The wind is howling, which I would mind less if it brought storm clouds our way. Recently, it’s been delivering blasts of warmer air from the south. I’ve been checking the weather apps obsessively, clinging to hope that the forecast calls for a few inches of snow to blanket the dull brown patches on the landscape, now drained of color. Fresh white would make it feel like winter again. Our driveway, and some of my favorite running routes, have turned into paths of treacherous ice due to a cycle of daytime melt and nighttime freeze.

Here around the San Juan Mountains, conditions this month have been pretty crappy for running and skiing, and this limbo between winter and spring put me in a funk.

I took this photo a week ago of the landscape a half mile from our home, showing all the south-facing slopes melted out. Much more of the thin snow layer has melted in recent days.

I’m also in an in-between phase running-wise, because I have a road marathon in less than two weeks, so I’m tapering. While I value the early-season speedier and steadier marathon training for getting in better running shape, I want to get past it and back to training on trail for ultras this spring. I feel a pent-up restlessness, but I don’t enjoy being outside as much as usual because of the wind and ice.

Under these conditions, exercising indoors sometimes provides a welcome relief. Last Sunday, at home with minimal gym equipment, I did a fatiguing and satisfying all-over conditioning workout in only 35 minutes.

That workout inspired me to share coaching advice about conditioning, since many runners have questions about how much and what types of exercise other than running they should fit into their week. Some runners get hooked on Crossfit. Some swear by yoga. Some are multisport athletes who swim, cycle, or ski-mo. Some do nothing but run lots and lots of miles. Which approach is best, and what do you need?

The answer is, “It depends.” It depends on your training goals, where you’re at in your training cycle, and where you’re at in life in terms of age and fitness.

What I mean by “conditioning”

Conditioning is an umbrella term I use to include strengthening exercises that use extra weight or bodyweight for resistance; mobility exercises for range of motion, muscle control, and balance; and drills and plyometrics, which are specific exaggerated movements, often involving jumping, that foster better running skills and boost strength and cardio fitness. Physical therapy usually means a combo of customized strength and mobility exercises to correct specific weaknesses or asymmetry in your strength or movement.

Conditioning is different than cross-training, though a lot of people use the terms interchangeably. I use cross-training to refer to a different sport or recreational activity, such as cycling, swimming, or skiing. (Some people put yoga in the cross-training category, but I prefer to think of yoga as a form of mobility and light strength work, hence a type of conditioning.)

As a runner, you don’t need to cross-train, unless you want to for general health and happiness. Some of my clients, for example, want to devote one day of their weekend to golf or Nordic skiing, to which I say, OK, if it makes you a happier and more well-rounded person, let’s fit it in! But if they are training for a goal race, then in the eight weeks prior to that race I’ll recommend that they phase out their cross-training in favor of more specific running and rest.

Conditioning, by contrast, in my view always is worthwhile and belongs in every runner’s training, though the amount and type should vary depending on where they’re at in their training cycle.

Why you should do conditioning (and sometimes give it a rest)

Conditioning can lead to improved running, but usually not by a very significant margin. Strengthening muscles is one way (but not the only way) to improve “running economy,” which in simple terms means the amount of oxygen you use while running at a certain pace. If you have less running economy, you’ll need more effort to run.

Truth is, you can be a darn good runner without doing extra conditioning work. To become a better runner, you’ve gotta focus on running and recovery. So why take time for conditioning? I see three main reasons.

Read the rest of the post here.

It gives reasons why (and why not) to add conditioning to your weekly routine, how to schedule it into your week, and it details a typical workout and links to additional resources. 

This photo, demonstrating a pushup variation, was taken during a photo shoot for my book’s chapter on conditioning. I did it at a trailhead to show you can do conditioning pretty much anywhere. Photo by Tonya Perme

What makes running fun? Friends often say, “have fun” when you go to race, as I did last weekend. “Fun” is different than satisfying. Generally, running brings satisfaction—the feeling of the body heated, loosened and strengthened, mind cleared, mood elevated, sights observed over miles of terrain—but most runs I wouldn’t call fun, unless it’s the kind of “type 2” fun that comes in hindsight after persevering through not-so-fun challenges.

