Chris Pretends to be an Independently Wealthy Running Bro

Here begins my Three Part Tale of abandoning all parental responsibilities for the sake of a stupid hobby…

It's "States", not "Western"

Look. A 100 mile starting line. Cool. Or whatever.

Back in December, Western States and Hardrock both held their lotteries on the same day. I'd been entering into the Hardrock lottery since 2015, and the last time I'd ran States was 2016. Roughly speaking, the math said there was a 50% chance of getting into at least one of these races, and a 25% chance of hitting the proverbial jackpot. And, well, yeah, I got into both races and drew the ire and jealousy of thousands of runners while simultaneously ruining my family's entire summer.

States is "flat" and fast with only 18,000' of climbing (really, only 15k after the opening Fun Climb to kick things off) and 23,000' of runnable descents. Oh, and it can be hot as hell. Hardrock is basically the exact opposite: 33k of climbing, at an average asphyxiating altitude of 11,000', with tons of technical trails, and half decent chances of being caught above treeline during "electrical events".

It's a bit tricky trying to train well for both, and, one could argue I certainly failed to train well for either. In the months leading up to the race I put in a rather respectable, for me, amount of mileage -- appx 60 miles a week. I put in some "speed" work ranging from marathon to tempo efforts, but not as much as I'd done in the run up to States back in 2016. I also tried hitting near 10k of climbing per week -- enough to give the legs a sense for climbing required at Hardrock, but not enough to inhibit any of that "speed" development. And I prioritized a number of long descents on the treadmill to season the quads. And in the weeks before States, I put in a lot of sauna time to get ready for the heat, and hopefully to also slightly increase blood volume and serve as lazy man's altitude training for Hardrock. Basically, I tried to be well-rounded in preparation for both races.

Hardrock was 100% the focus race, which relegated States to that of a tune-up of sorts. Even so, I had grand illusions of posting a massive PR out there. In 2016 I ran 18:45 for my 2nd ever 100 miler, and it felt nearly effortless. Everything clicked that day, and I'm honestly not sure if I've quite replicated that level of execution in any race since. But with 9 more years of training, I figured 40 year-old Chris should be able to crush 31 year-old Chris. I've long thought that my peak genetic potential and perfect race execution might yield mid-to-upper 16s at States. So I decided I should run somewhere between 16:40 (10min miles) and 17:30 (easy round number). As a backup, I'd most assuredly break 18:45 and set a course PR. I honestly couldn't contemplate anything worse than that. Oh, also, I knew for a fact that I'd crush fellow Team USA alum Jeff Urbanski at States. That dude was going down!

It's time to read about a humbled man!

100 miles. 600 calories. What could go wrong?! (Not pictured: all the shit Kristin would schlepp around)

Kristin and I flew out to California on Wednesday before the race and snuck a couple of kid-free days (thanks, mom!) -- hiking, enjoying dinner out, relaxing on a beach, etc. Good times. Then it was time to pretend like I wasn't an old fart who sucks at training.

Casual pre-race stalking...

The climb up to the Escarpment was sluggish, but I was happy to take it easy. Jeff outpaced me, which definitely bruised my ego. But I caught back up soon enough in the high country and flowed through the single track. Around Mile 20 I started feeling a bit off -- loss of appetite, sluggish, slightly woozy. It could have been a touch of altitude, but also, Kristin wonders if it had to do with me taking an allergy pill at the start of the race to combat some sinus pressure I'd been feeling since we got to California. Either way, I didn't feel fantastic. And then came the climb out of Duncan Canyon. My legs felt dead. I couldn't drive my knees. My quads didn’t want to do anything. I'd guessed that normal-me should've arrived at Robinson Flat at 5:15. Instead, I was nearly a half hour late. By that point, I pretty much resigned myself to hiking every incline for the rest of the day to save my legs for Hardrock.

I'm already done with this stupid race.

I was very cautious on the long downhill to Last Chance back in 2016, but this time around I had more confidence in my legs. Looking back at splits, compared to 2016 I ran the downhill half marathon from Robinson to Last Chance a full 15 minutes faster, and I felt just peachy. In this section, Tara Dower and I kept going back and forth every mile or two, which was a fun experience for me. She, on the other hand, was hacking up a lung from apparently contracting the Bubonic Plague just before the race. When I reached Last Chance, and then descended to El Dorado, I had a sense I was back on track and might be able to eek out a sub-18 for the day. Then I had to climb up to Devil's Thumb…

Mandie made me a sign!

In 2016 I floated up Devil's Thumb and also up to Michigan Bluff. Those climbs felt puny and pathetic. This time around I walked practically every step. My legs just would not let me run uphill. So by the time I hit Michigan Bluff, I was sure a PR was out of the picture. Then, a sluggish jog to Foresthill had me arrive nearly a half-hour behind my 2016 split. That felt like a gut-punch.

