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My first hundred miler - The 2025 Mountain Lakes 100

2025-10-03T03:32:39.228831+00:00

Saturday September 20th, 8:00am. Ollalie Lake, Oregon.

One hundred and fifty one of us were there to run one hundred miles, or bust. Over a hundred others crowded the start line: race staff, volunteers, and plenty of families and friends. I overheard stories from veterans, tales from long training runs, and strategies on the arts of fueling and pooping.
It was a beautiful morning. The blue skies felt like a call from the mountains and woods, urging me to explore. And so, we went.

The first 12 miles of the course happen in a loop to the south of the start line. Much of the forest had been destroyed by recent fire, so many of the trees are a literal shell of their former selves. What I'm sure was once lush and glorious was now a little eerie and uncomfortable.
Managing my early efforts was easy to do, there were lots of people in front of me, and we were on single-track trail. I committed to keeping my spot in the line until it was necessary to make moves, and ran and hiked along smoothly, soaking in the sensation of my legs feeling fresh, full of energy.
We went by many lakes of various sizes, and right next to a couple too. I resisted the temptation to splash around, although by 10am the humidity was making this desert dweller sweaty.
I started the race with two bottles (500ml each) to carry on my vest, one was filled with water, the other had TailWind High Carb mix in it (90g of carbs!). I also packed gels, and had one at the top of each hour. My fueling strategy was to have 60 to 90 grams of carbs per hour, and to also supplement electrolytes every hour. After a summer with lots of multi-hour training adventures, I had fine tuned these numbers to find what works for me.
When I made it back to the start line at Ollalie Lake, I was a few minutes ahead of my projected 3-hour time. I changed my shirt, swapped GoPro batteries, and at the Aid Station I grabbed a handful of snacks, and refilled my bottles - one with water, one with electrolyte mix from Precision Fuel.

After leaving Ollalie Lake, the route took me north on the Pacific Crest Trail. After just a bit, the fire damage came to an end, and I entered the forest. I ran past a thru-hiker making the full journey to Canada on the PCT ... all the way from Mexico!
I was moving well and feeling quite great. Conversations with other runners kicked off, with plenty of stoke and high spirits.
By mile 20, I was feeling thirsty, but with little liquid left in my bottles. My pacing chart said next Aid Station was to be at mile 22.4. I had my last drinks around mile 21, and knew I had to push on through discomfort to earn my refills.

My Garmin didn't clock me at Pinheads Aid Station until mile 23.6. By then, I was not feeling so good anymore. I had spent the last couple of miles thirsty, and reflecting on how I probably had needed more liquid for the fist 3 hours of this thing, too. I had hours of under-hydration to recover from, so I committed to corrective action right then and there. I drank 500ml of water on the spot, and then filled up my flasks - again one with water, one with electrolyte mix. I also had some orange slices and Nerds gummy cluster candies, and packed a couple more gels for the way.

As I kept going further north, the forest kept showing off its variety and richness. I thought of my dear mom, who loves gardens and nature, and how she would have admired every fern, flower, and tree I passed. As it usually happens when I'm out in nature, it felt like I was carrying a piece of her wonder with me.
The miles went on, as did the time.

Nearing 3pm, I made it to Warm Springs Aid station at mile 29.6. Almost 7 hours since starting to move, and even longer since I had eaten some real food, I was hungry. The aid station offered sliders, and I made quick work of one. I had a second one, and it felt amazing. Eating something of substance was invigorating, especially when paired with Coca-Cola. With a happy belly, and refilled flasks once more, I carried on.

Burning Man taught me long ago that "piss clear" is the gold standard when getting sweaty for hours, and I was happy to see my urine trend towards clarity on the few pit stops I made along the way, thanks to my commitment to sip and hydrate up.
My carbohydrate strategy seemed to be working. I rotated through a variety of gels and chews that I had packed in my vest, along with the Precision Fuel gels that were stocked up at the Aid Stations. My stomach was also holding up well, and was even yearning for some more of that real food out there.

When I was at Red Wolf aid station (mile 35, 8h 35m), I added a pack of TailWind (regular, not high-carb) to my water bottle, and took electrolyte mix in the other. Since the next 5 miles were going to be downhill, I wanted to be able to drink my carbs/calories. I knew the next Aid Station was the biggest one on the course, so it have plenty of food. My craving for something substantial to eat grew stronger.

Mile 40 Clackamas AS - 10 hours in, 6pm.

