My first race ever was a 50-miler. I signed up to buy more time in the mountains, and learned what that time is worth.
I typed "where to put a race bib for ultra marathon" into my phone at 4 a.m., hoping Google could help. The results said something about a bib belt, which was a term that had zero meaning to me. I didn't have time for this, so I pinned it right on the front of my sun hoody.
I had just lain awake all night, maybe linking three hours of sleep together, as my alarm blared in the small motel room in Steamboat Springs. I sprang from the mattress that felt like it had not been replaced in 30 years, ecstatic to stop pretending to sleep to let my 34-week-pregnant wife, Steph, rest.
It was time to do this thing, and my poor sleep was what it was. I started my morning routine of downing some oatmeal and checking my vest.
The Run Rabbit Run 50-mile race started in a couple of hours. I had never even done a 5K or a turkey trot and was about to find out if mountain adventures prepared me for 50 miles with 8,500 feet of climbing.
Becoming a Runner
I was never much of a runner growing up. I was so committed to not running that I got kicked off the varsity tennis team in high school for skipping every running practice. I spent my youth in the mountains of Idaho skiing, backpacking, chasing whitewater, searching for trout, and working as a rafting guide on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. I have always been drawn to adventure and new places, and that is what eventually changed my relationship with running.
As a mostly weekend warrior, my time in the mountains was limited. I found myself shuffling along here and there and running the downhills as a way to fit bigger alpine adventures into a single day. Running became a tool for going further, and last winter, when the snow was refusing to fall, I signed up for Run Rabbit Run. I knew a big race and a scary distance would be the forcing function to make me train harder, and that fitness would let me spend a summer pushing farther into Colorado's mountains than ever before.
I had no idea how I would handle this much running, but to make it a proper challenge, I set an arbitrary target of finishing in the top 50 percent of runners, with a stretch goal of the top 25 percent. Was this hubris?
Trail Run Fly Fishing
As Run Rabbit Run quickly approached, I looked back on a calendar filled with epic mountain days. My favorite addition to my training was what I call "trail run fly fishing," where I would plan my long runs to remote alpine lakes and spend an hour or two fly fishing. This summer I fished more than 10 new lakes and found the unpressured and uncrowded fishing that I love dearly. Covering 18-plus miles in a day really opens up options, and I found secret lakes that held vibrant cutthroats with almost every cast. This addition of trail run fly fishing to my summer disguised my training as the big epic adventures I love instead of miles I had to run.
All those long days alone in the mountains also reinforced something I didn't think much about until race day. Years of solo mountain experience have given my brain a feature: a strong governor that slows me down when things get long and hard, so I make it back in one piece. This neural circuit has saved my ass many times, like last winter when a backcountry skiing day more than doubled in mileage as I found myself skirting dangerous avalanche terrain to stay safe on my way back to my car.
As the race got closer, those mountain adventures started getting sacrificed. I nerded out on all things training and periodization, and everything pointed to specificity: runnable trail that looked like race day. For someone who prefers exploring new places, I found myself repeating trails, which is sacrilege. The scree slopes would have to wait.
The trade-off was clearest as I entered my taper, where the big mountain objectives I loved were suddenly too much volume. This was only a couple of weeks, but paired with a bad case of taper blues that had me feeling slow and sluggish instead of fresh and poppy, it did not inspire confidence as the race loomed. With the race only a week away, my motivation and energy were only getting worse from less training, and I was just hoping my nervous system would wake up once the race arrived.
Race Day
I arrived at the start along with a drizzle, and the weather was about to ignore the forecast in true Colorado fashion. One nervous bathroom stop later, I was frantically kissing Steph and her baby bump goodbye as the race director said, "Gun in three minutes."
Before I realized it, I was off and running harder than I had planned due to the energy and excitement of everyone racing off the line. I settled into a more conservative pace as the sky lit up with lightning and we racers cheered with each monstrous clap of thunder. I thought to myself, what an epic start, as the road turned to a stream.
I hopscotched across rivulets of water in a futile effort to stay dry, but I learned that the uppers of my shoes absorbed water like a sponge, making them feel three times heavier. My longest training run of 23 miles all of a sudden didn't feel adequate, and a fear of overcooking myself early had me holding back and being conservative with my running.
I made my way up the 4,000 feet to the top of Steamboat as the storm broke and found myself at the chaos that was my first-ever aid station. I wound up standing behind a group of people I assumed were in a line to get water, only to realize they were hanging out and warming up. I managed to get my bottles filled, minus a hiccup of swapping bottles with a fellow racer. With so many racers congregating, I slowly forced myself to leave, wondering if I had done all I needed and if these people knew something I didn't.
From here my aid station experience got better (the volunteers were amazing throughout), but I found myself hanging out at each one a little longer than needed, overwhelmed by the amount of food to choose from or feeling the need to chat with the people sacrificing their weekend. I cringe looking back on filling up both my 750 milliliter flasks to their very brim at each aid station yet never going through even a fraction of this before the next stop. Those three extra pounds of water I carried the whole race haunt me.