Not enjoying this...

Kristin again sent me on my way, and I humble-jogged down to the river probably a minute per mile slower than 31 year-old Chris. It felt like an eternity. Climbing to Green Gate, again, felt impossibly slow with legs that would not cooperate. I took my sweet time at the aid station and then apparently, based upon comparison splits with 2016, crawled to the next aid station like an infant. Somewhere between Auburn Lake and Quarry Rd, my headlamp, which was supposed to have a full charge that'd last 5+ hours, warned of imminent doom. I put it on the faintest setting and practically sprinted to get to the Quarry Rd aid station so I could beg for a replacement headlamp. I was mercifully given a spare headlamp they had lying around, though no one knew for certain whether or not the red light on the back might mean "low battery". That sprint to Quarry Rd felt exhilirating, my legs actually carrying me purposefully, efficiently for the first time all day. But the panic completely jacked up my adrenaline and I crashed hard on the way to Pointed Rocks, with that janky LED Lenser replacement headlamp which has the world's most poorly designed beam and had to be held as a flashlight because apparently my head is statistically smaller than normal design parameters.

At Pointed Rocks, Kristin gave me a replacement headlamp and I set off on an ambitious attempt to "save my race" and come in under 20 hours. But I rolled into Robie a minute or two late, then looked up at that stupid neighborhood hill I had to climb, and said "screw it, I'm walking".

I ended up with a 20:05. Lightyears worse than last time around. I honestly felt a bit embarrassed. I also distinctly remember apologizing to Kristin at multiple aid stations for how slow I was going. The day kinda felt like a yaboyscottjurek meme.

Just get me outta here.

At any rate, it wasn't all that bad. I had a number of moments on the course, particularly in the high country, where I was able to look around and appreciate the beautiful scenery (before plunging into the ugly hell that is endless miles of glorified dirt roads surrounded by dead grass). I also had a great time seeing multiple Team USA alum: Jeff (who I crushed); Chad and Jake, who were crewing Jeff and were popping up at all the aid stations; and Mandie, who was kind enough to make me a sarcastic sign at Last Chance (she gets me). Chilling with a bunch of Virginia peeps at the award ceremony was also a highlight … man, I miss the East Coast.

I also somehow still managed to pass like a dozen people in the back half of the race and still finish 21st Male (or, alternately, F14). No matter how poorly you think you did, it's always nice to keep reeling people in as the miles tick by.

And, I don't know if it was luck or fate or what, but the shit-the-bed performance of my climbing legs meant I wasn't wrecked at all after running 100 miles. And that definitely boded well for Hardrock … 13 days later.

The world's worst finisher shirt.

Here's a fun table of crewed aid stations and how poorly I performed.

Crew Perspective: Kristin thinks States is a clown car shit show. There's too many runners who think they're hot shit and need a 15person crew and personal media crew at each and every aid station. Robinson Flat and Foresthill are mad houses, packed to the brim with twice as many cars and people as there should be. Also, we both agreed that the pre-race briefing was the biggest eye-rolling waste of time in the history of ultra running -- I think they spent the first 20 minutes back-slapping sponsors. States back in 2016 was nauseating enough. Nowadays, it's firmly jumped the shark on custom-made UTMB water skis.

Intermission

 La - De - Da

Once the Meh Effort that was Western States 2025 was over, Kristin and I headed to the airport for a red eye so we could get home in time to watch our kiddo's dive meet on Monday. I relaxed and spent the day with the family. And then gathered up all of my shit for my solo plane ride out to Colorado on Tuesday. Kristin and I had bailed on our kids for 5 days, and then I came home for 30 hours to play Father Figure, only to turn right around and dart off again, this time leaving Kristin to solo parent for 6 days as I undertook the very serious task of … hiking and relaxing in the San Juan mountains.

Coming from the rarified air that is 600 feet above mean sea level, it's safe to say I was slightly terrified that altitude would absolutely wreck me at Hardrock. I was terrified of a DNF. Not simply because it was Hardrock, the one 100 miler I've wanted to do more than any other in the world, but also because if I screwed this up, got altitude sickness mid-race, and DNF'd, I'd have to start all over at 0 in the Never Lottery and likely wait another 10+ years for the opportunity to loop the San Juans. So, Kristin, the ever-understanding and ever-loving partner that she is, never once hesitated with the idea that I immediately go from States to Silverton to acclimatize. Man, I really lucked out in life, didn't I?!