Real, enjoyable fun in the form of exhilaration and amusement surprised me during a race last Saturday on smooth-flowing, buffed-out trails designed for mountain bikes in the North Fruita Desert trails off 18 Road, about 40 minutes northwest of Grand Junction.

I raced an inaugural event called Kessel Ultra put on by Mad Moose Events. The race offered 50 mile, 60K (37 miles), 20 mile and 10 mile divisions. I vacillated between signing up for the 60K or 20M. The ultrarunner in me felt obligated to run an ultra distance. But I knew I’m not in shape to run well for 7-plus hours, so I opted for “only” 20. I wanted to challenge myself to run more aggressively than I would in an ultra and rediscover the feeling and mindset of faster, focused running, which I’ll need to train for a road marathon this February.

I had never been to this area before, so fun came partly from the feeling of discovery. The high desert landscape looks more bleak than beautiful, but interesting. November is a great time of year to visit because temperatures ranged from the 30s to about 60, perfect for running or biking. It would be oppressively hot to run here in the midday summertime.

Early miles of the Kessel Ultra on the North Fruita Desert plateau

An arid plateau in brown and gray tones, elevation around 5000 feet, stretches out to meet the Book Cliffs, a series of sandstone mountains that rise sharply and got their name because layered cliffs and crevices resemble bookshelves. Native grasses and shin-high scraggly desert brush eke out a living on the desert floor, and hardy juniper trees sprout on hillsides. I felt grateful I “got the job done” in the bathroom pre-race, because I didn’t see a single bush big enough to hide behind if I had to go during the first six miles.

Junipers dot the landscape on hillsides

The trails are extra curvy and flowy for the benefit of mountain bikers, and many of the segments are super smooth and non-technical. This welcome change from the rugged trails where I live made running feel like riding on an undulating luge, promoting a quick rhythm and momentum that felt easy—and easy felt fun! On this terrain, at an elevation with more oxygen than where I normally train, I could run relatively fast without trying too hard, which felt like a gift.

On those easy stretches, I told myself to go for it—to quicken my stride as if running a mere half marathon. I rarely run this hard in an ultra when the distance dictates a prudent tortoise pace for the long haul.

On a ridgeline with the playful name Zippity Do Da from the children’s song, a ribbon of smooth singletrack follows the ridge with cliffs dropping off on both sides. I would feel nervous to bike along it, for fear of skidding off the edges, but on my legs I felt as if I were running on a dirt sidewalk through the sky with a bird’s eye view of the whole plateau. The fun came from the flying-like sensation coupled with confidence.

The Zippity Do Da trail

The route made two 10ish-mile side-by-side loops like a figure 8, with the start/finish area in the middle. In the second half, I decided an aspirational but achievable goal would be to average an 11-minute pace and finish in 3:40, since I was running a sub-10-minute pace on the runnable stretches and trying to limit hiking on the uphills as much as possible. After the final aid station, however, the route became more challenging than anticipated. We had to run up a sandy gully and then ascend switchbacks on a rocky hillside. Plus, I had a sense, geographically, that we were farther away from the start/finish area than the remaining mileage suggested, so the course might run long. Could I make the pace goal? I would damn well try.

Hiking up a steep rocky stretch in the final segment of the route

Rekindling this attitude—that I’m a competitor going for a goal—rekindled fun in the form of excitement and purpose.

The final miles turned into a race not only between my watch and me, but also with a woman ahead. She had passed me earlier in the day. I spotted her about a minute ahead in the distance, and as this perfect song by Johnny Cash came on my playlist, I surged to pass and gap her. From there, I maintained a solid 9ish mile pace and ran the final mile sub-9. I felt elated to run fast toward the finish.

I met my goal, barely. The course measured a little over 21 miles; I finished in 3:51 with a 10:56/mile average pace. The time put me in the top third overall and 8th woman (results).