I was 27 miles in, past the longest distance I had ever run, and enjoying some brief moments of sun popping through the clouds and illuminating aspen groves in peak fall glory. I had passed multiple lakes, some of which had the familiar dimples of rising trout. No fishing for me today; Steph was close. I pulled into the Dumont aid station, the only crewed one, and yet again found myself utterly overwhelmed by the cheering, the cowbell symphony, and the number of people lining the side of the trail. The energy was contagious but still foreign to me. I luckily managed to spot Steph through the crowd. We worked our way over to where she had our chair, and I sat trying to recall what I needed to do while there.
I left knowing I would see her soon, as I just had to loop up and down from Rabbit Ears summit before stopping one final time. This climb was steeper than I expected, but I got it done and was back at Dumont.
The two and a half of us just hung out and basked in the experience that was my first ultra. I spent close to 20 minutes with Steph not needing a thing.
Five miles after saying my goodbyes, I hit one of the most open, exposed parts of the course right as inky black clouds moved overhead and thunder shook the ground. A downpour turned to hail, which stung my exposed skin.
I looked around and realized I was the tallest thing in the area but kept moving, as the edge of the forest was up ahead and offered some cover and a reduced risk of getting electrocuted before I got to meet my son.
After some good miles powered by caffeine, I hit my first miles that truly were a struggle. Miles 37–44 seemed to drag on and have much more vert than I expected, which was worsened as waves of nausea hit my stomach. I had mistakenly stacked the top end of my fueling plan with aid station carbs and found myself above what my stomach was ready for.
I ditched any plan I happened to remember and felt that protective governor kick in. My heart rate dropped down to around 120 bpm as my mind entered survival mode and forgot we were racing, not deep in the mountains.
After grinding my way to the final aid station and being greeted by the most enthusiastic volunteers yet, I was ready to hammer the downhill, which I had been looking forward to all day. However, I found that my racing mindset had not returned as yet another storm slammed into the mountain and had me drenched for the fifth time that day within minutes.
This descent that I had imagined being a race to the finish was eerily empty, and I didn't see a single other 50-mile racer in sight. The adventurous singletrack had turned into a road, and I even found myself waving to a few resort buses sliding through the mud on their way uphill as I tied my damn left shoelace for the eighth time in the past hour.
This protective state came crashing down as I saw the finishing area.
The Finish
I expected a wave of emotion crossing the finish line. Instead I just stood there, bewildered, wondering if this was really the end.
It was over. The race, the summer of training, the big event that had lived on my calendar for most of a year and driven so many of my days. The journey to get here had been so long and rich, and the ending came so suddenly. It felt hollow.
Then I found Steph.
We shared a massive hug, her belly squeezed between us, and the hollowness gave way to gratitude. Sitting by the finish line sipping chocolate milk, gagging as I tried solid food, I was flooded with it. Gratitude that she was able to make it when a few weeks earlier we weren't sure she could. Gratitude that our baby boy got to be here too. Gratitude that I got to do this at all, one last big thing before our whole life changes.
She asked me how it went. I tried to answer but couldn't find the right words. I needed time to process.
I didn't come to this race to compete. I came to finish it, and to prove to myself that a life of mountain adventures had me ready for something this big. The top-50-percent and top-25- percent goals were there to keep me honest.
So when I finally checked my results, I wasn't ready for what came next. 43rd out of 198 finishers, with 300 on the start line. 11:25. Ahead of both goals.
Instead of relief, my mind went straight to the mistakes. The minutes lost at aid stations. The three pounds of water I never needed. The lack of flexibility in my fueling plan. I ran this whole race like a day alone in the mountains. The descent I'd looked forward to all day and just cruised. So much low-hanging fruit.
I found myself thinking like a competitor for the first time all day.
Once the race was over.
The Ledger
Looking back, I'm proud to have finished my first running event but also cognizant of the time left on the table.
- 20 minutes at aid stations: confused on what to do, staring at food, filling already full bottles, and lingering longer than needed.
- 20 minutes on the descent: forgetting I was racing, shoelace woes, and waving at buses.
- 17 minutes at Dumont: sitting with Steph, not needing a thing.
The competitive part of me shudders at the first two, but I have zero regret about that time spent with Steph at Dumont. Those moments are the most vivid in my memory, and being able to soak in the experience with her was worth every second.
Why do I care so much about my race time? The minutes on the clock echo how precious my own time is about to be.
Between diaper changes, will I have to choose between the big outdoor adventures that led me to this race and weekends at the local park? Or will mountain races become the adventure, a way to bring my family along instead of heading off alone into remote mountains to chase a summit?
I have no damn idea.
I do know I couldn't ask for a better capstone to end my last summer pre-fatherhood, and I got more out of signing up for this race than I could have imagined. I do know one day I will be racing again, so all you other mediocre middle-aged runners better look out.
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