I landed in Denver on Tuesday afternoon, around 60 hours after finishing Western States, and 10 days before Hardrock, and proceeded to book it to a campground at the base of Mount Elbert. Wake up at 600', go to bed at 10,000'! The next morning, for my first little post-States shakeout, I bagged Elbert with a 4 hr, 10 mile, 4500' hike. The hike up was slow. The air thin. The legs dead. On the way down, towards the end, I didn't even have enough in me to jog some easy downhills and flats … I was so tired I had to walk downhill! But it was amazing, and I felt nothing but gratitude for the opportunity.

Then, I drove my sexy Chrysler Pacifica rental over to Silverton to spend the next 5 nights sleeping in a van at 9300', in the abandoned lot next to Howie's house that he so graciously set aside for me.

I had no kids. I had no job. I had no responsibilities. I was free. 

I spent the rest of the week knocking out 10 mile hikes with 4-5k of vert, checking out amazing lakes and sections of the course, and reading and napping at 13,000'. I met awesome new folks, lounged around, and basically just had the time of my life. It was incredible.

After 5 straight days of hike-jogging at altitude, I'd netted over 50 miles and 20k of vert … the week after running States. 50 miles in a normal week is an accomplishment for me, so being able to do that mere days after a 100 miler felt rather incredible. And every day I could feel my legs coming back a little bit more, and my lungs better tolerating the altitude.

My family came out the Monday of the race and we spent a few days hanging out in Purgatory, checking out Mesa Verda, etc etc.

By the time that Hardrock started, I'd spent the better part of 16 days at altitude, spending 10 nights sleeping at 8800' and above, and taking numerous jaunts up to 12,500-14,500'. My body felt rested and acclimated. I was ready to go!

Intermission

Joy

 Snapshots of my first Hardrock…

Before I dive into anything, I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the tragedy at Hardrock this year. Somewhere just after clearing the first climb of the course, a seasoned runner at the rear of the pack collapsed on the trail. She was found unresponsive by a photographer buddy of mine who was out shooting the course. He spent the better part of an hour performing CPR until EMS arrived. Eventually, she was pronounced dead, and carried off the mountain. Some of us runners caught word of what happened during the race. I was already grateful for my opportunity to spend a day in the mountains, but hearing the news definitely heightened my perspective of the day. I soaked in as much of the beauty as I possibly could, and, importantly, I was patient with myself at high altitude … better to take it easy, enjoy myself, and get to the finish line in one piece for my family than to risk disaster. In the days after the race, members of the Hardrock family built a memorial cairn on the course, which will undoubtedly grow over the years as future Hardrockers pass by and pay their respects by placing another rock upon the mound.

Seeing Horty:

Rolling into Cunningham with ease at 10 miles, I had my first meet up with my crew for the day -- good ole Dr. David Horton! The day before States, Horty called me up, asked what my plans were for Hardrock, and basically said, "boy, I'm gonna come out and crew you!"

Kristin was ecstatic because she was relieved of any guilt she might have for not coming to any aid stations during the most looked-forward-to run of my life -- Cunningham is down a 4wd road and too early in the race to be a big deal; Sherman is too damn far away for normal people to get to; Animas is down a 4wd road that she wasn't a fan of last time we drove it as a family; Ouray would've meant driving the kids back to the hotel room 1.5hrs in the dark along the Million Dollar Highway; and Telluride would be in the middle of the night, 3hrs from the hotel. So, yeah, Horty was a life saver in her eyes!

It's not every day a runner gets to roll into an aid station to be greeted by a helpful crew who just so happens to be the first ever Hardrock champ … among one or two other lifetime accomplishments ;). It was, honestly, fantastic. I've run every 100mi+ race I've ever done without a pacer, and I've only been crewed a handful of times by my wife. So I know that I can tackle pretty much anything solo. I didn't *need* Horton to be there. But it was awesome to roll into the aid stations and see a friend like him.

Finding a friend, of sorts:

Somewhere around Mile 20, Amber Weibel and I crossed paths in/around the Pole Creek aid station. We were both 2 of, I think, 6 runners attempting The Double. We ended up going back and forth a billion freakin times during the race. We never really ran together, but we were always within a few minutes of one another. My legs were sluggish climbing, especially whenever I'd clear 11,000-11,500', but Amber was like a damn billy goat on the climbs, putting me to shame. On the other hand, I tended to descend a bit more quickly than her.

So for more than 24 hours we played this fun little game. I'd look down during a climb to see Amber gaining on me with ease. Eventually she'd overtake me, oftentimes as I was sitting on a rock, exhausted, during one of my every-1000-foot snacks. We'd exchange pleasantries. Then I'd try my best to keep up, utterly failing in the process, watching her get farther and farther away as we approached the top of a climb. Eventually, I'd make up ground on a descent or flatter section and overtake her, knowing I'd undoubtedly see her again in the early stages of the next climb.