I spent the next four hours volunteering at the finish line. I rang a cowbell, handed out medals and cut timing chips off shoes. Witnessing the range of expressions as others crossed the finish, from pain and discouragement to fist-pumping giddiness, moved me emotionally. Every runner—not just the podium finishers—matters and earns respect.

I left near sunset for the three-hour drive home with the satisfaction of a day well spent: I explored a new area. I turned off my phone notifications and put my to-do list out of mind. I met new people and reconnected with a couple of runner friends. I volunteered. And I ran a fast-for-me 21 trail miles. That was fun!

***

I hope you’ll subscribe to weekly stories like this on my new platform, sarahrunning.substack.com. Thanks for reading!

This isn’t a race report or a story cooked up when I couldn’t sleep. Rather, it’s an announcement.

I started a weekly newsletter on a different platform, and I hope you’ll follow me there!

It’s called Colorado Mountain Running & Living, and it will deliver training tips and midlife musings every Wednesday, limited to 1000 words. Check out its About page for an overview, and please subscribe by visiting the site sarahrunning.substack.com.

I’m offering two levels of subscription: free, for the weekly newsletter; and paid, for the newsletter + some bonus content and a monthly Zoom session. I won’t deny, I’d like to make some money. Mostly, though, I’d like to have structure and motivation to practice writing, and an outlet for coaching advice mixed with journaling. I also hope to build a community around the monthly Zooms hosted for paid subscribers.

The Runner’s Trip blog is over 10 years old. I started it on Christmas Day 2010 as an outgrowth of our family travel blog. Its archives hold some 280 posts. I love this space and am proud of it, and I’ll still use it for long-form race reports. But the site’s WordPress theme is old and buggy, and the whole site needs an overhaul, which is on my to-do list for the new year.

I really appreciate how many of you have stuck with this blog for the whole decade! Please let me know, honestly, what you think of the newsletter format and the first post. Like a rookie runner, it’ll start slow and develop over time.

Happy trails,

Sarah

This year’s edition, held a week ago on August 28, ascended over 14,000 feet total at high altitude and added a bonus mile-plus, so it measured almost 42 miles. Moreover, the route changed its final climb in the last 10 miles to go up roughly twice as high as the final hill in prior years.

This make-or-break segment of the course after mile 30 broke several runners, but didn’t stop me.

The reckoning came at mile 31 at the town’s public parking lot called Carhenge, next to the base of a ski slope. A sign on the aid station’s pop-up tent had humorously and appropriately crossed out “Carhenge” and written next to it, “Carnage.” Several overheated, exhausted runners sat in the tent’s shade, shaking their heads and blinking, as if disbelieving we had to go up another 3500 feet in the next five miles to summit another mountain.

We had been going for over 10 hours—a ridiculously slow pace for a 50K. We had run the downhills and flatter segments as best as we could, yet we only managed to average around 3 miles per hour, a walking pace, because so many uphill miles slowed to a crawl up the sides of mountains and along a loose-rock fin of a ridge above 13,000 feet elevation.

I had parked my car 50 feet from this aid station. It would have been so easy to drop out then and there, calling it a day three-quarters of the way through. Instead, in between bites of watermelon, I told two guys slumped in chairs with whom I’d been leapfrogging, “This is not a 50K, you can’t stop here, let’s get going!”

They kept sitting, I got going.

I felt a burning determination to finish this course, partly because I was the only over-50 woman entered, so I felt I had to prove to others and to myself that I could finish among so many younger athletes.

But the thing was, I actually wanted to get up and over that last climb. Where did this desire come from; why put myself through this?

I pondered the reasons while hiking up to the top of a ski slope called See Forever, where you can see the summits that define the Telluride Mountain Run and the more famous Hardrock 100. Part of my drive felt almost territorial. I’m a local, I thought, and I belong here. I love these mountains, I want to traverse them and feel as if I’m a part of them.