As I entered the Aid Station, dozens of spectators clapped and shouted encouragements. Music played, and delicious food smells filled the air.
I had access to my own drop bag here, which I had prepared in advance (many times over, indeed). The weather forecast showed some rain starting in the middle of the night, and temps dropping into the 40s combined with humidity higher than I'm used to. So, my drop bag was stuffed with layers, of which I made use: I changed out of the short sexy Janji tights I started the race with, into underwear and sweatpants. I also swapped shirts again, to something a little warmer and less sweated-soaked. I packed shorts for the morning time, and a jacket for the expected rain.
As I was doing this, a familiar feeling emerged. In a premeditated reaction, I reached for my GoPro and captured close-ups of the Tailwind that was coming back out from my insides. The race director -Todd- saw this happen, and commended me on my agility as I navigated small-sized obstacles to find a puking spot between cars, and away from the crowds.
After this sudden little event, I washed my face and hands, and went back to the Aid Station to pick up where I left off: Drop Bag stuff. I grabbed my headlamp and belt light, a portable battery to charge up my Garmin, and eventually the flashlights too. I left behind my little drone: I knew I wouldn't record anything at night, and the likely rain was also going to prohibit its usage.
The Aid Station was cooking Pierogies and Quesadillas. I ate one of each, slowly, washing them down with a cup of warm broth. I did not have trouble eating or drinking after the little incident. It was an excellent little display of the "boot and rally" technique... but I spent almost 25 minutes here, not moving. I had to go, and so I did.

As night was falling, the temperatures started to drop. It was chilly, but being on the move generated plenty of heat. I ran for 20 minutes with sweatpants on, and then I just could not take it anymore: in the middle of the trail, I changed to shorts and stuffed my pants into the back of the vest, next to the rain jacket. My legs enjoyed the fresh air, and stayed uncovered until the end.
It wasn’t fully dark yet, but thick sections of forest turned into caves of shadow, and I switched on my lights. I relied on a headlamp and a cheap waist-belt light, both LED based and rechargeable with the same USB-C cable running to a battery in my vest. A spare headlamp in my pack gave me another three hours of backup. With no moonlight and heavy tree cover, I depended on these lights — but I was well prepared.

At 8pm, twelve hours into the race, I reached Little Crater Lake Aid Station at mile 46.5. Volunteers were dancing to house music, and the overall vibe was super positive and encouraging. I once again filled up my bottles, grabbed a variety of small snacks, and made my way back to the trail. On the way out, passing by the Little Crater, another runner and I shined our headlamps into it, admiring the crystal-clear water and how far we could see into its depths. It's probably a LOT cooler in the daylight.
A little later, walking on some platforms across a marshy meadow, I stopped, turned my lights, and looked up to the open sky: stars in every direction, even the Milky Way was noticeable. The New Moon contributed no light to the nightscape, which made the stars stand out even more.

From here, the trail climbed 1,248 feet over 6 miles to the next Aid Station. The night was quiet, and the forest was too. I put on my headphones and queued up Incubus, my wife’s favorite band, to keep me moving through the uphill. Each song that played reminded me of live performances of the songs, with Kelly singing her heart out by my side.
I was starting to feel some fatigue in my legs, especially the hamstrings and glutes. Since this was an uphill section, I was hiking and using poles. Another runner just in front of me was using a tree branch as nature's pole. We exchanged words a few times; we shared awe about the tall trees, acknowledged each other's efforts so far, and made jokes about taking Fireball shots at the Aid Station. I pointed out a better branch to use as a pole, and he trusted me and went with it.
There was a fallen tree log blocking the trail, so I had to step up to get over it and to the other side. As I pushed off my left foot to get to the top of the log, a grapefruit-sized cramp seized my left calf.. I managed to shift my balance mostly to my right leg, and lowered myself off the log back to stable ground, then focused on immobilizing my left leg and doing some deep breathing.
After a minute, I started to move very slowly as I evaluated the sensations coming from my left lower leg. It felt tight, but I had felt much worse. I took some extra electrolytes in the form of salt tablets, and decided to turn down my effort a little bit for at least 30 minutes.

I made it to the Frog Lake Aid Station at mile 55ish at 10:33pm. This was the turn-around point of the course, the northern-most point. I sat down and took extra time to stretch and massage my calf. It felt nice to warm up by a fire (or maybe it was just some propane heaters?) while eating a few yummy snacks and sipping on some soup. But I didn't let myself too get too comfortable. After 15 minutes total stoppage time, I got back to the trail in the middle of the night.

Now going downhill, I was able to do a gentle run to take advantage of the pull of gravity. When I got to the log that needed to be stepped over, I moved like a slot to avoid a repeat cramp. I succeeded, and resumed my jogging. I was feeling pretty good, finding a good rhythm and generating enough heat to be comfortable in the chilly night.

