire trip out west...watching my brother achieve an amazing goal, and HELPING Hayley achieve one...it has been exactly what I needed. You can spend all the time in the world and all the effort you can muster on your own goals and dreams. But when you get to turn away from all of that and simply GIVE of yourself, it truly is a blessing. I still think my most meaningful half marathon was pacing my Dad. And pacing Hayley for The Bear might now be one my most cherished memories of being an athlete.

Thank you all for reading, and especially to all who have been following along and offering support all year. My own 100 mile journey starts on Saturday at 6 am in BFE Central Missouri. I will have an amazing support crew out there helping me, and I can only hope that their experience seeing me to the finish line is as memorable as mine was for Hayley! Well...maybe without the bonking and the awful trail conditions.

Hopefully later this week I can hammer out a pre-race blog entry and list some thoughts and expectations about Ozark Trail 100! See you then!