The drive also comes from the paradox of ultrarunning: the more I wear myself out, the more powerful I feel during and after. Each upward step on each switchback felt arduous but satisfying, knowing I would complete this course in a not-too-shabby time. Race day gives us the opportunity to test ourselves in ways we’re not likely replicate on a training day, and I didn’t want to miss that opportunity.

Mostly, I felt heartened and relieved because my body could handle this, just four weeks after finishing the depleting High Lonesome 100. My summer training had been focused on High Lonesome. (I wrote a race report about High Lonesome for UltraRunning if you want to read the details.) After a week of rest, I was pleasantly surprised my legs felt springy and strong. High Lonesome gave me a fitness boost, and I decided to leverage it at this race.

I also felt relieved—and proud—that I had survived the midway crux of the race: a 1.5-mile rocky ridge line leading up and over the 13,500-foot Telluride Peak. When I first traversed this ridge in the 2018 edition of the race, I had tensed with fear when glimpsing the steep drop-offs on either side. I had felt unsafe and unprepared up there three years ago, with my hands clutching at rock while my legs trembled.

The guy behind me, Willie McBride, took this pic of my back around mile 14 as we embarked on the ridge toward Telluride Peak in the distance. Anna Frost is two ahead in the red. The route followed the ridge for 1.5 miles all the way to the left where it met Imogene Pass.

This is one of several sections of the ridge where I had to use my hands to claw my way up. Photo by local runner Sheamus Croke who was up there volunteering as a safety monitor (thank you!). It took me 42 minutes to go one mile along here.

Another nice shot of the ridge, from the summit of Telluride Peak looking west back at the way we came, with Wilson Peak way in the distance. Photo by Willie McBride.

This is the guy who was behind me taking photos. Thank you, Willie!

This year, however, I demystified that stretch by practicing it earlier in the week with two younger women, Whiley Hall and Maria Sylte, who are highly experienced at climbing and bagging 13’ers. They kindly showed me the way. Thanks to them and our training run, I methodically moved across the ridge with confidence, barely fazed by the drop-offs and with only a fraction of the fear I felt the first time.

This is a shot of our training run earlier in the week, showing the steepness of parts of the ascent. I’m following Maria Sylte; photo by Whiley Hall.

As always, the other runners helped me do more than I likely could or would on my own. I connected with whomever happened to be nearby. I didn’t recognize many of them, except for a handful locals, and I was convinced nobody knew me. Then a guy behind me said, “Are you Sarah?” and said he knew me because I was “OG.” I didn’t know if he meant Old Guard or Original Gangster, but I took it as a compliment.

One man flew by on the downhill from Imogene Pass to Marshall Basin, his bib revealing he was in the event’s shorter 24-mile division, and I thought he must be an elite-level runner trying to catch up to the front of the pack. Then a couple of miles later, going up a slope so steep that my pace slowed to about 30 minutes per mile, I found him sitting on a rock amidst the alpine tundra with his head in his hands. “Cannot breathe, cannot do uphill,” he said with a Spanish accent. I asked where he’s from, and he said Bolivia originally, but now he lives near sea level in Ojai, California. “No way!” I said. That’s my original hometown. I got him to start moving uphill to the 12,500-foot-high pass, and we chatted about all the trails we mutually know and love around the Ojai Valley.

The highlight of my socializing mid-race involved a meetup with Anna Frost, 39, the top ultrarunner from New Zealand whose career I’ve followed since 2010 when she won the North Face Endurance Challenge 50 two years in a row. We’ve met off and on over the years. She was in the 24-mile race, which started a half-hour after our 40-mile division, and she caught up to me on the switchbacks leading up toward Ajax Peak and the frightening rocky ridge line.

Following Anna Frost up the switchbacks.

“Anna, I’m glad to see you!” I called out on a switchback, stepping aside so she could get in front, and then I fell into step behind her. We started chatting about her 2-year-old daughter, about New Zealand and about the course. “They just keep going, don’t they?” she said of the switchbacks, sounding a bit fatigued, and then she complimented me, “You’re moving really well.” (Perhaps she was surprised I could keep up?) A guy ahead of us let us pass, and when he asked, “How are you doing?” I said, “I feel like I’m being paced by Anna Frost, so I’m freakin’ awesome!”

