Anyone living in the Northeast this past winter knows that it was horrifically long, cold, icy, and snowy. By the time early March rolled around we still had full snow cover that had been there since November. It was over this same stretch of winter that I actually was starting to stack some good training in my attempt to come back after the worst summer ever. I was grinding it out on the pavement whenever I could and on the treadmill when it was literally so icy outside I couldn’t even leave the house. Eventually I reached a point where I wanted to needed to begin training for spring and summer trail races immediately, so I convinced Josh that we should drive down to Virginia for a few days to experience some warmer weather and snow free trails (both of which we got… mostly). Sad to leave the “kids” (our cats, Muffin and Smudge) behind for a few days but not one to say “no” to many of my ideas he agreed and on Thursday, March 12, we began the ~8 hour drive to our Airbnb at the base of Old Rag in Etlan, VA (the note in my Training Peaks for that day reads: “NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS WINTER TUNDRA”).

[Glistening trees after an early March ice storm.]

In a world of wild coincidences, the Airbnb we stayed at happened to be owned by a couple, Tracy and Keith, who are avid runners themselves and the leaders of the Virginia Happy Trails Running Club. We got some fantastic route recommendations from them, and their neighbor/friend and fellow long time ultra-runner, Jack (who deserves his own story in the future after giving us a nearly 2 hour tour of his property). For just a few days, our routine was simple. Eat, run trails, sleep, play Scrabble, repeat.

[Josh on Old Rag in Shenandoah National Park.]

It was later in the evening during one of these Scrabble games – where I was probably leading ;) – that Josh was on his phone (again) and I probably (definitely) scoffed “get off your phone”. “Cupcake, Cupcake.” (If you know Josh, you also actually hear him say this as you read it). “Nike is looking for people to be a part of a research study on ultra runners… you should apply!”

It was March 15. The applications closed March 17. And the program would begin mid-April. Tight timeline (“Nike Time”).

Josh and all of his friends must be on the same “checking Facebook” schedule, because instantly, the messages started coming in (to Josh): “you should apply for this!”. Josh most certainly could not apply for this for several reasons: (1) his work schedule would never allow him to relocate to Beaverton, OR for 15 straight weeks, and (2) his body would crumble just at the thought of having to run 3-4 hours on trails 2x/week.

I figured there was absolutely zero chance that I would be selected, but 30 minutes later my initial application was in. Josh was convinced I would be picked. Could you imagine? One summer totally incapacitated barely able to move let alone run, the next headed to Nike World Headquarters to train with their Sports Research Lab?

As I’ve already given away, in the end, I became 1 of 18 runners selected for the Nike Sports Research Lab (NSRL) Innovation Farm Team. And by the time you’re reading this, I’ve already completed at least 9 weeks of the program. Unfortunately, because of NDAs around the program, the research, and the technology in the lab, there’s actually more that I can’t say than I can say about what I have been doing, but I thought it would be fun to choose some highlights (and some lowlights) of the experience so far.

[First day at NSRL.]

King James

The NSRL is housed in the “Lebron James Building” on campus, the most secure of all of the buildings. Our first two weeks of the program we were required to be escorted everywhere, including to the bathroom. Tight security aside, on the outside of the building, there is a 150m 12% grade track “ramp” attached – Lebron Hill – where our team can be found every other Thursday for a workout.

2 Seconds of Fame

The research program consists of pre-testing, an intervention, and post-testing. Without going into too many details, one of the testing elements involves two 4 hour treadmill tests (Yikes! And, yes, it’s as terrible as it sounds). During the first 4 hour treadmill test, the Today Show was in the NSRL filming and guess who made the cut (skip to 2:00 in for a quick look)?!

Be Cool

There are professional athletes floating around everywhere and we are under strict instruction to BE COOL. That said, this is my celebrity run down. Cole Hocker is a regular flyby (sometimes daily) and I’m sure he is absolutely over us taking over the Nike track every Monday. We’ve also had flybys with Galen Rupp and Donovan Brasier. Andrew Bumbalough took us for a run our first week and Ashton Eaton is a regular face around the office. Joan Benoit Samuelson did a sustainability Q&A for Earth Day. And one day I was working out next to Diana Taurasi. Bonus, down at the University of Oregon, I bumped into Charlie Hicks.

Did We Just Become Best Friends?!

One of the things I was most nervous about was having a roommate. Other than living with Josh, I haven’t had a long term (i.e. more than a few days for a race or vacation) roommate since my sophomore year of college, which was - gasp - 17 years ago. I like my space. I’m super particular. If anything, I’m difficult to live with, and I know it. But, I won the absolute roommate lottery. Erin is easily one of the kindest, most genuine people I’ve ever met in my life and she makes having a roommate actually enjoyable. She’s also crazy fast and I can’t wait for her to start smashing trail and ultra records right after she hits the OTQ time for the marathon. Bonus, the internet, including my own mother, thinks we look and act alike. It doesn’t help that Josh provokes this on every visit by making us pose identically for photos and it doesn’t weaken our case that this morning, after not seeing Erin for 3+ days, we literally dressed in the same outfit for our Monday workout without consultation.