Now going backwards on the course, I was going to re-visit all the aid stations. Little Crater was now mile 62ish, and I got there around 00:50am - of Sunday 9/21. 90s Rock music played, and the mood was a little less festive than before. Some of the race carnage was starting to become evident; 2 people were sitting down with a thousand-mile stare, and a couple of runners were exchanging encouragement to keep pushing on.
Soup (broth, really) was essential by this point. Not only did it provide warmth, but also some noodly carbohydrates, and a good chunk of sodium. This Aid Station also had Gourmet Grilled Cheese sandwiches, with Dave's Killer Bread and a very generous usage of butter and cheese. I had 2 of them, and grabbed a handful of Oreos for the road out.

The route back takes a small detour to do a loop around Timothy Lake. It's the middle of the night, so the little I can see with my flashlights does not change much: trail and trees. But it was noticeably more humid and therefore chilly in this area, and the vegetation was much richer and more varied. There were mushrooms glowing in the dark, adding to the Lord of the Rings vibes that sometimes mix well with epic trail runs. I ran by a sign for someone's "22nd secret birthday party", and heard the corresponding party noises not too far from the trail, toward the lake.
Since this terrain was mostly rolling little hills, I was finding my slow flow, and fine tuning the form to the fatigue that was starting to set in. I also celebrated that I was now running the furthest I had ever run, with each extra step that I took.

There was another aid station on the Dam of Timothy Lake, at around mile 67. I arrived at 02:20am, and followed my now ritualistic steps: get soup, fill bottles, sit down, eat snacks while sipping on soup, time limit of 15 minutes.

When I arrived at Clackamas Aid Station (now Mile 71.7) it was 03:37am. I felt like the night leg had just re-started. Aided by lots of caffeine, my mind was feeling strong and confident on the ability to keep the body going for 30 more miles.
I grabbed my drop bag, took a seat, and calmly resupplied. I changed socks and shoes, even though I was not having problems there. I checked for blisters, dirt that could become a blister, toenails... everything looked healthy and unharmed, which brought relief. My confidence and determination were reinforced.
As I refilled my bottles and grabbed snacks, a volunteer recommended I spend a few seconds by the heater before heading into the cold night again. I stepped into the tent that had a heater making it very cozy, and saw at least 5 runners that had decided to drop from the race and were waiting for a ride back to the start line. They wished me luck, and then I was outta there just as my legs were starting to enjoy the artificial heat.

I did not have any hallucinations, like some (most?) ultrarunners do when they near 24 hours of activity. But there was some sort of special chemistry happening nonetheless. There were moments where I felt intensely present, some of them long easy flows, and others as brief as a single footstep.
When the legendary runner's high hits me, I tend to have verbal outbursts in the form of a "woooop!" or a "yieeheey!". I was making some sort of noise every few minutes, not just to externalize the joyfulness I was feeling, but also as a beacon for other runners out there, and perhaps even to spook away any nocturnal animals that might be looking at me, but I couldn't see myself.

At 5:30am, I arrived at Red Wolf Aid Station, now at mile marker 77. I quickly moved through this one, to keep the momentum I had been building for hours now. Refilled, Refueled, and anticipating the next segment: 2+ miles of gentle downhill.

I got reacquainted with the pull of gravity, and opened up my stride to build up speed. I looked at my GPS watch: 22 hours, 78 miles logged. It also showed that I was running at under 12:00 minutes per mile. This felt fast, and this became a mini-game to play. Could I sustain this "fast" effort for the whole downhill? As I got closer and closer to the eventual answer of "yep", my grin probably grew wider and wider.
Downhill running at the edge of my comfort zone is one of my favorite aspects of trail running, and this moving like this at mile 80 felt like an accomplishment of its own. I knew I was considerably slower than the typical epic send, but I also knew I was playing a little bit with fire by pushing my muscles to move relatively fast and aggressively.
Feeling relatively awesome at this point, I visualized my remaining doubts being left behind me, as I swiftly moved through narrow single-track lined with waist-high bushes and plants.

The sun started to come up, but the light was very dim and soft. The clouds covered the forest in every direction, but the occasional ray of light did sneak through and shine like a beacon from the heavens. A breeze started to pick up, and the skin on my face felt the variations in humidity as low-flying clouds drifted past - or was I the one going moving through clouds?

At 7:00am, I made it to Warm Springs Aid Station. This was previously mile 29.6, it was now mile 82ish. I put all my lights away, they were not needed anymore. I sat down to rest my legs, and ate bacon, and a little bit of fruit and candy. I refilled my bottles and chatted with volunteers and a couple of other runners. I packed some more snacks for the road, and when 10 minutes had gone by, I made a move onward.

Sunday 9/21 8:00am

When the 24 hour mark hit, I was somewhere around mile 85. I took inventory of my adventure so far, and admired how the forest looked so alive with the fresh moisture, from the morning dew and the incoming and changing weather.
A bit later, it started to rain and I finally had a real need for my jacket. The rain was light and thankfully didn't make the trail muddy. My knees and shins caught most of the moisture as I brushed through low vegetation, flowers and leaves heavy with droplets.