Of course, she dropped me on the technical downhill terrain, but I enjoyed reconnecting with someone else who has been in the sport for nearly two decades and has so much cred, and who is genuinely nice and humble.

After summiting the final climb and descending down toward town, my ankles, knees and lower back started protesting. I had fallen and rolled my left ankle around mile 25, and it “talked to me” the rest of the run. As much as I try to run downhill with a light footstrike and smooth flow, I still stiffen and struggle, planting my trekking poles like ski poles to reduce the impact on my lower body. Whatever, it ain’t pretty, but it works and gets me down the mountains.

I finished solidly midpack, 7th out of the 12 women who finished, and the six ahead of me were all under 30—I’m old enough to be their mother! I was 32nd overall out of the 74 who started (48 finished, 26 DNF’ed, full results here).

Earlier in the year, during the lackluster 100-miler I ran in January and the 50K in March, I felt dragged down by ambivalence and indifference toward ultrarunning. I was going through the motions, training and racing more out of a 26-year habit than true desire.

At the High Lonesome 100 and again at the Telluride Mountain Run, I welcomed the feeling of determination. Fatigued, I nonetheless had moments of true fun. I told myself, “I still got it. There’s still hope.”

***

Bonus: Book Recommendations

I read several good books this summer (see the sidebar on my blog, “My Bookshelf,” for links to some of them). For health and wellness, I recommend Keep Sharp and Exercised. If you are looking for mountain/ultra/trail how-to and inspiration, for you or a friend, please consider my book! Send me a message if you’d like to buy a personalized signed copy of The Trail Runner’s Companion.

I was totally surprised, therefore, when I saw the Abajo Mountains rising as a verdant green mass behind the westside of Monticello. The mountains are almost entirely grass-covered and forested with healthy pine and aspen, not at all the desert I’d pictured. I guess I should’ve paid more attention to the race guide, which mentioned that the course goes through aspen groves at high elevation. Still, I couldn’t believe it. And, on Friday afternoon, a light rain fell and made everything cleaner and greener. We would be treated to Goldilocks weather with the midday temperatures topping out in the 70s.

This pleasant surprise of a forested mountain run, not a Moab-like desert run, made me more eager and confident to run the route, which turned out to be one of my new favorite 50-milers for its beauty, variety and difficulty.

My intro to the Bears Ears Ultra course the day before the race, when I scouted out the final miles. This is around mile 45 on the course.

I signed up for the June 26 Bears Ears 50 as a final peak training run before the July 30 High Lonesome 100 in five weeks. By “training run” I mean I did not taper for it or prepare specifically to race it; rather, I approached it as a tough, long supported run, my goals being to finish strong and uninjured for a boost in confidence. I wasn’t feeling competitive, just grateful to getaway to somewhere new for the weekend.

Mad Moose Events introduced the 50K and 30K versions of Bears Ears Ultra last year, and the 50-miler was new for this year. This September, they are introducing the “Golden Bears Ears” autumn version of the event, but only the 50K and 30K, so you have to wait until next June for this 50-miler.

The sparse course description and map did not include an elevation profile, but it advertised approximately 12,000 feet of climbing, which turned out to be an exaggeration. The total elevation gain, according to my watch, was around 10,000. The course dipped down to a low of about 7,400 feet elevation and rose to high points around 10,600, with lots of ups and downs in between. One section in the middle had so many ankle-rolling, slide-like rocky descents and ascents that I decided it was an ultrarunning game of Chutes and Ladders. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Bears Ears 50 (actually 48 miles) elevation profile from my watch.