[Post workout roommate pic.]

Breaking 5

You’ve heard of Breaking 4 (maybe)... but have you heard of Breaking 5?! Not yet! But that’s just because the feature film hasn’t been released yet. One of our teammates, we’ll call him Timothy Bilen, has been chasing the sub-5 barrier for years. In a recent track workout, Coach Brad let him take another shot with some expert pacing to start off mile repeats. He absolutely smashed it, running 4:54 after 13 failed attempts. Never give up on your dreams, kids!

In addition to Bilen’s Breaking 5 attempt, we also got to witness a Nike employee run a sub-4 mile on the Nike track at “Just Do It Day”, which is basically a Nike-only adult field day where no one works and there is an employees only track meet. Nearly solo in front of more people than I’ve ever seen at a track meet in my entire life, Luis Vargas-Hernandez ran 3:59. He then gave the best post-race interview with more f-bombs than I’ve ever heard.

Knicks in Five

Speaking of never giving up on your dreams, how about the New York Knicks?! The Knicks winning their first championship since 1973 has absolutely nothing to do with the research study here at Nike, BUT it happened while I was here. So for a few weeks, I got to live out my childhood dream of watching my favorite NBA team finally win the thing. I was a hardcore late 90s/early 2000s fan. Patrick Ewing, Latrell Sprewell, Allan Houston, Larry Johnson, Kurt Thomas, Marcus Camby, Chris Dudley, and coach Jeff Van Gundy. My bedroom at my parents house still has scenes from this era plastered everywhere. In 1999 I watched them lose to the Spurs (Tim Duncan era) in the finals. To watch a team built on friendship in a city that has experienced so much adversity win it (despite major deficits) was so so sweet. I felt like I could feel the energy radiating across the country. What does actually relate to my time being here is that with multiple full length basketball courts to choose from at Nike HQ, I have played more basketball (“played”, i.e. shot some hoops) than I have since graduate school. My personal favorite is when we get a few people from the team together for a few rounds of knockout. Although my game has certainly deteriorated over the years, there is a certain satisfaction that comes from the feeling of knowing a three is good as soon as it leaves your hands. The elbow rises, the roll of the ball off your finger tips, the flick of the wrist, the follow-through, the sound of the net. Greatest game on Earth.

Grade 1 Hamstring Strain

Last year in May and June I effectively couldn’t run. My central nervous system completely crashed and I had just started intensive treatment for my lingering tick borne illnesses – Lyme, Babesia, and Bartonella. Between all of the complications, an ER visit, another round of Covid, and no end in sight, I would have traded just about anything to just have a “normal running injury”. I was longing for something that was at least somewhat within my control, something I could look at and say this happened because I ramped up mileage too quickly, I ran too fast too often, or I skipped too many strength sessions. Well, it took a year, but I finally got what I asked for! (Whomp, whomp). Unfortunately, early on in the intervention portion of the study, I sustained a grade 1 hamstring strain, which was, to say the least, a huge bummer. Like many injuries it was likely a combination of many factors – a complete change in routine, a vastly different training protocol (with some very experimental elements), and a weak link reaching its breaking point. Once again it was hard to not be frustrated because I had been precisely following the training I was given, but I could also remind myself that for the first time in 2 years I was sidelined because of an actual running injury (and it was my first real running injury since 2019). There was a clear diagnosis and a clear rehab program. Within a matter of 10 days, I was back to a modified workout and by the end of 4 weeks, I was back to full workouts and long runs. A minor blip in the grand scheme of things. Would I have preferred it not happen? Of course. Could it have been worse? It already has been.

Life is unpredictable and wild. If you told me a year ago what I would be doing this summer, I would have laughed in your face. But here we are. Or, here I am, in Beaverton, OR, writing this from “The Barn”, our athlete HQ in the Lebron James Innovation Center. The experience has been challenging, chaotic, experimental, interesting, and wildly rewarding. A thousand little moments with new and interesting people. An unpredictable chapter I’m happy to write.

In just a few weeks, I’ll pack up my apartment and head home. I’ll be reunited with Josh, our cats, my family, and my friends. I’ll return to my normal routine and my normal running routes. I’ll go grocery shopping at Guidos again and enjoy breakfast at Roadside Cafe. I’ll get to ride my gravel bike again and return to ceramics classes. But I’ll do it all as a future version of me: one who spent nearly four months as part of Nike’s first ever Innovation Farm Team.

[Had a nice run up to the Loowit Trail on Mount Saint Helens during Josh’s last visit.]

[“The” guardrail.]

I don’t know if all guardrails look this way. I haven’t thought to check since and certainly never paid attention in the past. But the curved end is home to a softer grey that reveals etching and cracking that look less like material damage and more like something geological. I’m lured in. Time, at least my running time, is on pause.