The Pinheads Aid station (mile 88ish) had fresh breakfast on demand, consisting of pancakes, syrup, and hash browns. I took a full plate and sat down to enjoy it as the rain made playful sounds all over the shade structures. When I was done, I closed my eyes and took a few long breaths to refocus for a final push. I was tired. But I was not broken in any way. I mentally visited times I had felt much worse, and still carried on, during races and training. Inhale. Exhale. I opened my eyes, and put one foot forward, then the next. It was time to keep going.

On the final stretch back to Ollalie Lake, there's a little 1.2 mile detour into Olallie Meadows, to one last Aid Station. This segment was lovely, with fall colors beginning to pop, and the feeling of a finish line nearby. At the Aid Station I ate more bacon, topped off my bottles, and grabbed potato chips for the road.

The trail began to change as the burned forest came into view again. I was getting really close. My watch showed I was into the 27th hour, and I ran through the math: if I held pace, I could still finish under 28 hours. It was possible.
Without a canopy, the forest offered little shelter from the weather. The wind pressed in, noticeable but never oppressive. Above and around me, gray clouds hung low, visibility was limited to less than a mile. The poor weather felt like an appropriate companion to the moment; the sunrise stoke had faded, replaced now by determination, commitment, and a growing excitement to be done.
My GPS ticked past the 100-mile mark. The course still had nearly a mile left, and I did not stop.

My official finish time was 28:00:46. When I crossed the finish line, I felt many things, most remarkably pride and accomplishment, relief and joy, hunger and thirst, and many more. The cup was full, as they say.

I finished 44th out of 151. Well, 44th out of 80 finishers. 71 Did Not Finish.

This race was super well organized, and run by people that genuinely care. I recommend this event to anyone considering running 100 miles! The route is quite runnable, and the aid stations are stocked and staffed by incredibly generous volunteers.

Race page: https://gobeyondracing.com/races/mountain-lakes-100/.
Strava https://www.strava.com/activities/15893311342/overview.

Video I captured with GoPro and drone:

The 2025 Lost Sierra 100km Endurance Race

2025-07-31T15:39:48.138238+00:00

The Lost Sierra 100km took place on July 26, 2025. Its motto, Per Ardua ad Alta — “through adversity, to the heights” — felt fitting.
The out-and-back course started and ended in Downieville, California, winding through the scenic Third Divide Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, and Lakes Basin Trails. I moved across beautiful, rugged terrain: remote forests, high ridgelines with sweeping views of the Sierra Buttes, creek crossings, wildflower-studded meadows, boulder scrambles, and miles of flowing singletrack.

Going into this race, I knew I wanted to stay stress-free. I followed the mantra: don’t find the time — make the time — and took two days off work before Saturday’s start.
I used Thursday to pack all my gear, and entertained minutes-long internal debates over whether I’d prefer apple or orange-flavored gels for one of my drop bags. It also happened to be my 15th wedding anniversary, so it was nice to be able to reflect on such things instead of the typical Thursday grind with a dozen meetings back-to-back.

On Friday, I picked up my friend Will for the road trip to Downieville. He was also signed up for the 100K, and we had logged plenty of training miles together leading up to this.
We checked into the Downieville River Inn by early afternoon, then jogged around town for a shakeout run — and an excuse to jump in the pool. Our host gave us solid intel on the town’s limited dining options, and we scored a hearty burger-and-fries meal just 20 minutes before the “open” sign was turned off.
Packet pickup that evening was mellow — the Bad Luck Runners crew was still getting everything set up. We strolled back to the hotel and went to bed early.

Saturday’s alarms were set for 4:00 a.m. As usual before a big day, I woke up on my own — but only about 30 minutes early — and had managed a solid six-ish hours of sleep. That was encouraging, since I’d been fully expecting (and low-key planning for) the usual sleepless zombie mode.
I quietly laid around until 4 anyway, using the stillness to bring order to all of the thoughts that were storming up regarding the upcoming day’s many logistics. I did a little bit of visualization of the course map and elevation profile, with special focus on the aid stations where I would refuel, and give myself a few minutes of rest (but no more than 5!). I also reviewed my plans for the two drop bags I had stuffed with snacks and spare clothes.

Around 4:30am, Will and I used the walk from the hotel to the start line as our warm-up. Downtown Downieville was silent and dimly lit, the stars stood out sharp against the deep, dark sky.
At the start line, we met up with Abe — another friend I’d logged plenty of trail miles with. He had just finished the Cool Moon 100 in June and was ready to put that fitness to use again.