Race morning selfie

I drove about 8 miles outside of town at 4 a.m. Saturday to get to the race starting line in time for the 5 a.m. start. Only around 50 people signed up for the 50-miler (38 would finish), so the vibe felt low-key and friendly. On that same morning, the Western States 100 was taking place, and I flashed back to five years ago when I was in Olympic Village with hordes of others getting ready for the country’s premier 100-miler. I felt nostalgic about and inspired by Western States, but also, glad to be far from that hoopla, just out for a day-long run with no performance pressure. My friend Christina Dennison, also there running the 50-mile, and I joked that our main goal on this day was to finish our 50 miles faster than repeat champ Jim Walmsley would finish his Western States 100, which meant we had to go sub-14 hours and change.

Ahead of me in the starting line, I spotted a woman older than I who I could tell from one glance was ultra-fit and experienced. I knew I recognized her but couldn’t recall her. “So much for being the fastest ‘old lady,’” I told myself, realizing just by looking at her sinewy legs and sculpted arms that this older woman would smoke me, but it’d be fun following her. Later, it hit me—it was Anita Ortiz, 57, the 2009 Western States 100 female champ and winner of numerous mountain ultras and trail championships. John Trent profiled her in the May issue of Ultrarunning magazine, detailing her past year of adversity in which she suffered traumatic injuries and was in a leg brace. And here she was, fit and fast again. She would go on to finish 3rd female, two hours ahead of me. Now I feel inspired to try to run more like her five years from now, when I’m her age, and to stop viewing myself as the “old lady” in the field.

A full moon illuminated the start, but still, it was dark, and several runners had chosen not to bother with a headlamp because the first miles follow a gravel road. I was glad I had my headlamp, however, because the gravel road had enough tripping hazards that I wouldn’t want to run in the dark.

Our small field took off before sunrise (the 50K and 30K started an hour later). The first five miles of this route are totally runnable and relatively fast, making for a gentle warmup. We ran a boring gravel road that led away from the start/finish area, then transitioned to a couple of miles on a paved road that circles the mountains. Shortly after Aid Station 1 at mile 4.5, we hopped on singletrack for an 1100-foot ascent up switchbacks for three miles to an area called Robertson Pasture, then Red Ledges.

Looking east to see the sunrise above Monticello.

I leapfrogged with Christina in this section, and we kept remarking on the beauty as the sun rose and enhanced the colors in the aspen groves. Bunches of red, purple, pink and yellow wildflowers, including clumps of columbine, lined the dewy trail. I had never seen so much columbine at such a low elevation (about 8900 feet).

Christina around mile 7 or 8. The flowers to her side are columbine.

Christina’s photo of me in the distance being swallowed by the aspens.

Gorgeous meadows and some bendy trees.

After Aid Station 2 at mile 11.5, we ascended 1200 more feet over four miles, up to an elevation of about 10,600, on a stunningly beautiful mountainside traverse called the Skyline Trail. Emerging from the forest to wide-open views, we could see the double buttes that make the Bears Ears to the southwest, and the canyons of Canyonlands to the north.

Runners ahead of me on the Skyline Trail, high up in the Abajo Mountains.

The Bears Ears buttes and Bears Ears National Monument in the distance.

I didn’t mind the trail’s climb, and I was able to run flatter portions in between hiking. But once we transitioned to running downhill some 2500 feet over the next four miles, I struggled. I got passed by faster downhill runners, and I suffered the first of two ankle turns on my left ankle that made me yelp with pain. I walked off the soreness and started running again, but my left ankle felt unreliable all day. Thankfully, my wonky left knee, which I had taped for support, and my achy lower back behaved fairly well on the steep, loose-rock downhill.

Miles 20 through 22 featured an out-and-back on an unremarkable gravel road called the Causeway to add distance. But the race map showed us going out and back a total of four miles on this road, so I was confused by the shorter distance. Later, I learned the race director had shortened the course by two miles here, to get runners into and through the next section—the hottest, toughest part of the course—sooner. Hence, the route would end up being only 48 miles, not 50. I didn’t really hanker to run two more miles on that exposed gravel Causeway road; but, I felt kind of shortchanged by the shortening of the course, and I hope the course is a full 50 as advertised in future years.