A few months prior to this run, I started taking ceramics classes at the Berkshire Art Center (BAC). The class offerings are wide and diverse but I landed on slab making classes (i.e. making things out of clay slabs as opposed to “throwing” them on the “wheel”). I had actually tried to get into a class earlier in the year, but it had filled before I could register. Overall, the decision to even sign up for an art class was born out of the summer of uncertainty. With so much of what I’d come to know as my present day life (a life revolved around running, lots of running) having unravelled with Lyme, Babesia, Bartonella, and Anaplasmosis, I was forced to ponder a future that was vastly different. If I wasn’t a runner, who, or what, was I?

Like anyone who was born in the ‘80s, no visit to my parents’ house (or theirs to mine) is now complete without a handoff of “things from when you were growing up”. Their desire to declutter intersecting with their lack of desire to throw away anything sentimental or potentially harboring emotional, and very rarely, financial value, compounded with the fact that as young adults, we often just move out leaving the space we once occupied frozen in time with the relics and memories of our youth, usually means I’m transporting a box of CDs, books, photographs, or clothes from their space to my now very modern and extremely minimalist space (no, this does not stress me out at all, thank you for asking - just kidding, it definitely does). Piece by piece, articles of my past come to occupy my present.

If we were sorting my past into buckets, the biggest one would be for items related to basketball. In fact, it probably would need to be a full sized shipping container instead of a bucket given the enormity of the game in my life. But another category that comes up time and time again, is art. My parents’ house is littered (decorated?) with art my brother and I created over the years. Honestly, I can’t believe some of it is even mine because I’m certain I wouldn’t be able to replicate some of these paintings and drawings today. Whenever the topic comes up, my parents will usually add, “you were ALWAYS drawing”.

It seems there is something about getting older, watching your parents get older, watching your siblings have kids, and living through chronic illness that makes you spend more time reflecting and reaching for parts of who you once were. Surely when I was growing up, I didn’t dream about spending most of my waking hours at a desk, staring at a computer screen, writing emails and organizing information in a host of Microsoft business tools. (Edit: Okay, apparently by the time I was in second grade, I did dream of some version of this, somehow convincing my parents to let me use whatever money I’d been bestowed up to that point on an oak roll top executive desk. Psst, Mom, these actually look like they’re worth some money now! But you get the point: at some point, before this point, there was a little girl whose world view revolved around nature and art and kick-ass Polish food.)

Throughout high school and college the creative part of my brain was satisfied largely by photography. I bought a DSLR camera and revived my grandparents black-and-white film Nikon. I traveled to Egypt, Greece, Brazil, and South Africa with the digital camera as an appendage and meandered the streets and cafes of Chemung and Tompkins Counties with my film camera, spending hours in my college’s dark room developing whatever seemed to show promise. But as I moved on to graduate school, and then a career, and then more graduate school, parts of my world, and my identity, became smaller. It seems now, on reflection, that the part that became the smallest was creativity. Surely it was expressed in other ways, but really how creative can you actually be writing a 100+ page thesis about the economics of cover crops?

​​

[A developed black & white film photo of a friend who was making ceramics.]

I have, of course, also always considered my athletics a form of creative expression, and I’ve been doing something active virtually non-stop since I could walk. First, there was dance - the choreography, the costumes, and the storytelling through movement. Then, there was basketball - the ballhandling, rhythm, and swag inspired by the AND1 Mixtapes and Nike Freestyle Commercials, the art of a play perfectly drawn and executed, the step, the pump fake, the release, the follow-through, the swish of the ball in the net. And, now, there is the running - a perfect blend of science and art - the design and execution of a training plan, composing beautiful routes, the art of learning and following your lines, dancing through the rocks, roots, and trees, bringing all of the pieces together into a performance coordinated by your legs, your lungs, your heart, and your mind.

In the fall of 2025, I found myself starting to run and train a little bit again, and at the beginning of my pottery journey. Despite having reached what felt like a certain level of mastery with running, I felt like a beginner all over again. And, of course, I was a true beginner with ceramics, but for the first time in a long time, I was feeling like I was accomplishing something.

[A photo of handmade clay pots in a village in South Africa.]

There is something magical about being a beginner again. Sure, it’s frustrating and you make wild mistakes (case in point, I broke the first piece I ever made after dropping a glass jar of liquid wax on it… yes, that jar broke too and the liquid wax went everywhere), but you’re also rapidly learning and you haven’t yet created rules or narrowed your focus. You’re actively exploring and answering what calls to you because it’s what you are genuinely interested in, not because it’s what someone else thinks or says you should be interested in. I’m now in my third course, and at a minimum, for 3 hours every Wednesday, I get to do something with my hands. I get to walk through the doors of BAC, like entering a sci-fi reality portal, and travel to the ceramics studio in the basement where a handful of people who largely know nothing about me gather to make art.

Aside from the wonderful people I’ve met in the class, the instructor, and those in open studio (a time you go and use the studio on your own outside of class to work on your projects), and the reconnection to this long lost part of my identity, there has also been a synergy with my running.