As the race started, I settled near the back of the pack to discourage myself from pushing too hard early on. The strategy worked well — I hiked uphill through the forests above Downieville, keeping my effort in check. The line of headlamps ahead meant I didn’t have to think about staying on course; I just had to follow the flow and let the fun unfold. Patience — and a bit of humility, recently polished by my SS 5050 DNF — helped me stay at ease with the plan.

As dawn broke, the terrain revealed itself in every direction — a feast for my eyes and soul. The views teased what the return path might hold: fast, technical descents on trails often dominated by mountain bikes. I passed creeks, crossed bridges, skirted waterfalls, and moved beneath towering pines. The leaves lit up in thousands of shades of green, with the occasional burst of wildflowers still hanging on to summer. Every now and then, a birdcall or rustling critter grabbed my attention — and more than once, I added my own “ye-heee!” or “woo-hoooo!” just to hear it echo back through the woods.

As I approached Golden Valley Aid Station, I caught up with Will and Abe for a bit. We traded hype, awe, and appreciation for the terrain and experience so far. We ran together briefly before splitting off to follow our own race plans.
This aid station sits right where the dense forest gives way to open alpine — a transition point between worlds. The views were stunning: the Sierra Buttes in the distance, lakes tucked into bowls below, and the ridgeline leading north toward the Pacific Crest Trail.
I put my drop bag to use as planned: changed into a dry shirt, grabbed the drone for a few video captures, and restocked my vest with more than 200 grams of carbs in gels and chews. I also refilled my bottles and grazed at the aid table — potatoes with salt, orange slices, a cookie, and a few Nerds Gummy Clusters (yum!).

Running on the PCT was a dream — the kind of section trail running fantasies are made of. I felt like I was flowing through spacetime while the landscape unfolded around me. In the distance, lakes mirrored the sky, mountains, and forest. Some other lakes sat right alongside the trail, and while I resisted the urge to take a dip, I did splash my head and upper body for a very refreshing jolt.
As I made my way toward the turnaround near mile 30, the good feeling held. My fueling strategy was working — and eight hours in, I hadn’t experienced a single issue: no cramps, no nausea, no pain. Incredible. I made a mental note not to get lazy with nutrition once fatigue eventually set in.
Somewhere on that stretch, I saw Will already on his return, a mile or two ahead of me and moving smoothly. He was doing his thing — and doing it well.

I had actually been to the halfway point before, The Plumas-Eureka State Park. My little family once spent a few nights tent camping in Jamison Creek Campground, and as I crossed the wooden bridge, I flashed back to a moment when toddler Lola splashed around in the creek with her friend Carter, both of them joyfully naked and completely free.
I reached the aid station at 1pm, eight hours after the start. I was ready for a break, some real food, and another dry shirt to change into.
As I strolled in, I passed a familiar face that clicked into place after half a second — Dr. Swanger, a radiologist I’d worked with back around 2015 or 2016. But out here, he wasn’t a doctor. He was Ron — just another guy vibing in the woods, and technically ahead of me if we’re pretending this was a race. We shared a few encouraging words and smiles, then I moved on to raid the aid station.

Turns out, Joni Taylor was volunteering here — another jolt of human connection. Joni is something of a staple in the local ultra scene: a literal ray of sunshine who’s handed me snacks, soda, and encouragement at more races than I can count. Her presence gave me a boost.
I took full advantage of the stop: a real chair, hot quesadillas, a little candy, a cold Coca-Cola, and a request to clean off my sunglasses — which Joni somehow had the perfect wipes for. I restocked from my drop bag with more gels and chews, and swapped my Hoka Speedgoats for Topo Ultraventures to give my feet more room. I debated a sock change, but left them alone I lollygagged a bit, and Joni gave me some friendly nudges to get moving again. In the end, I spent over 15 minutes at the aid station. The fatigue was setting in, and so was the awareness of what lay ahead: everything I’d just done, in reverse. The upside? Seeing those stunning views again. The downside? Earning them.