I enjoy the solitude of the trails, but Amber's adjacence was an unexpectedly comforting and encouraging part of my Hardrock experience. I could always count on myself trying just a little bit harder on the climbs in a desperate attempt to keep up, and I enjoyed the thrill of the overtake on the descents. It's safe to say I wouldn't have had as good of a day out there had she not been around.

What my family does when they don't have to put up with me.

Lunch at Animas:

My first Hardrock was never intended to be a "race", it was supposed to be a "journey". So I allowed myself the freedom to chill at some aid stations for absurdly long periods of time. I rolled into Animas, Mile 44ish, after 12 hours of running (hiking) and the never-ending climb over Handies at 14,000'. I was looking forward to a nice little break for a few minutes. Horton immediately caught me as I came in, directed me to a chair, and said "hey, look who I found!". And out popped Meg Eckert, multi-day extraordinaire and team member from Big's last year! The three of us sat down and chit-chatted for a bit as I re-filled my pack and took a moment to eat some food and down some protein. It was one of those little energetic moments that made the day so special.

The Dark Descent:

I wasn't fixated on time for Hardrock, I just wanted to enjoy myself. BUT, crunching the numbers and looking at other people's finish times, I had this sense that I could break 30hrs if I tried really freaking hard and didn't run into (m)any altitude issues, so I drew up a race "plan" for 30 hours, knowing it was extremely unlikely I'd hit that given my relaxed approach, but nonetheless serving as a guidepost. Under that plan, I was supposed to arrive at Ouray, Mile 58ish, just after 8pm … before dark. Horton said that whenever he ran in the CCW direction, one of his goals was always to get to Ouray before dark. So Ouray Before Dark was my only real time check for the day, but more than anything I knew I wanted to roll into Ouray feeling good. The descent into Ouray is a more than 5000' drop, and I really wanted to enjoy that descent.

After leaving Animas, I took my sweet time getting up to Engineer, walking way more than I should have. I got to Engineer Pass, around 13,000', just as the sun was setting. The views of the basins and mountains in every direction were absolutely spectacular. I knew I'd miss my Ouray Before Dark target, but getting to see the sunset was definitely worth it. As I rolled along the descent, into the twilight, I held off as long as absolutely possible before turning on my headlamp. After the high alpine meadows, the Bear Creek Trail turns into an exposed trail hugging the side of a gorge. It's a thrilling trail in the daylight. Take a turn too fast, slip on some loose rocks, and the next thing you know you'll be tumbling down a 150' cliffside to your death! At around 11,500' you pop into the gorge. By that time the sun had long ago dropped behind the mountains, with only the alpenglow left to light my way. But I pushed on, without a headlamp, for as long as I could, trying to balance the need for safety against the urge to fly down the mountain. Finally, somewhere near 10,000', I relented and popped on my light and cruised the rest of the way down the gorge. All the while, the deep, black chasm to my left echoed with the sounds of the rushing water far below, and the steep mountain walls surrounding me were charcoal shadows set against the darkening night sky. It was magical.

Then, I rolled into Ouray feeling great and sat down with Horty for 15 minutes or so for "dinner".

Climb by Moonlight:

We were gifted with a full moon at Hardrock. And after Ouray is the billion hour climb up to Kroger's Canteen, nearly all of it on packed dirt road and OHV trail. I'd been looking forward to this more than anything else. Hours of climbing in the dark, with a full moon to light the way for a good deal of it. I jogged and hiked that climb without a headlamp as much as I possibly could, enjoying the night sky and the silhouettes of the surrounding mountains. And yes, at one point I tried to convince a dude and his pacer to turn their headlamps off. They obliged, momentarily, but clearly didn't see the wonder in it quite like I did.

Heart to Heart:

Learning about the passing of a fellow runner weighed on me during the race, all the more so because I'd heard that my friend Howie was the first on the scene. I spent hours with those thoughts bouncing around in my head, balancing sorrow for the tragedy and concern for my friend against alternating feelings of joy and gratitude for my opportunity to run in the mountains. As I neared the approach to Kroger's Canteen, a truck's headlights were bopping down the mountain towards me. I had a feeling that I knew exactly who it was. When they stopped to let me by, I peered into the window to be greeted by Howie. We spent a few minutes chatting, checking in on each other. It was a departure from our normal interactions, where I'm sarcastic and complaining, or I'm flipping him off as he's trying to take a cool photo. I was glad to bump into him, and to hear and see that he was okay.

Party Time:

The final climb to Kroger's is a super steep scramble of 500' or so, with a decent amount of snow and loose rock. Climbing up it was a blast, trying to keep from sliding down by maintaining 3 points of contact as much as possible. At the top, it's a party. A tiny aid station occupying a little spit of ground on a 13,000' rocky saddle, supplies packed in, rave lights all around, music blasting. Exhausted and thrilled from the ascent, I parked myself on a rock bench and immediately "ordered" a shot of mezcal. One of the aid station volunteers happily obliged and took a shot with me. Clinking stainless steel shot glasses with a stranger in the middle of a full moon night above the San Juan tree line. Absolutely perfect!