While I’m out running I find myself observing more. I’m looking at the colors and the textures differently. I notice the shapes of rocks and trees and the curves of ridgelines that I whizzed by before. I’m constantly searching for organic inspiration. How can I embody the desert elements in a piece of ceramics? How can I mimic the contrast of the snow on the deep green pine trees with a glaze? Why am I drawn to this obscure and unremarkable guardrail and how can I mimic its features on a piece of clay? (I’m still actually trying to figure out the answer to this exact question.)

At the same time that running has been inspiring my work in the studio, I’ve also been finding that spending time with my clay or in the studio often clears my head and makes me feel more expansive. It has reminded me to revisit the basics and practice them often. To keep things simple. To experiment and take chances. To not be afraid of failure. Because of all of this, some of my most enjoyable runs this winter were after morning sessions at BAC. As it turns out, a little bit of art can go a long way – literally and figuratively.

[One of my projects this year was to make custom lamps for the Electric City 10K winners.]

[Pure bliss to be able to enjoy 2 feet of fresh powder in the Berkshires. Josh and I skinned up and skied down the backside of Mount Everett. First time on skis in 2 years.]

One constant over the past two years of ups and downs with illness has been the adage, “but you look great!”. It has come to replace “I don’t even like to drive that far!” as something often said when I would share the distances I like to run. The unfortunate reality is that my outward appearance has been a facade for how my body has actually felt and the excessive toll that Lyme, Bartonella, and Babesia have taken on me.

This has certainly come to highlight a hallmark that many people with chronic illness, or invisible illnesses, face. How you appear to the outside world doesn’t necessarily match your lived experience. And, unfortunately, I have learned that we are most often treated in accordance to our appearance in micro-moments.

Because of this lived experience, another constant over the last two years has been a persistent feeling of being misunderstood, while constantly being asked “how are you feeling?” Despite efforts to communicate through various platforms - whether it be written, in video, or in person, I’ve felt so misunderstood repeatedly that, at times, I’ve become concerned that I have a communication problem. In the end, I think I’ve accepted that unless someone has personally been through something very similar, it’s near impossible to truly understand. And that makes sense. We see and interact in the world based on our lived experiences (hello, also guilty) but that doesn’t make many of the conversations I’ve had or things that have been said to me any less frustrating or isolating.

Appropriately, my therapist has asked me, “what would you want to say to people to help them understand?” I’ve mulled on my response to this for quite some time, mostly while running, where the stream of responsive thoughts dangle in the universe and like a character in a video game, I collect them like aerial pick-ups, hoping to cache them away until the time to put everything on paper in a cohesive manner arrives. These deep brainstem monologues have ranged from anger fueled rants to deeply emotional pleas for understanding and empathy.

[Another day of snow in the Berkshire.]

I listened to a recent interview with my favorite musical artist, , on World Cafe where he answers prompts around his music. In one very personal response to a prompt he discusses his experience with bipolar disorder and he gives the line

“No one can report back in the middle of an assault.”

Mic drop. For so long - longer than I initially even knew - I have been under assault from these tick borne illnesses. But now, here in the new found moment, removed from the frontlines, capable of more expansive thinking, the time has come to activate all of my pick-ups and to finally release this thought experiment from my brain. To migrate from misunderstood to Miss Understood.

[It has been a very icy, cold, snowy winter here but everyday I am grateful to be surrounded by these woods.]

I must be fine, because I look fine.

This is essentially just the but you look great argument. I actually get it. Even at my worst I was probably still more fit and physically capable than the majority of Americans. It helps that, generally, thinness absent extreme thinness, is usually automatically (and unfairly) equated with health. If anyone looked closely over the last two years, they may have seen more subtle signs. The inexplicable weight gain despite eating healthier than ever and continuing to exercise (walking) at lengths more than the recommended minimums, a confusing and frustrating side effect of tick born illnesses caused by a variety of factors - chronic inflammation, mitochondrial damage, metabolic shifts, and water retention. The red eyes. An explosion of grey hairs. An endless list of new environmental and food allergies. Needing to carry an epi pen everywhere I go. And these are just the handful of physically observable attributes, not the endless unseen physical and mental ailments that contradict the notion of fine.

And, it should be noted, that unless you are my husband, family, doctor, or part of a handful of very close friends, if you are seeing me, you are only seeing me on my best days for a very short period of time. A very small percentage of my lived hours and the ultimate selection bias.

Simply because I am running, I must be back to normal.

What this ignores is everything about pace, volume, and how it actually feels inside my body. There is a big difference - and a large spectrum - between being able to go for a jog and being able to train at an elite level. For a few weeks, I couldn’t even run. Then I could jog. Then I could run. And finally I could train. But I am still so far from where I was. Just over 2 years ago, I was running 100 mile trail weeks (16+ hours/week) and raced a 15k (a little less than 10 miles) just slower than 6:00 min/mile pace. As of today, I am (comfortably) hovering around 50-60 hilly road mile weeks (7-9 hours/week) and could maybe hold 6:00 min pace for 8-10 minutes if I really had to.