The views were just as spectacular in reverse. I passed a few dozen runners still making their way toward the turnaround, offering them fist-bumps and greetings like “Yeah buddy!” and “You got this!” as we crossed paths.
The skies had started filling with towering clouds, flirting with thunderstorm potential. The temperature stayed cool, and the landscape looked like it had been turned up to eleven — a NatGeo-worthy spread of rocks and foliage glowing under soft, diffused light. The sky was an endless slideshow of cloud-porn.
But despite the beauty, I was feeling quite shitty. My watch showed I was around mile 40 — meaning 20+ still to go — and I was slipping into a mental low. I began doing math I didn’t want to do: How slow could I go and still finish before the cutoff? The creeping dread wasn’t physical pain exactly — more like a fog of fatigue and doubt seeping in.
I took a pause and reached for the one gel I had been saving for this kind of scenario: lots of caffeine, 200mg in one slurpy serving. The shitty feeling hung around, and I took a few sitting breaks in the shade to breathe deeply, close my eyes, and absorb my self-inflicted misery. But I kept slowly moving.
I stopped in a shady spot, sat for a bit on a rock, breathed deep, closed my eyes. I reached for the gel I’d been saving for this exact scenario — the emergency reserve. One slurp, 200mg of caffeine. It didn’t fix everything immediately, but I kept moving, slowly, stubbornly.
Eventually, the caffeine kicked in, and the fog began to lift. My legs turned over a little easier. My thoughts stopped spiraling. I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself get another low like this if I could help it.
And then — the storm. Thick gray clouds darkened above. The air turned heavy, charged. A sudden flash lit up the sky. I counted: one… two…(3,4,5)… six… seven… KA-BOOM. The sound cracked across the Lost Sierra and gave me goosebumps. Based on my very scientific method, the lightning had struck just a mile or two away. It seemed like it had happened behind me, which was somehow comforting — and motivating to move forward. I picked up the pace. Eventually, a gentle drizzle broke out. It felt amazing — like Mother Nature herself was rooting for me. I entered into another wave of flow, running with full intent, present in the moment, my arms sometimes outstretched like wings. These flashes of presence feel almost spiritual. They’re fleeting moments, but unforgettable…

I made it to the Golden Valley Aid Station — mile 48 — at around 6:30pm, 13 and a half hours into the race. The sun was still up, but it was time to start prepping for nightfall. I grabbed my headlamp from my drop bag and finally changed socks. That’s when I found the culprit of the discomfort I’d been feeling: a two-inch blister. It wasn’t too angry-looking, so I let it be — no intervention required.
Just then, Abe rolled into the aid station while I was sipping a tiny cup of ramen noodles (mmm, sodium!). His blisters were far less polite — bloody, painful toe gremlins that were wrecking his stride. He flagged down help, and a volunteer used one of the pins from a race bib to pop the little devils. It was equal parts grim and hilarious — just another moment in ultrarunning, hanging out at a mountaintop rest stop, casually dealing with bodily chaos.

The final 12-mile descent back to Downieville felt like its own mini event. After so many hours on my feet, running downhill was neither easy nor entirely safe. My legs were toast, and the blister on the right foot was becoming noticeable. Gravity made speed tempting, but my control was fading — and with a few rocks and roots on the trail, a bad step could’ve sent me flying off the mountainside. I wasn’t about to let that be the ending.
As golden hour lit the pines and danced through the dust, I tried to run fast but controlled — dipping into the last of my “high output” energy reserves. Every muscle was working, but none were quitting. I silently thanked all those hours of strength and mobility work in training. It was paying off.
Then darkness dropped like a curtain. The forest swallowed the trail, and my world shrunk to the narrow beam of my headlamp. I spotted spiders, tiny millipedes… and who knew what else might creep out at night? I wasn’t scared, exactly — but it was definitely eerie. Every few minutes, I yelled or barked into the dark, just in case.
By now, I was so tired I just wanted to walk — and I had enough time to do so and still finish. Just a mile or two to go. But walking didn’t keep me warm. The night air was cold, I started to shiver anytime I slowed down. So I defaulted to a final strategy: walk a little, run a little. Again and again. I inched closer to the end.

I emerged from the darkness and onto the streets of Downieville around 10 p.m. A few folks were still out, clapping from the sidewalks as runners trickled in. I was done walking. I picked up into a run — slow, stiff, but a run — and made my way toward the finish line.
I crossed in 17 hours and 3 minutes. Met my goal time of a 17h finish.
A wave of relief, pride, and exhaustion washed over me as the race organizers congratulated me. I quickly found a seat, and let it all soak in for a bit — the effort, the miles, the moments.
Then I stood up, walked a few steps away from the crowd, and quietly threw up what little was left in my stomach. Exhaustion barf: a humble punctuation mark on a long, marvelous day. Luckily, it was a small mess.

I cleaned up and looked up just in time to see Abe charging through the finish line. I hooted in excitement and awe—he had clearly rallied hard, putting down a strong final stretch after I’d last seen him mid-blister surgery. We exchanged a few words and mutual congratulations, but both of us were running low on energy (and smelling like creatures from the woods), so we parted ways with a hug and a smile.
Will had wrapped up his race about an hour earlier and was already on the road home with his wife, who’d been cheering him on at the finish.
I made the quiet walk back to the hotel alone, passing through the darkened streets of Downieville, now silent like they had been at dawn. I was no longer a runner in motion—just another guy in town, gently coming down from something big. After a hot shower and a dinner of sandwich and beer, I took one last slow walk through the still night to retrieve my drop bags and allow the day’s intensity to slowly dissolve.

