Thighs of Fire, Pocket Pizza, and Other Tales from 100 Mountain Miles

The sun smoldered low on the horizon, throwing wild shades of orange and pink in sherbet layers over folds of mountains. I snapped a quick, blurry photo of the view across the valley, giggled in delirious delight, and put a single earbud in. Kesha started bumping a laser-fueled dance party in my head and my legs finally responded after 66 miles of deadening soreness. I rolled down the ATV track into the South Crestline aid station, mile 68 of the 102.9 mile long Idaho Mountain Trail Ultra Festival (IMTUF) 100.

A beautiful sunset and very runnable trail heading into the South Crestline Aid Station

The crowded canvas wall tent was intoxicatingly warm with its heater and jolly personnel. I stared at a table of food and decided all of it would make me vomit. The HAM radio operators behind me joked cordially as I tried to reassess my life. What did I need to do in here? Uhhh food! I need to eat! I saw a granola bar that I figured I could choke down in the next few miles despite hours of low-level nausea. What else? What else? LUBE! Never hurts. My thighs had started to get that slight tingle that meant they might open into a storm of chafing at any moment. I wasn’t sure, but determined to slay the chaff monster before it got me, I asked for some Vaseline or lube.

I was handed a bag of medical supplies and quickly moved athletic tape and salt pills aside until I saw the bold word “CREAM” on a big blue tube. Thrilled that I had found what I thought was off-brand diaper rash cream, I gratuitously lathered my thighs and crotch in what I hoped would be skin-saving salvation. I thanked the aid station folks and began to exit the tent. All of a sudden, my thighs exploded in an inferno of sensation. That was not off-brand diaper rash cream. That was off-brand Icy Hot. With thighs of fire, I clicked my headlight on and forged on into the night.

My whole day had not been as amusing as lubing my thighs with Icy Hot. Quite the contrary, early on I spent 20-some miles convinced my day was not even going to happen. On the first big descent around mile 27, I could barely run downhill. If there is one thing I love in this world, it is gleefully running downhill. But my quads felt filled with lead, a painful soreness that made me acutely aware of every jarring step I took down the steep, 2,000-foot descent. I was consumed by self-doubt and frankly, a terror I had not known before. I finally made it to the bottom of the trail and hobbled along a flat dirt road. Going so slow had never hurt so much. I had no clue what was happening to my body, and I did not know if I could put myself through 70 more miles of this.

Person after person passed me as I watched my goals slip away and the miles tick off far too slowly. Dejected and considering dropping from the race, I splashed my face with water from a spring. Then I realized something. I had put on glitter war paint (biodegradable, don’t worry) that morning. Each time I stopped to splash water all over myself and cool off, I was just spreading a mess of glitter on my face. How could I not finish this thing? I had come to this race, ultimately, to travel 100 miles through the mountains. Even if I had to crawl, I would do it, a glorious hot mess covered in glitter.

Re-grouping at the Snowslide Aid Station, mile 48.

Mile 50 rolled around, I accepted my suffering, and armed with trekking poles somehow managed to recharge my legs on the steep climbs in the second half of the course. They didn’t feel great, but I knew they would at least get me to the end. Seeing my amazing crew, Peter and Bret, was a needed reset and reinvigoration. Bret had just paced me 12 miles, and managed to force me to eat every half hour or so. I left the mile 60 aid station munching pizza and put two slices in my pockets (cheese against cheese, obviously, I’m not a heathen trying to soil my pants). My caloric intake plummeted for the next 43 miles.

My tremendous crew a few minutes before the start

Fueled by but not much more than a pocketful of pizza, gummy bears, peanut M&Ms, and tingly thighs, I found myself running with two other guys – Heath and Jesse. Together, the three of us traversed the Crestline, the most remote and challenging section of course. I saw a giant toad sprawled across the trail and decided that that wildlife sighting perfectly satisfied my increasingly foggy mind. Then, somewhere around mile 73, a wolf howled. Then another. The sounds of an entire pack emanated out into the darkness, far too close for comfort. Outside of the orb of our headlights, the blackness of the terrain faded seamlessly into the vastness of the star-studded sky, and the only sounds were the howls of wolves and the padding of our feet.

We were soon at the Box Creek aid station - the fabled “goat station.” Friendly volunteers greeted us in the dark, with a little herd of goats relaxing on the periphery of the fire. The goats are used to pack in the aid station supplies. The aid station crew takes glorious photos of delirious runners hugging goats in the dark - another reason why ultramarathons rock. As we were leaving, I realized I had been carrying a slice of pizza in my pocket for the last 15 miles. Not wanting to waste it, I put it on the food table for another runner to enjoy. I began scooping gummy bears into my pocket when I realized that no, no one was going to want to eat a soggy piece of cold pocket pizza. My rationality was slipping a bit out of my grasp. I thought better of this and went ahead and tossed the pizza in the trash. Hopefully no one behind me had a cold pizza craving.

Ernie and I getting in some late-night bonding

By the time Jesse, Heath and I reached the final big aid station, about mile 89, my mind was completely fogged over. For what was about the eighth time that day, I looked at the aid station fare and concluded that all of it would make me sick. I managed to sip some broth, munch a piece of watermelon, and throw back a little Coke. Peter was pacing me the last 15 miles, and we left the aid station right behind Heath. Heath had been doing math all day, and we knew were too close for comfort in making it to the finish line in under 24 hours. At this point in the race, I was also convinced that Heath was farting pancakes.

The fog got thicker in my mind, my grunts became louder, and I could hardly hear Peter reminding me to eat. My right foot was exploding in pain, and I was convinced it had been broken in half. My throat was sore from talking to so many people all day. With six miles to go, I realized that if I was going to make it in under 24 hours, I needed to shut out everything besides putting one step in front of the other at an uncomfortably fast pace.

Peter and I hit the gravel road with one mile to go, and I found his hand in the dark. We were going to make it. I started tearing up as Peter and I embraced on the run. I could make it one more mile. I was in so much pain, but my mind had managed to bury it all. I had to throw my primary goals out the window less than a third of the way into this race. For over 20 miles I thought my race would never even go past mile 50. Crossing a finish line has never felt so incredible. Somehow, I managed to cover 102.9 miles in 23 hours 41 minutes, good for fifth place.

By the time I finished, the goals I started with did not matter. I had run a different race, a race that felt more like survival. I had to keep running. I had  to prove to myself that I could do this magnificent and stupid thing that is running 100 miles, and I am so happy that I did. And boy oh boy I can’t wait to race another one.

Shiny new belt buckle

I can’t express my gratitude enough to Brandi and Jeremy for putting on such an incredible event. Thank you both for helping me out over the summer and being such kickass race directors! And of course, a massive shoutout to all the amazing volunteers that help us runners out for hours on end.

I also can’t express how much it meant to have had my valiant crew, Peter Brewer and Bret Powers, out there with me. Peter drove 8 hours to get to the race, Bret hardly knew me, and both spent over 24 hours driving all over the mountains to see me a few times and run with me while I crankily told them I didn’t want to eat food. It meant the world to have you two there. You both rock!!