For several months, ramping back up running didn’t feel great but I was doing it because I could and because I (eventually) believed and hoped that I would one day get to where I am now, which is a place of feeling good, sometimes even great, while doing it. I also did it out of tremendous stubbornness, refusing to accept a medical prognosis of never being the same athlete, let alone of never being better than I was. I did it with the choice of moving through difficult and uncomfortable times to chase bigger dreams, because the level at which I would have to break in order to not do so is somehow beyond the level of broken I was.

The progress I’ve made feels tremendous, but I still have to contend with where I am versus where I was and the fact that this is a comeback from a set of illnesses that have forever changed my physiology and have the potential to derail me at any point in time. The latter of which is particularly frustrating as an athlete because it doesn’t necessarily matter how smart you are with your training because this isn’t a traditional injury risk and is so much more beyond my control than a running related injury. I, and others, sometimes forget that recovery can be a long process. I had been acutely unwell for at least 2 years. No one would, or should, reasonably assume that someone with a life changing event, who had been sick for so long would rebound back into “normal” life after a few months. More likely, we would assume that the entirety of their life - dreams, aspirations, desires, actions - have dramatically changed and that true recovery would take at least as long as time spent at the bottom of the barrel. So if you see me on a new path and you’re not sure why, it’s because I’m still recovering, grieving, processing, and discovering. I’m learning to ask and search more deeply about what I want out of this life.

[A little Catskill hike with some friends. The view from High Rock.]

Just because I am no longer in daily IV treatment, and don’t work a traditional 9-5 job, I have an abundance of time and energy.

Beneath this seems to live the societal norm that having a traditional 9-5 is a requirement for being a valuable member of society. And that if you don’t have one you must be bored and looking for something to do. Despite running making up a large portion of my personality, I also love to write, read, cook, and make art. All four of which are near impossible to do when you’re part of the system and part of the grind (or, under assault).

I’m also trying to break myself free from the notion that I must use the major listed on my higher ed degrees, or work in a traditional setting, to be seen as valuable to society. I would never condemn anyone else for living the way that I’m living, so why am I so willing to allow myself to feel ashamed? I feel that I contribute in many ways - some visible, many not. There would have been a time in my life where I would have tried to balance high level running, a slew of hobbies, volunteering in my community, and working a 9-5. We’ll call it borrowed time for sure. I can no longer do that. I do not have the capacity or desire to juggle an infinite number of things.

I know not everyone, chronic illness or not, has the flexibility to remove themselves from the 9-5 grind, and I don’t take the privilege lightly. Surely the paycheck and health insurance (and ideally the moral value) from a 9-5 (like my former job as an economist at the NYISO) would be nice, but I’m extracting a lot of value - and hopefully providing a lot of value - from the things I’m working on now and I’m doing most of it out of kindness and love and at my own pace, which seems like a pretty sustainable way to be living, especially when we’re all really just trying to figure out what is the meaning of all of this anyways?

[Quintessential New England, amiright?]

Because I am healing and feeling better, my life is “normal”.

There is so much here. To start, I’m still taking a ton of medication and supplements. Four times a day, I choke down pills and various liquids, hoping they will all eventually heal me while I deal with their short term side effects. I still have regular doctor appointments and still pay for everything out of pocket while also paying an absurd amount for health insurance that won’t even acknowledge these tick borne infections.

And then there are the unseens and all of the feelings around what I’ve already described. The constant carrying of fear that today could be the “last good day”. Wearing a mask in public spaces. Having to worry and wonder if those you want to spend time with have been exposed to illness and if it’s coming for you. Feeling panicked when you spend time with someone, your husband, who just traveled and was at a conference, and how it potentially puts you at risk. Wondering if you’re doing enough. Wondering if you’re doing too much. Some days still not being able to breathe. Is it a flare up? Do I still have an active infection? Simply not being able to do as much as you used to. Not wanting to do as much as you used to. Fighting against the grain of hustle culture and the assumption that being stressed is normal and we just have to learn how to deal with it. Feeling less than for not working a “normal” job. Having the work you are trying to do undervalued and underappreciated. Feeling selfish for taking time to rest, to be creative, or to be alone. Wanting to be open and share but fear of judgement. Fear that if you don’t share you’ll be misunderstood. Taking the time to share and still being misunderstood. Dealing with other people’s emotions and opinions. Living in this world as an empath while fellow citizens are shot in the face by the government. Worried that your nervous system will never be fully regulated because you’re chronically ill, empathetic, and you’re a woman so you are supposed to take care of others, never yourself, while you walk around in fear of bacteria and parasites you can’t see and men that you can. Feeling that people will be mad at you for bailing/not wanting to do things/taking longer to get back to them/not following through on projects.

Phew.

[Some spectacular late afternoon light.]

Living in a body and with a mind that feels very different from what you’ve known for 30+ years is disorienting. Grappling with chronic illness makes you question everything and search for what you truly want.