I usually sleep poorly after big endurance efforts—too much adrenaline still humming through my system, too much caffeine still circulating. The body is drained, but the mind won’t settle. Sure enough, I managed only about four hours of sleep.
But when I woke, it was with a huge, unshakable smile and a deep sense of satisfaction. The kind that doesn’t need words. My legs were sore, the foot blister throbbed, but my heart was full.
I packed up my things slowly, without urgency—giving myself space to linger in the quiet afterglow of something challenging and beautiful. Eventually, I hit the road, heading home with the weariness of effort well spent, and the kind of fatigue that feels like a gift.

I ate every single snack within arm’s reach on the quiet, winding two-hour drive home. My body was sore, but in that good, deep way that only comes after doing something significant. Outside the window, the mountains rolled by, the trees swayed in the breeze, and the sky held layers of soft clouds that mirrored the feelings inside me - content, floaty.
I thought about the miles I had covered, the highs and lows, the people I’d shared them with, and the tiny moments I wanted to hold onto: cold creek water on my face, flashes of lightning and goosebump-inducing thunder, the echoes of joyful shouts on a cliff side, Abe finishing strong despite bloody blisters. I felt grateful to have lived so much, so fully, in just one day.
Somewhere in between bites of jerky and sips of leftover electrolyte drink, I started daydreaming.... About the next one. Another trail, another sunrise, another chance to meet myself out there. Another moment of being so fully present that time bends and stretches — and for a few sacred miles, disappears altogether.

It really was a great day. The kind that stays with me. The kind that becomes part of me.

2nd time at Silver State 50/50, first DNF

2025-06-10T04:51:16.764246+00:00

Saturday, June 7, 2025, marked the 40th edition of the Silver State 50/50. This race takes place on my proverbial backyard trails — Peavine Mountain — where I do much of my running. It’s organized by the Silver State Striders, a local trail running group I’ve had the pleasure of joining a few times for long runs. The Striders emphasize looking out for one another during these long efforts across remote terrain, and it genuinely felt like every runner and volunteer I encountered embraced that spirit. Even the smallest gestures can mean the world when you’re in a vulnerable spot… more on that later.

The race started at 6:00am, and up, up, up we went. The first 12+ miles of the course are uphill, climbing about 3,400 feet. My strategy was to power-hike and fuel up, and save the effort for the flats and downhills.

The ghosts of plantar fasciitis from the last few years did not join me, nor did my knees give any signal of discomfort. This pleased me, and I looked forward to the many more miles to come.

I made it to the Poeville Aid Station at 9~ish miles, and replenished my fluids and snacks. I grabbed a handful of pretzel sticks for the road and marched on. There were a few other runners around me, including a buff shirtless dude being chased/cheered on by his girlfriend - on a totally stock sedan casually going up Peavine road.

Then the unexpected hit. I took a couple of pretzels, but after a few seconds of chewing, I could not swallow. The infamous dry mouth of ultras came on fast, and I panicked. I puked — a lot. The girlfriend of swolebro got a pretty good show, and was horrified (lol) at the colorful and pressurized vomit that erupted as I continued slowly jogging uphill while giving her a thumbs-up.

I knew that my race had changed in an instant, and now it was not about performing, but about enduring. My new strategy was to rehydrate, and keep moving. With longer distance events ahead on my calendar, I figured this would be a training session in what the second half might feel like.

Three hours and five minutes after the start, I reached Peavine Summit — about 12 miles in — and the consequences of my nutrition mishap were becoming more apparent. My legs tingled with the threat of cramps, and my confidence was shaken. I took a seat, resupplied energy gels from my drop bag, changed shirts, and abandoned the GoPro — there would be no cute video coming out from this adventure.

After some lovely encouragement from Strider friends, I headed out toward Jimmy’s Loop. Downhill running was barely possible — my upper legs were threatening to seize and send me tumbling down. So instead of “sending it with no brakes”, I relied on my poles for stabilization and shock absorption to keep me upright and safely moving.

Near the bottom of Jimmy’s Loop, I stepped into a shallow rain pond — and immediately regretted it. My right calf seized up with a fist-sized cramp just as I discovered the water was nearly knee-high. I laid by a tree, immobilizing my right leg with both hands to avoid further ouch. After a few minutes of slow and deep breathing, I got up, shook it off, and resumed the march.

I looked around to take in the view and distract myself from the inner chatter: vistas for miles — mountains, trees, rocks, and a million wildflowers. It worked. The beauty, the splendor, the reminder of how fortunate I am to be able to do this.

When I made it to Peavine Summit for the second time (around mile 19), I was feeling better than on my first visit. It felt like some of my legs were coming back to life, thanks to all the fuel and salt I had been taking in. The friendly encouragement from the Striders was once again highly effective, and my spirits were still strong and positive.

However, I was definitely letting go of my 12 hour goal, or even beating my previous finish time of 12:13 (video from Silver State 50/50 2023 here!). My new goal was much smaller and simpler: make it to the next aid station, and repeat.