10 minutes later, after scurrying down the scree slide on the other side of the saddle, running across loose rock above 12,000', I could feel every little bit of that alcohol coursing through my oxygen-deprived system. What a rush!

This is The Climb that Never Ends:

Telluride to Chapman. Up and over Oscar's Pass. I'd seen historical splits and they almost defied belief. 27-30hr finishers often struggling to break 4 hours over a 10 mile section of the course. A single climb and descent. 4 hours. Ugh! I wasn't entirely sure if it was a 5 mile climb and a 5 mile descent, or a 7 mile climb and a 3 mile descent. All I knew was it would take forever. I was right.

I started in the dead of night. 4 or 4:30am. And I climbed well into daylight. At some point after dawn, Amber caught back up to me, somewhere near this weird false summit with a big ole post sticking out of the rocks. I stared at that post for what felt like a half-hour as I trudged skyward, fantasizing about the rest/snack I'd reward myself with once I reached it. And just as I happened upon my breaktime, I look back and am greeted with an entirely too chipper "Hey there, Chris!". It was Maggie Guterl, pacing Stephanie Case. I have no idea where the hell they came from (well, I mean, they came from Telluride, just like me), but they were cruising and I ... was not. I latched on up to the weird double-saddle-summit, and then Stephanie and I cautiously contemplated the "proper" path to cross a steep little snowfield, while Maggie, with her enviably fresh legs, leisurely hopped down the 20-30' snowy drop. I couldn't decide if I should follow along cautiously or recklessly, and incorrectly attempted a middle ground, got about halfway down, then fell back on my ass and uncontrollably slid the rest of the way, with that old, icy snow chewing up my right butt cheek the whole slide down. Then the 3 of us merrily ambled over to the actual summit, a full 3 hours after I'd left Telluride, and began our descent down a fun little "road" that a buddy of mine aptly described as "filled with dolls-head-sized loose rocks". Fun times!

The Grant Swamp Scramble:

Amber, Stephanie, Maggie, and I found ourselves tackling the Grant Swamp Pass scurry at the same time. Amber got there first, and the remaining 3 of us observed her valiant attempt at the "proper" route -- straight up. When we arrived at the bottom of the scree, we could tell she was starting to stall, and so we cheated and went on the "official" flagged route that zig-zagged alongside -- the course markers elected to coddle the runners with scree switchbacks rather than force everyone up the old school "proper" chute. At any rate, Amber eventually abandoned her heroic effort and scurried over to the slightly easier "official" route. And on multiple occasions I just stood around, a few stories below, watching waves of loose rock shoot past me as Amber shouted "rocks!" and "sorry!". After an eternity, I finally crested, placed my rock on the memorial, and scurried on down the other side, doing my best not to get distracted by the Island Lake views.

Lakes!

What a Dick:

After making my way over to KT, I began the climb up to the Putnam Basin. This section, all the way up to the crest, is my favorite stretch of the entire Hardrock Course. As you work your way to the treeline, you hike through a gulley filled with trickling snowmelt, little rock outcroppings, and green shrubs all around. And then you pop onto the basin and are greeted with a couple miles of alpine meadow you have to cross, with incredible views in every direction. As expected, Amber caught up with me and we tackled the final stretch "mostly together" (as in, she was ahead of me and I couldn't keep up), working our way up the 800', steep-ass, grassy hill to 12,000'. After cresting, I turned on my descending legs and gapped Amber like a desperate bro fearful of being chick'd. Knowing full-well I would finish, I finally let my stride open up and began running a respectable pace. In the final miles of the course, I blew past another runner like the biggest asshole in the world. She was walking, accompanied by some random dude. The moment I passed, I got a weird, familiar feeling. Then I turned around and realized it was Katherina, with Howie by her side ... folks I'd been hanging around for my whole week in Silverton. Instead of stopping to chat and see how it was going, like a respectable human being, I yelled something stupid like "come run with me!", without breaking stride, and continued on to the finish.

Putnam

I've got dozens of other little snippets tucked away in my brain, little memories of a fantastic weekend on the Hardrock Course. But these are the big ones that'll stick with me.

I love this pic! Running with the kids, Horty looking on (in awe of my running skills). PC: no clue.

Prince of the Prairie

 Lazy Notes for a Lazy Race...

Somewhere in Hell (a.k.a.: Kansas). PC: Mile90 Photo.