And what I want is

…to run freely, powerfully, and adventurously.

…to spend time with people who love and support me unconditionally.

…to reunite with my creativity.

…to start new projects and be okay with failing.

…to let go of the “shoulds”.

…to understand and acknowledge where I’m providing value.

…to be unashamed of the path I choose.

…to feel understood.

If you made it this far, thank you. I hope you learned something new about me, someone you know, and maybe even about yourself too. Thank you for letting me explain myself and hearing (reading) my words. For holding space for me to feel heard.

Lastly, there’s one more thing I want to make sure is said.

To the people who didn’t try explain away my experience, rush it, or compare it, but instead let it be complicated, slow, and sometimes invisible:

Thank you for staying.
Thank you for believing me when there was nothing obvious to see.
Thank you for adjusting plans, tolerating uncertainty, and giving me space to come back in pieces instead of all at once.

Being understood isn’t always about fully “getting it.” Sometimes it’s simply about allowing someone to exist as they are.

I’m deeply grateful for the people who offered, and continue to offer, that space.

-Miss Understood

[Not ready to change sports yet, but enjoying winter as much as we can.]

In my mind, desert deserves more s’s. For its appeal to the human soul, but also because it’s more snake-like - desssssssert - the sun, the cacti, and the rattlesnakes wrapped up in all of those s’s. Maybe the gravitational pull toward the desert is what everyone’s body craves as it boards a plane from a cold, windy, snowy location like Albany, NY in the middle of December. An internal alarm calling for the sun. For one more hour of daylight.

The sun is rising behind the peaks of the Rincon Mountains. Mica Mountain is just shy of 9,000ft, which provides an ample amount of dawn. The western facing slopes are shaded as the rest of Tucson comes under light. For now, you can still see your breath as you exhale. Slow inhales and exhales as you breathe the morning in, assessing how the body feels.

At first, we run away from the sun, Saguaro National Park (East) and the Rincons to our backs - a bike path to please my other half. Beautiful, but still a bike path, 6-10 feet of pavement, aligned next to a road with cars whizzing by. The internal compass pulls - quiet but insistent.

Today I’ll do 4x5 minutes hard - a 9-10/10 RPE (rate of perceived effort). Back in the park, the terrain will be variable, with a little bit of pavement to start before I hit the Cactus Trail, my main destination for this workout. I’ve only been doing workouts again for a few weeks, so mixed terrain and rolling ups and downs are more than welcome. Unlike the track, pace means very little here. This is an opportunity to work hard and know it - not because a number on my watch tells me so, but because my body does.

Having fully crested the peaks, the sun starts to warm my skin at the same time my legs start to turn and my breath no longer moves slowly.

Crunch.

A right turn. One step off pavement and the rules of running change.

When I look at the trail in front of me, everything is narrow, my world reduced to a few square feet of rocks and dirt. When I look up, I feel the vastness of the world around me. There is an expanse that I try to breathe in, deep into my lungs so that it might touch my soul.

As I flow down the trail, I take stock in the feeling of being the singular moving object. The saguaros stand tall, watching. I think about their groundedness, occupying this one tiny parcel of earth with stillness and resilience. As I pass, they remain.

The sun starts to beat down. Drying me like it dries this desert. My sweat, the only potential evidence of my sacrifice out on the trails this morning, evaporates into thin air, a reminder of how fleeting life can be.

The speed of my movement, the thump of my heart, the aches of my legs are all temporary. Feelings that will come to occupy just a few miles before disappearing into the horizon.

Now, I slow. The narrow moments begin to expand. Saguaros, ocotillos, prickly pears, chollas. An unbothered audience for the day. Settled under the big blue sky. Sorry, no high-fives for you guys!

As I wipe salt from my face and dust from my legs, I feel the desert settle into me. And I know I’ll be back for seconds.

On brand for 2025, freak things kept happening. Two days before our trip, I dropped a full metal water bottle on the big toe of my right foot, requiring an urgent care visit to have it drained (yes, you can still tell, but no, I did not lose the nail). Getting it drained was the best decision because the throbbing stopped but I still could barely walk and I now had a hole in my toenail. Hiking Ester was out. Instead, we rode each day, seeing the full length of the Adirondack Rail Trail that was open at the time (Floodwood to Tupper Lake would open a few months later). We had great weather, ate daily ice cream, drank delicious post-ride cappuccinos, spent time with friends not seen often enough, only knocked on the lodge door of one couple suspecting they were people we knew from Albany (they were, thank goodness), and only pulled one tick off of a human (Josh). It was, overall, lovely.

