First Sub-24 Trail 100 at Indiana

 A different me might have been anxious coming to a 100-mile run after a DNF. But I was only excited and confident. After all, running a race with only 6,000 feet of gain in mild fall weather ought to be much easier than climbing 20,000 feet in the mountains on a hot day.

My A goal was to finish in 22 hours, setting a 100-mile PR (I ran a 100 on pavement in 22:22 back in 2016); my B goal was to finish in 24 hours, being my first sub-24 trail 100; and my C goal was just to finish. If everything went to hell, I'd just crawl across the finish line. After all, the whole reason I was here was to get a Western States qualifier. It hadn't been the best of years: DNS at Laurel Highlands due to an injury, DNF at Pine to Palm... But I'd finish this one. I was confident and ready.

In ultrarunning, a little confidence goes a long way, and so my morning at Indiana Trail 100 started out well. I was enduringly grateful that it continued that way. All along, my only real let-down was falling off my 22-hour pace at mile 60 or so, slowing down a bit. But I was determined to dig deep and run my best and try to hit my next target: a sub-24 finish. 

The story is a little bit boring. Everything went well, really, as far as ultras go. I jogged happily for hours down the woodland path with a pouch full of candy like a fairytale child. My legs started feeling heavy around mile 30. For a little while I was worried that four weeks' recovery wasn't enough since my last race. Soon I had a slight twinge in my left IT band. By mile 50, my legs were tired, but I could still run if I focused. I slowed a bit but kept going. By mile 75, my right Achilles tendon started hurting, but not enough to stop me. In the end, miles 75–100 were faster than miles 50–75. I passed a handful of people in the final 20 miles. I ran with goblin form but also determination. 

I crossed the finish line at 23:56, a few minutes ahead of the 24-hour mark. I was stunned. "Are you okay?" the race director asked me. "Yeah," I said. "I just never did that before." I almost teared up. 

I was proud of myself for pushing so consistently, and not to mention for getting everything else right that day: moving through aid stations quickly, navigating my drop bag like a Nascar pit crew, remembering to tell my mom I was happy to see her when I did. I had just the right amount of clothing, and I even had spare batteries for my lights. 

The race was fantastic, and fantastically managed. I'd recommend it, particularly as a first 100 for anyone. The 25-mile loops were beautiful and the trail was smooth sailing—beautifully maintained. The aid stations were well-placed (about every 4 miles) and well-stocked, and the volunteers were so helpful. My only source of stress, if you can call it that, was trying to find a patch of cell signal to send my sister a Snap so we wouldn't lose our streak. And once I managed that, the rest of the day was a breeze. 

I finished 37th of 130 finishers. I'm writing this a week after finishing, and I feel good. My right Achilles is still a little swollen, but I was able to go for an easy recovery run yesterday and today. Already dreaming of the next one.

Things that worked for me: 

• Trail Toes cream – no blisters! I applied it once at the start and then when I changed socks at mile 50.
• Xoskin socks – toe socks!
• Naked belt – This was my first race with this belt, and I loved it. Tons of space to hold gummy bears and M&Ms.

Getting ready to start! It was in the 30s and dark, and I didn't want to get too cold before the start

Starting line

Coming in at mile 50

Typical view on the trail

One of the many lakes at Chain o Lakes

Kept my candy supply close to hand

Especially in the evening there were lots of furry caterpillars to avoid

Late afternoon

The trail at night

View of the finish line from mile 99.5. Just a few minutes left... 

DNF at the 2022 Pine to Palm 100

Twenty miles in and I'm already exhausted. It's not supposed to be like this, but I guess a 10-mile-long climb to start the race will do that. What kind of stupid hobby is this? I think back to the first 100 Mile I finished back in 2015—then I was exhausted by mile 25 and went on to finish (granted, it took almost 32 hours), and so maybe I can do it again. 

It wasn't to be. Though I did the first 28 miles at a comfortable pace just under 14 minutes a mile, I gradually slowed. The cutoffs caught up to me: I cleared the mile 41 aid station two hours ahead of the cutoff; I left the mile 52 aid station an hour ahead of the cutoff; and then I came into the mile 66 aid station five minutes after the cutoff. 

The race was a grueling, if beautiful, 20 hours in the mountains. I have to say, with a little shame, that I didn't enjoy much of any of it. There were a couple moments of brilliance: the way, at sunrise, the light threw orange patches across the pine forest floor; the relief of seeing a food tent after an interminable climb; the full red moon. But mostly it was misery. The highest temperatures ever recorded in the area, a bit of smoke lingering in the air from a nearby forest fire, long exposed stretches in the sun, the dry air and altitude I'm not used to (coming from humid, sea-level Philadelphia), and of course the climbing—the race had 20,000 feet of vertical, nearly all in the first 66 miles. (So I'm glad to say that, even if I didn't finish all 100 miles, I did get all the climbing under my belt!)

I thought about dropping out all along the way, particularly during those long climbs. Funny how once I hit level ground I started to think I'd be okay. But in the end the decision got made for me. Or did it? Now, days later, I find myself wondering if I could have just pushed a little harder, gone just a little faster, made that cutoff, and then gone on to finish. The distance of time makes you forget. 

Some regrets: My brother Charlie was planning to pace me, and I was meeting him at mile 66. Because I was by then hours behind schedule, he jogged down the mountain to find me around mile 62, and we walked up together. So he did get some nighttime mountain "running" in, but I still feel bad that things didn't go as planned. And then there's the fact that I probably won't get a Western States qualifier in this year. I DNS'd Laurel Highlands back in June because of an injury, and now I DNF'd Pine to Palm. The only remaining qualifiers I could conceivably do have a long waitlist (but of course I still added myself to two of them). 

Somewhere along those 66 miles I told myself I'd never run again. It's no fun, anyway. That must have been during one of the climbs. Of course I'm going to run another 100 as soon as I can. 

I recall the words of the grizzly, seasoned ultrarunner, an older guy, who drove me and my brother down the mountain after my DNF. "Yeah, you never know how it's gonna go," he said. "Every day is a new adventure."

Midmorning in the mountains

Poison oak along most of the trails. I did my best to avoid it, but as I learned a few days after the race, I failed at that.

One of the exposed climbs

At the mile 50 aid station, instead of just letting me die like a normal person, they made me run a mile up the mountain, retrieve one of these flags, and then run back down to the aid station.

Morning light catching on the trees