1) I love mountains, but there's a special place in my heart for an endless expanse of prairie. It is, for me, the quintessential American landscape. Only about 4% of the original tallgrass prairie remains today, a majority of it in the Flint Hills of Kansas. So, on the weekend of the 10th anniversary of my first 100 miler, I ventured from the fake Gateway to the West (St. Louis) through the real Gateway to the West (Kansas City) and on down to the tallgrass prairies of the Kansas Flint Hills for the Heartland 100.

2) Heartland 100 is old school. Like, laid back podunk old school. I mean that as a compliment. Compared to most races these days, it's dirt cheap at around $200. There wasn't even a pre-race meeting, you just showed up and checked in an hour before the race as if you were casually popping into a local 5k. And the race packet: 1 bib, 1 set of cheapo bib clips, 1 collapsible cup, 1 prairie/race themed calendar, and the world's cheapest technical long sleeve shirt. Simple. The aid station fare: unremarkable, but sufficient.

3) The course is an out and back that meanders along prairie/ranching roads, almost exclusively gravel, rock, and packed dirt. And while it is Kansas, it isn't "canal style" pancake flat, with around 5,000' of rolling hills, frequently topping out for truly breathtaking views of wide-open expanse. It's one thing to feel isolated and in the wild in the middle of the mountains or a forest, but it's another thing entirely to feel like you're floating, unmoored, on endless miles of open grassland with the sole sign of humanity in sight being the worn-down dirt road you're travelling on.

4) Race day conditions were brutal. Temperatures reached the low-mid 80s. And it's the prairie, so there's literally no shade or shelter from the elements from sun-up to sun-down. And it's October so typical summer training conditions that elicit heat adaptations are long gone. I tried to be proactive, but only snuck in a few sauna sessions before the race, and it most certainly was not enough. A little after 10am, the sun made itself known. I spent about 3 hours trying to slow down, fighting off heat exhaustion. I felt like I was hardly moving. I went from comfortably moving at course record pace (~14:30) for the first 50k to arriving at the turn around in 7:45 -- a 30minute setback in less than 20 miles. For the next few hours, I tolerated the heat better, but the pace remained slow all the way to sun-down. That heat plus exposure was the most exhausting race condition I've ever experienced. I'd honestly say it was worth another 5-7k feet of vert, meaning it likely added 60-90minutes to my finishing time.

5) When I first put Heartland on the calendar, I wanted to take a crack at the course record of ~14:25. But after Hardrock, I didn't put in very good training, and I gained like 10 pounds. So I thought, maybe 15:30. Then I popped my hamstring 3 weeks before race day on a stupid, pointless track workout and I thought, maybe 16:30. Then I had to run in 85 degree punishing sun and I thought, man I'm so slow and I suck so bad.

6) Just as was written, I got to watch the sun go down in a limpid, gold-washed sky and settle into the distant hillside. Though unlike Jim and Antonia, I saw no plough resting against the horizon, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun. Instead, I was popping a squat, taking care of some business on an unfenced field of tallgrass, admiring the view. Not quite as poetic as Willa Cather had once written, but memorable nonetheless.

7) After sunset, I didn't dare try and pick up the pace, for fear of aggravating my hamstring, so I continued to plod along slowly, walking every little hill. I frequently stopped, turned off my headlamp, and gazed in awe at the stars and soaked in a darkness nearly devoid of light pollution. I contemplated lying down on the ground for awhile, but was a tad afraid of throwing a cramp in my hamstring whenever I'd try to get back up, so, instead, just more standing in darkness.

8) As I approached the final turn onto the paved road back into town, I heard a train, doing its thing, a mile or two away. Then I realized we were heading in the same direction, and a train crossing stood between me and the finish line. I tried picking up the pace while I assessed just where the train was, and quickly realized I'd never make it. I approached the crossing just as the gate arms lit up and lowered. And then I stood there for what felt like 4 minutes, watching the train whiz by in the night. After it passed and the gate arms rose, I casually walked the final 200 yards to the finish. Stupid ass train!

9) My reward for a victory, in 17:15 or so: another buckle, a knockoff super bowl ring to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the race, and a decorative cutting board in the shape of the state of Kansas -- cuz yeah, who doesn't want a cutting board (my 3rd or 4th cutting board running award) to remind them of their greatest regret in life … having been born in Kansas.

Bling.

This cutting board should be blank, because there's nothing at all worth acknowledging in the state of Kansas.

10) Now, from 100% country roads to 100% single track -- Ozark Trail 100 is less than 2 weeks away.

Learning to Ice Skate

Shippey 2025

The world doesn't need another race report describing how I ran a lot, ate a lot, and complained a lot. Probably why I have a 1 year backlog on race reports….

(10minute read)

I thought this one could be fun.

The weekend before MLK Day, I took another crack at my local 100 miler, 10 minutes from my house, on some pretty sweet trails in a Boy Scout camp. The trail conditions were … performance limiting … to say the least.