Leaving the aid station at mile 22, the race director warned everyone to carry 40 ounces of water for the next section. I obliged, even though the temperatures were not nearly as hot as had been feared. But I ended up drinking all my water over the slow, treacherous seven miles to the next aid station.

Steep rocky trail around mile 25

This section of the course, on the Tuerto Trail, doesn’t seem that difficult on the elevation profile. But its ups and downs add up to about 2000 feet of gain, and canyon walls in the lower elevation (between about 7400 and 8800 feet) trap heat. Plus, this little-used section is quite overgrown, with full-body encounters with pokey branches through bushes, and tall grass completely obscuring the faint trail. Thankfully, Mad Moose Events marks its course with abundant ribbons, so it wasn’t too hard to follow the course markings.

In spite of the trail’s difficulty, this became my favorite section of the route because I passed six people along the way. I was able to grind up the rocky slopes faster than the others who looked wobbly and depleted, and who paused repeatedly to catch their breath, some resting on a rock or log for several minutes. A rock-strewn climb at the halfway point of mile 25 felt as steep as climbing a multi-story ladder, and the loose-dirt descent that followed felt as frightening as surfing a landslide, hence my feeling of being a pawn in an evil game of Chutes and Ladders.

Looking back down at a segment I went up. It’s much steeper than this photo makes it look.

Another steep rocky uphill, a runner ahead of me in the center.

I reached the 50K (31.5M) mark at just over 8 hours. By comparison, a more typical trail 50K at sea level takes me 5 to 6.5 hours.

After the Tuerto Trail section, we transitioned to the smoother, friendlier Aspen Flats Trail and reconnected with the course that the 50K runners follow. I ran these six miles well enough and steadily, feeling positive overall, only getting frustrated when I rolled my left ankle a second time and a couple of guys passed me as I walked off the pain.

At the penultimate aid station, around mile 36, we faced a final big climb of about 1500 feet over four miles to get back up to around 10,300 feet elevation. (The course description described it as a 2500-foot climb, but my altimeter shows otherwise.) I had braced myself for the miles in the high-30s to be the toughest mentally and most fatiguing physically in a 50-miler, but this climb wasn’t so bad. Or maybe my early-summer training in the San Juan Mountains is paying off. It just went up up up, switchbacking but giving some runnable straightaways, through more lush forest with birdsong.

The final eight miles of this route are almost all downhill-to-flat. Knowing that the High Lonesome 100 course ends with relatively runnable miles, I pushed myself to run as efficiently as possible on the singletrack through more aspen grove and not take any more hiking breaks. About four miles from the finish, the singletrack pops out onto a forest road with expansive views to the east, past Monticello to western Colorado. The late-day slanted light gave everything a golden hue. I booked it down the forest road a little over a mile to where the dirt road meets the paved road for a short stretch, then the route rejoins the gravel road leading to the start/finish.

I passed a guy limping with IT band problems, and a couple of women hiking the final miles of their 50K race. I resolved not to walk, and I ran strong with the exception of one short bump of an uphill. I felt so relieved that I could run relatively well at around mile 47. Unlike the self-supported 54-miler I did in May, when my legs gave out and refused to run more than 30 seconds at a stretch after mile 40, I felt much stronger today and more confident about the prospect of a 100-miler in five weeks.

I reached the finish line in 12:33, seventh female and 20th overall. The men’s winner from Ophir (near Telluride), Dave Chew, finished three hours earlier in a blazing 9:37, with two guys close behind him, so I imagine they hammered those final miles on the gravel road. The top woman, Caroline Weiler, was right behind those three guys in 9:51. (Full results.)

I liked this course so much, I might return to experience the 50K autumn version at the Golden Bears Ears Ultra on September 18. But for now, I’m only focused on getting ready for High Lonesome 100. Who knows what I’ll feel like doing after that.

Post-race, post-shower selfie with my finisher’s medal.

If you want to learn about the real Bears Ears National Monument, check out my earlier post about it.