[Views from the ADK Rail Trail]

On a Monday night a few weeks later, after leading my Thacher Park Training Program, Josh and I met up with our friends Kyle and Kara for dinner at one of our Albany favorites, Josie’s Table. We hadn’t seen them in a bit, so we were catching up on the past few weeks… “You want to hear a funny story? You’ll never guess what we did…”

We left the Winkler house just before dusk, ready to tackle the ~3 hour drive home with can’t-wait-to-see-our-kitties-energy. Bikes strapped to the back of the car. The sun dipped below the horizon and the sky glowed with that summer evening blue/pink/purple hue. We were on the northernmost stretch of highway once you get on 87 and all of a sudden Josh is riding the brakes, looking in the rearview mirror, and pulling into the shoulder. 200 meters behind us his bike is laying in the road. Yikes! He gets out, sprints to the bike, and wheels (“wheels”; I can tell from a distance that something ain’t right) it back to the car. We inspect. He says “wow, I can’t believe it’s totally fine!”. It is, in fact, not totally fine. The rim is visibly bent. This, folks, is what we call husband visual awareness. Above all, thankfully, the highway is empty and no one but us even knows what has happened.

For the remaining 2+ hours, we looked back every 5 seconds to make sure both bikes are still attached. We finally pulled into our driveway. Phew.

Except…

Dude, where’s my car?

Those of us cultured by life with Tamagotchis, AOL chat rooms, dial-up internet, butterfly clips, pogs, and portable CD players will recognize this as the plot-line of an eventual cult classic starring late 1990s/early 2000s heartthrob, Ashton Kutcher.

But, seriously, dude, where’s my car?

The only difference here was that there was no need for sense memory, simulated perception, altered-consciousness memory retrieval. My car was parked in a random apartment complex in Wilton, NY, where Josh and I had met and carpooled from on our way to the ADKs (he had been working a road race - the Firecracker 4 - and I drove from MA to Wilton to meet him). Something that we had both totally forgotten! And, I will say, I was glad (so so glad) it wasn’t just me, because this kind of thing had become normal. Due to my ongoing chronic tick borne illnesses, my brain was extremely foggy and my memory was terrible. The fact that Josh had also forgotten gave me a little relief that maybe I wasn’t totally broken. [The next day, we rode back to Wilton once again and retrieved my car].

So, we are telling this to Kyle and Kara. And we’re all laughing. “Can you believe it?!”

You probably think that’s it. That’s the story. Well, in part it is. But also, there’s more.

That night, we stayed in Albany. As usual, when I woke up, Josh was already out of the apartment and working. When I found him, he looked at me very seriously, and said “Cupcake”. I braced myself quite unsure of what came next.

“We left the van in Delmar”.

(Silence)

The night before, while we were telling Kyle and Kara about forgetting about our vehicle in Wilton, we were actively forgetting about the fact that just a few hours earlier Josh had met me at the Stram Center after my daily treatment and we had carpooled to Thacher State Park together. Actively forgetting that we still needed to retrieve that vehicle. That it was not autonomous. That it would not be driving itself home.

As Kyle put it, “maybe you two just have too many vehicles?”

[Aaron shows off his fire building skills. (So much grass..)]

Sometimes the thing becomes more than the thing itself. For me, this thing is the Escarpment Trail Run (ETR). On its surface, it’s just a race. But scrub away at the mud and sweat and it’s so much more. So much more, in fact, that at 36 years old, the only thing I have tattooed on my entire body is the elevation profile of this race.

Escarpment Trail Run 30K elevation profile.

The Escarpment Trail Run is a 30KM (18.6 mile) trail race in the Catskill Mountains. It runs along the blue-blazed Escarpment Trail starting at Elm Ridge in Windham, NY. It ends not too far past Artist’s Rock, right as the trail pops out near North/South Lake, which is about 5 miles shy of the full Escarpment Trail’s southern end at Scutt Road.

Escarpment Trail Run 30K course map.

On a clear day, you can see one of the peaks the race traverses, Blackhead, from Albany. Blackhead’s (viewless) peak marks roughly halfway through the race and is one of three major climbs - the other two being Windham and Stoppel Point. The course features roughly 5,000ft of climbing (and another 5,000ft of descending), with endless roots, rocks, and zero water sources. The general rule for newcomers is to take your road marathon PR and add an hour; that is your expected finish time.

The event was created in 1977 by Dick Vincent, nearly 12 years before I was born. It has run in person every year but two (2020 and 2021, however, 2021 offered a “virtual only” race option), making this year the 48th edition and Dick (what we believe to be true) the longest standing race director of a single event, at least in the US.

Each year, on the last Sunday of July, up to 350 lucky individuals, who’ve applied for (the race does require a qualifier to ensure that you are capable of completing the course in 6 hours) and been accepted to race line up in waves of 15 runners to traverse the “Wall of Manitou”. How I ended up on this start line of this race for the first time in 2015, for the eighth time in 2024 (I don’t count the virtual year in my own personal list), and with this tattoo for my birthday in 2025 is seemingly by one of those yes/no flowcharts for life decisions where all answers ultimately lead to the same place: the Escarpment Trail Run.

Many will know that Josh Merlis, my husband, used to live at “131 Arcadia”, a one (and a half, somehow) story, fixer-upper (that never really got that fix) across from SUNY Albany that regularly housed anywhere between 3 and 6 runners (almost always men). At times the house was so full that the living room, kitchen, and porch served as bedrooms.