I thought I'd give a run-down of the winter weather and trail conditions that we experienced at Shippey this year, to shine some more light on this stupid sport and what it's like to run for a long-ass time in the dead of winter.

The Run-up:

2 weeks before the race, STL got hit with a winter storm. Hours of sleet and then 4-6" of snow. All of the early sleet formed sheets of ice multiple inches thick, screwing up transportation (and extending Winter Break) for an eternity. Then, another round of snow a few days later.

A week before the race, a bunch of us got together to run sections of the course, frolicking in a winter wonderland of fresh powder. It was glorious!

The 2 days before the race saw sun and temps reaching nearly 60. Snow melted, water run-off was everywhere, and all that was left was dense packs of ice and crusty snow. …Oh, and then it rained the night before the race. …And then a polar vortex sent temps plummeting. Forecasts were for the wind chill to steadily decrease to 0 throughout the race.

Screws? Nah!:

At the pre-race meeting, a few folks discussed adding sheet metal screws to their shoes (or using yak-tracks). I quickly brushed aside the idea. I am smarter, tougher, more experienced, and cooler than everyone else, and I say that screws will be unnecessary!

Let's Make Things Unnecessarily Difficult:

In 2023 when I ran Shippey, I ran it self-sufficient -- stopping only twice, at Mile 37 and Mile 70, to restock my pack. For 2025, I decided to up the ante and attempt to run completely "unsupported", starting the race with everything I'd need, save for a planned stop somewhere in the race to refill water, as if I were stopping at a creek in the middle of nowhere during an FKT attempt. Spare gear and over 6000 calories clocked in at exactly 15 pounds strapped to my back. If I ran into a problem, my solution had to be somewhere in my pack, or else.

I strolled up to the starting line looking like a complete idiot!

Loop 1:

From the get-go, just before dawn, in 30 degree temps, it became clear the ice was thicker and stronger than I had anticipated. Despite south-facing hillsides being nearly devoid of ice or snow, there was still a surprising amount of slick stuff on the trails. And anywhere that wasn't south facing … woah boy! Everyone was sliding and falling constantly. The rain and temps had coated the entire area in a deathly glaze of ungodly slick ice.

Even in places with barely any ice on the trails, it was still treacherous. The RD likes to leaf blow the course ahead of time to help shore up the often underutilized trail network and make it more pronounced, for the betterment of all. But, it has a cost. If there is a winter freeze thaw cycle during the race, it can create a muddy mess on the trails because there's no leaf matter to bind with the mud. And this year, even the slightest fraction of an inch of ice now had a firm foundation of solid ground to prevent footfalls from cracking it and breaking it up.

For many stretches, particularly downhills, there was a fun gamble to be made. Intentionally run just off the trail in the hopes the ice was thin enough and that the underlying layer of leaves/grass/sticks/whatever compromised the integrity of the ice layer, letting you crush your way through it with each footfall, providing much needed traction. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes you just fell on your ass as you careened downhill into one tree, and then another, hoping, praying the ice would crack.

At one point, there's a particularly steep hill -- The Water Cistern Hill -- around 25%. It faces northwest so it never received enough sunlight to melt the ice and snow away, and it received head-on wind after the rain came down the night before. Slick as an ice rink. I could not for the life of me toe-in to get any traction. I scrambled and dove for trees alongside the trail, but kept wiping out and sliding back down. Finally, I gave up and pulled out my cheater poles in the hopes of gaining the tiniest modicum of grip. It took me an eternity to get up that stupid 200' hill. Perhaps the single most frustrating moment of running I have ever experienced.

By the end of the loop, my pack felt like a ton of bricks. I rolled in a solid 2min/mile slower than my Loop 1 from 2023.

I really, really wished I had screws. But I didn't start out with them so it violated my unsupported mentality. That said, a lot of people later complained that even screws didn't provide enough grip into the ice. Also, rumor has it crews bought out the entire region's supply of yak-traks during the race.

Loop 2:

The sun came out. I could benefit from everyone else who'd used screws or yak-tracks and ever-so-slightly ground out particles of ice that spread along the surface, creating a small bit of grit that the sun and wind froze into place. There were tons of ice scratches all over the place where other runners' screws kinda-sort-but-not-really bit into the ice on the prior loop.

The jeep road sections were icy slush, formed from the surface layers over the mud puddles being cracked and broken. And a lot of south-facing stretches of trail turned to muck from the mid-day water runoff. I only lost my shoe in a vat of mud one time!

Some stretches, the sun just made things worse. By the midpoint of Loop 2, I probably bit it 15 times in the span of 3 hours, failing to adapt to the changing trail/ice conditions. Landing hard on my ass here, sliding off the side of the trail there. After one of my falls, which capped a stretch of maybe 5 in a half hour, I simply laid there in a modified child's pose and treated myself to a little meal of gels and granola bars until I built up the resolve to carry on.

