Run Rabbit Run 100

The top-7 from Run Rabbit Run

I walked to the starting line, my ears overflowing with aggressive electro-pop music. I was about to attempt to run 100 miles, so I needed my musical cravings satisfied before setting off on a 20-hour run. Feeling thoroughly amped up, I took my headphones out to soon find myself surrounded by not only my crew of Sam and Gwyn, but also my old college friends Duncan, Tori, and Lexie. They had surprised me and showed up to help support me in my strange quest to run 100 miles. The noon start time approached and we all gathered by the starting line at the base of the Steamboat Springs Ski Resort. The Missoula crew of myself, Nico Composto, and Mike Foote took a quick photo and gave out hugs before beginning our journey. Then Nico gave me a big fat kiss on the cheek as the gun went off and everyone took those first steps of what was guaranteed to be a long day in the mountains.

Missoula rollin squad deep at RRR ft. Mike, Nico, and I

How are you supposed to know what pace will be sustainable for 100 miles and 20,000’ of climbing, at elevation, in the mountains? As I worked my way up that first 4,000’ climb, it dawned on me that I truly had no idea. I’m still so new to this 100-miler game. But my coach Ryan Ghelfi and I knew that I should start out slow. SO slow, painfully slow. I settled in to a very relaxed effort “running” (mostly walking) with Mike. I watched the race leaders disappear far ahead of us. My mind raced with thoughts of “there they go, the race is over, how can you make up that much ground” as we faded further and further back in the stacked field. But I had my plan, and I knew that Mike knows how to run 100 miles. Every incline that I didn’t think I’d be running at mile 99, I chose not to run now. What pace is sustainable for 100 miles? Slow. I let myself trust what we were doing, and trust my plan.

My race strategy and had two integral pieces to it. First, go out slow. And second, have a shitload of fun. To remind myself of this, Sam painted my toenails glittery gold before the race. I reiterated to myself to not care about what place I got, but to race as hard as I possibly could and have a blast doing it. If I win, awesome. If I get last place, awesome.

Mike and I trotted through the first 17 miles mostly together, chatting and noting how delightful the scenery was. These miles went by quickly and effortlessly. Running the out-and-back to the first crew aid station around mile 18, we got a sense of how far back we were from the leaders. I was at least 20 minutes off the lead, and in 20-25thplace. I ignored this information and delighted in seeing my friends for the first time during the day. I chugged Gatorade from a plastic pineapple water bottle, ate a cookie, and was gone. 

The next 30 miles felt largely uneventful. Mike and I stayed together for a few more miles before I realized he was getting quiet. He wasn’t feeling well (or maybe I was talking too much), and I passed him hoping he’d catch up soon and I’d see him again. From this point forward, I ran alone for the next 85 miles. I enjoyed some delightful miles traversing the spruce-fur forests and open meadows perched at 10,000’. I spent little to no time in aid stations, largely because I had been eating like a champion all day to this point. The last year has been spent training myself to consume gels at terrifying rates during all kinds of discomfort. Today, I was killing it. FINALLY. And so I trotted along, occasionally passing someone but not really noticing. I was running relaxed, taking time to smile and cheer as the sun set.

Enjoying the descent to the Fish Creek Aid Station, 16 or 17 miles in.
Photo: Paul Nelson

Then came the Dry Lake #1 aid station around mile 47. Night had fallen and I heard cheers coming from the aid station long before I got there. I ran the climb leading up to the aid station and realized that, hot damn, I felt fucking GOOD. The dirt road was lined with crew and spectator headlights. I rolled up yelling in giddy excitement. I had no clue where my crew was until I saw my plastic pineapple illuminated in an outstretched hand. I was absolutely amped up and felt phenomenal, hooting and hollering and jumping around. The plan was working. Forty-seven miles in and I’d felt like I hadn’t run a step.

From Dry Lake #1 it was an easy five miles downhill to Olympian #1, mile 53. I was excited and ran too fast, dipping close to 7 minutes per mile on the flat roads as I passed through town. Olympian #1 was where my race was supposed to start. For the first time all day, I asked what place I was in. When my crew told me 10th, I almost didn’t believe them. I thought I’d be in 18thplace at best. I did a shoe swap and as I kept saying, “put on my racing shoes.” Now, the real fun would begin. The next 50 miles were to be spent hunting bodies and running out of my mind. I took off and felt great on the first half of the 12-mile loop from Olympian. The second half, my mind was tortured by the endless switchbacks through the woods. Meanwhile, my gut had started to turn. I ran alone in the dark and realized that I was tired. It was close to midnight and I’d been running for nearly 12 hours. I slogged in to Olympian #2 (mile 66) a bit cranky but still moving well enough. 