As I ran into Long Valley, the heat became noticeable — it was probably somewhere in the 90s. I’ve run this section of the course a handful of times before and loved it; it offers a wonderful sense of solitude and smallness among timeless trees, rocks, and dirt. I managed to find glimpses of that joy, but I couldn’t find flow. Most attempts to run were cut short within minutes by cramps — calf, thigh, quad, groin—on both legs. Oof.

The Long Valley aid station (mile 25.5) was Tiki-themed, and I was introduced to the unexpected delight of Roctane mixed with pineapple juice. There were also popsicles, chips, watermelon, a sponge ice bath, a massage gun to the legs, and, of course, more Striders encouragement to relentlessly move forward. So off I went again.

The Dog Valley Aid Station (mile 29.3) was a special kind of awesome: it was hosted by a couple celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary. They chose to spend the day in a shade structure in the middle of the woods, handing out drinks, snacks, and encouragement (!) to 50 runners on a hot day. Just amazing. Pure vibes.

At each of these aid stations, the temptation to quit was strong. I could’ve just tapped out and caught a ride home with the volunteers when they wrapped up... which was soon, I was pretty sure I was at the back of the pack by now. But my stubbornness — or maybe my determination — kept those thoughts from sticking. I would go as far as I physically could! The strategy was simple: one foot in front of the other, keep drinking, keep eating, fuel the effort.

And so onwards I went, with a wrecked lower body but spirits still high. It was around the California/Nevada border that I cracked the code on how to swallow food despite the bone-dry, moistureless ultra-mouth: a tiny sip of water to finish the last few chews, a swirl, and down it went. Suddenly, I could handle things like sweet potatoes with salt, quesadillas, and PB&J sandwiches. I giggled to myself as I realized how such a small, obvious trick could make such a big difference — if only I’d known or practiced it earlier, maybe the day's events would have been playing out differently (better??).

At mile 31~ish, a strong cramp took over my left quad. It caught me by surprise, since I was still doing a walk & run combination. The poles I had been using to help me move forward became critical load-bearing infrastructure, allowing for a controlled descent to the middle of the trail. As my eyes scanned for the ideal landing zone in a split second, I recall getting a glimpse of one of the poles bending like a bow. Luckily, this section is mostly loose dirt so it was a harmless fall - though I imagine it kicked up a little dust cloud.

I dragged myself over to a shady spot and once again waited out the cramp while focusing on breathing deeply and slowly. This stillness helped once again re-contextualize: What a day I was having! Could I keep going? Was there even another option at this point? I was not about to hike backwards to the Anniversary aid station to drop out.

Climbing out of Dog Valley, I found entertainment in the wildflowers and shifting clouds. I’d never moved this slowly through the area before, so I truly had a chance to soak in its beauty. Curiously, I had a side stitch for most of it, despite staying in Zone 1.

I reached Sandy Hill Aid Station 10 hours and 6 minutes into this whole saga — 35 miles down, 15 to go. The volunteers gave the usual friendly and warm welcome, but the tone was different here. They dished out tough love in spades, urging me to move quickly out of the aid station, and up the hill since the Summit cutoff was at 11 hours and 15 minutes. I had just over an hour to cover roughly three miles and climb nearly 1,500 feet.

I arrived at the summit aid station 10 minutes too late. As I handed in my bib, I immediately felt at peace with my race being over. It had been hours since I was ready to quit, and I was satisfied with having covered 38 miles in total — almost 30 of those miles feeling like hot garbage in fun running gear.

The Striders at Peavine Station hooked me up with a cold beer. Their friendliness and warmth once again reminded me how much I appreciate being part of such a unique and wonderful event.

I’ll be back for a third attempt — determined to finally break that elusive sub-12-hour mark. This race pushed me to my limits, but it also reminded me that persistence beats perfection. Here’s to many more miles and lessons.

Foresthill run with the Silver State Striders

2025-03-10T01:52:16.949613+00:00

WillyP asked if I wanted to join the Strider's outing on a section of the Western States 100. I said yes :)

There's a very close to zero chance I'll ever do WSer, but there's a very good non-zero chance that I'll be be checking out other parts of the route. This was super fun!

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2025 Trail running event schedule

2025-03-06T01:23:38.208190+00:00

I'm signed up for the following big ones:

Jun 7, 2025: Silver State 50/50 - 50 Miles - Reno, NV
Jul 26, 2025: Lost Sierra Endurance Race - 100K - Downieville, CA
Sep 20, 2025: Mountain Lakes 100 - Olallie Lake, OR

I am a YouTuber (gasp)

2025-03-06T03:32:39.657852+00:00

I have a whole CHANNEL! Click here to check it out