After 40 miles, I'd felt like I'd run 80. Every minor muscle in my legs was completely shot from all of the slipping around. My core felt like I'd been punched repeatedly.

Loop 3:

This was a transition loop for the trails in the late afternoon. Plenty of grit was accumulating on the icy stretches, but it was also peak mud.

A unique feature revealed itself on the Water Cistern Hill. Postholing from the prior week of course scouting and flagging left shallow depressions in the ice layer, like mini moguls. Enough runners with screws and yak-tracks had used these barely-visible depressions and carved out additional nanometers of the ice. Sometimes it was enough for cavalier steps, and sometimes it was still too slick. For me, the hill resembled a rock climbing route that I had to plan out. See that pyramidal rock sticking out 2mm from the ice?! Can you lock one of your shoe's lugs on it to get enough grip? Can you make it over there to the rotten log barely sticking out of the ice? Oooh, look at that series of depressions! You'll probably only slip off 1 or 2 of those this time around!

One section of the course has 3 creek crossings within 30 minutes. Bone chilling cold that would numb your feet for miles afterwards. The first 2 loops they didn't bother me. But by the 3rd loop, I would've happily spent 10 minutes at each crossing devising a complicated series of rocks and logs to cross over safely. Too bad all of the rocks and logs were encased in inches of ice! My neuroma was shocked by the cold water every time, and the next few miles felt like running on thumbtacks.

Loop 4:

Night set in and the muck started to freeze. Stretches of jeep roads had fields of razor sharp ice shards sticking out of the re-freezing mud, always surrounded by sneakily slick ice patches. There were a few times where I thought, "If I slip and fall the wrong way, I just might impale my neck and bleed to death out here … awesome."

Miraculously, most of the water runoff began to dissipate, and many stretch of mud hardened over into fairly runnable chunks of trail. But picking up the pace was always a daring proposition because there was still tons of ice littered along the trails and putting your foot down 1cm from where you intended would result in your feet flying out from under you and crashing hard onto the frozen hellscape.

Loop 5:

Trail conditions actually improved as the temps plummeted. More and more grit accumulated on the icy surfaces, and more and more mud turned to ice-free dirt. But the cold hit hard and I found my bottles freezing rapidly. I spent much of the final hours of the race persistently chewing my bottle nozzles, trying to break up the ice before it completely blocked the flow. With 2 hours to go, my nozzles were frozen shut and the liquids in the bottles began to freeze, too. My remaining calories were all gels, which froze solid. For the final 90 minutes I consumed nothing, save for whatever snot and ice accumulated on my mustache. But hey, there was a heck of a lot more runnable trail. Tradeoffs!

I'd break out the course conditions about like this:

• 20% runnable dry ground -- mostly the tail end of the race after the mud re-froze
• 15% mud
• 30% ice
• 35% crusty snow and ice that sometimes had enough grit, if you were lucky and stepped in just the right spot with just the right amount of force and momentum

Etcetera that no one cares about…

After each loop I spent 7-10 minutes to sit down in the Start/Finish building and re-organize my pack with the next round of nutrition. Reflecting the way I'd operate if I were doing a 100-150 mile unsupported FKT. It was good to feel out that process.

I spent 30 minutes on course not moving -- swapping gear, organizing something, eating, desperately looking for a way to cross a creek without soaking my feet, figuring out another way to strap those godforsaken poles to my pack so they didn't clang or get loose or dig into my side.

I started out with a nano puffy that works well in sub-30 temps. I thought it'd be fine given the lower level of effort required from the slower running conditions and the wind chill, but there was still plenty of dead-air hollows throughout the course, and the morning sun had me changing gear within 90 minutes of starting the race. For most of the race I had a mid-weight long sleeve and a Houdini wind breaker. Sometimes I had to take off the Houdini during the day. But I had so much shit in my pack that I couldn't simply wrap the Houdini over the pack to take it on and off. Anytime I needed to take it off or put it on, I had to stop and take off my pack. I'm honestly a bit amazed I finished the race wearing just a long-sleeve and a Houdini when some of the ridges clearly had wind chills in the range of -5.

God help you if you tried to get something out of your pack or open food packaging while running! After the first couple crashes from attempting to multi-task while navigating ice patches, I either had to wait for strategic locations on the course, or just stop dead in my tracks.

I usually love running in snow, and I have many fond memories of winter long runs in Shenandoah and Rock Creek Park in DC. I find it peaceful, the crisp, cold, clean air, just you and the crunching snow beneath your feet. But man oh man, I did not enjoy a full day on ice. I really hope I don't have race conditions like that ever again.