I tried not to dwell on my discomfort as I ran back through town towards Dry Lake #2, mile 72. But a wrong turn took me 300’ up and down and ¾ of a mile extra. I was frustrated. At least one person passed me while I was up wandering around on some private land. Seeing that headlight below me go up a different trail, the right trail, fired me up. I was pissed off and started hammering downhill. Somehow this momentum carried me uphill as I got back on trail and began the climb to Dry Lake. My gut still didn’t feel great and I walked more than I wanted to. But as I crested the climb, the aid station came up sooner than I thought. My nausea dissipated as I realized something. I had 72 miles in the bag, I felt pretty good, and I was ready. Ready to run out of my mind for just 50k more. This was where I laid down the hammer.

I stormed right past my crew to the aid station food table. I bobbed in place, throwing back cups of coke while stripping my clothes and vest off to swap out gear. I put headphones on and started blasting the rather R-rated song “Let’s Go” by Trick Daddy. Thankfully my crew informed me that my phone hadn’t connected to my headphones, so I was just blasting aggressive early 2000s rap out of my phone for all to enjoy. I couldn’t care less. It was time to ROLL. I danced my vest on and ran away shouting “see y’all in the morning!”

A happy bunch of folks after a long day and night of running and crewing

The next 30 miles, I was hunting. I vowed to never be passed, and when I passed someone, I needed to do it so that the person I was passing wouldn’t even consider coming with me. They would see my headlamp for one switchback, and once it was gone, I would not let them see it again. I was in 8thplace and thought that if I was lucky, I might be able to crack the top five. But every aid station, I seemed to pick someone off. I was on a rampage fueled by Redbull and fried potatoes. Somehow, I kept moving up in the field. It was cold, dark, and everything hurt. I rolled into Long Lake #3, mile 90, to hear the news that fourth place was 10 minutes ahead of me, but that he was looking great. Not what I wanted to hear. I doubted I could catch him, but I slammed some coke and took off determined to try.

Around daybreak, I moved into fourth place. It was maybe mile 95. All I had to do was keep pushing and hold on for another 8 miles. I remember shouting into the empty woods in pain. I audibly grunted with every breath. My ability to think narrowed to one thing: push harder. Push harder. I would yell, then break out in a sob. How much left of this? An hour? Can I suffer for another hour? 

Photo: Paul Nelson

I hit the top of Mt. Werner, mile 97, and learned that 3rdplace was 6 minutes ahead of me and not looking good. I didn’t need to think about it, I knew what was going to happen. I threw back another cup of coke and accepted my fate. I started rolling the 6 mile, 3,500’ descent to the finish line and was overcome by pain. I didn’t know how fast I was going. I crushed downhill so hard my eyes were watering. Then I would start sobbing. I yelled, grunted, and screamed a lot. My Strava file shows I ran those first few miles around 5:30 per mile. With maybe three miles to go, I saw 3rdplace. After I rolled right passed him down the dirt road, I realized I was going to do it. Once this godawful descent was over, I would be done. I eased off the pace a little, but closed the final six miles averaging 6:10 per mile.

The finish line materialized before me as the downhill moderated its relentless slope. I thought I was going to break down sobbing when I finished. But as I bound those last few hundred meters, it felt like I emerged from a dark tunnel. All of a sudden, I was hyper aware of my surroundings. I felt light and free. The world had never looked so beautiful. I came to this race to run as hard as I possibly could and have a blast doing it. I cracked a smile and splashed into the creek right before the finish line. I looked up and saw nine wonderful friends who had crewed me all night standing there cheering and yelling. I collapsed as I crossed the finish line and laid in a puddle of happiness as some of my best friends hugged me. 19:49 minutes of running has never felt so good. Mission accomplished. 

Thanks to my AMAZING friends that came out to support me. Gwyn, Sam, Tori, Duncan, Erin, Jess, Lexie, Collin, Sue, and Tim thank you all SO MUCH for crewing and cheering for me. <3