But it was inside these walls, or sometimes outside on the front lawn in garbage cans full of ice and water (the original ice bath!), that the lores of running would spew. Lots of “remember when”, talks of legends, and plenty of trash talking. Escarpment topped the trash talking list. Due to the distance, profile, and technicality of the course, you could stick two runners with road marathon bests of 2:21 and 3:00 and not inherently know who would run faster on the trail. The roots and the rocks are an equalizer.

In 2015 I was barely a runner, let alone a trail runner. My first real trail race had been the Seven Sisters trail race the year prior and it had absolutely disposed of me. So badly, in fact, I walked away more determined than ever to get better at that type of trail running lest I be so embarrassed in my own performance again. Hearing all of the talk around Escarpment, I was pulled into the vortex.

Escarpment training run in 2022.

At first, it was just about completing the race. Check. Then, it became about running faster and faster; me vs. me. Check (a few more times). And now, it is about chasing the household record; me vs. Josh. And where do things stand?

Josh has run the race 11 times, myself 8 (excluding the “virtual only” year). Interestingly, our slowest times on the course were both our first years running (Josh 4:31 in 2003 and me 4:34 in 2015). We’ve raced head-to-head 5 times, the score 4-1 in Josh’s favor (I beat him in 2018 by ~24 minutes). He’s broken 3:30 three times, myself twice.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a good way to compare our bests on segments of the course throughout history as those timing splits weren’t in use when Josh ran his best time. But, if we look to 2017 (when Josh ran his 3rd fastest time on the course in 3:29) here’s how things compare: I take the Windham climb, having run 39:28 in 2023 vs. his 40:00. I also take Blackhead, having run 19:35 in 2022 vs. his 20:54. And, I take Stoppel having run 29:36 in 2022 vs. his 33:00. I also take Blackhead to the finish (1:34:49 vs. 1:36:08) but Josh takes Stoppel to the finish (38:23 vs. my 39:14). And, to be fair, Josh in 2011 probably ran faster times on some of those climbs… but there’s no proof!

Alas, Josh holds the Merlis household record. For now. In 2011 he ran 3:22, which still bests my time of 3:24 from 2023. And, it looks like he may be safe for another year as I’m still struggling to come back from having multiple tick borne illnesses through 2024 and into 2025, but rest assured, once I am 100% healthy again, I’m coming back for 3:21:59 (and hopefully more)!

Climbing Blackhead in 2023. Photo by Jamie Kennard (Also on Substack as “ / Jamie Kennard”).

However, despite all of the splits, race times, and trash talking, Escarpment has always been about more than the race. It has been about the friendships made and fortified. Meeting at one trailhead and shuttling to another. Group runs full of laughs. Getting to share the joy and the beauty of the trail with others. The process of training, learning the route, where did you see that bear? Was it Roots I or Roots II? The excuse to go back again and again. Car rides and post-run lunch meet-ups with Dick. You got bit by a rattlesnake where?! Talking training, talking race strategy. Remembering the hard days and savoring the good ones. Stories of the “lightning year” or the year that Lee saw an actual mountain goat on the course. Collecting years and stacking miles.

The Escarpment trail run has zero finish medals or awards. In my opinion, the perfect race. Just one special day each July you get to set out to follow the blue blazes and have someone else tell you your time, an imperfect measure of the volume of space that something can hold in your heart.

Escarpment finish line; a gathering like no other.

WSER, the most competitive 100 mile race on US soil, also comes on the back of Broken Arrow weekend (a set of mountain races staged from the same area as the WSER start, Olympic Valley in Palisades Tahoe, CA), which, this year, featured what I think is undeniably the most competitive (roughly) 50k that has ever been run on US soil. The Broken Arrow 46k was the Team USA qualifying race for the “short trail” at the World Championships this September in Canfranc, Spain (i.e. the team I ran on at the World Championships in Thailand in 2022). The top 3 eligible (US) men/women would earn spots and I could easily count at least 10 women and 10 men from the results that have been on a USA team of some kind in recent years. In other words, the fields were deep.

WSER itself, was no different. Even without Courtney (Dauwalter) or Katie (Schide) or Jim (Walmsley), the fields were hot and filled with top talent from the States and abroad.

[WSER 100 course market near Robie Point, Auburn, CA.]

And almost as deep as the fields themselves this year was the content around these events. So. Much. Content. Pre-race prediction shows, pre-race interviews with athletes, interviews with former athletes, live panels, live streams, post-race interviews, brand partner videos, athlete shorts, and more.

Given my current state (i.e. essentially unable to run, not in the upcoming WSER lottery having DNFed Canyons in April, and generally questioning my future as an athlete of any level) I was dreading the end of June. I thought I wouldn’t be able to handle all of the content, seeing all of the photos and videos, watching people race that I had previously competed alongside, and hearing all of the stories. I envisioned going dark; no Strava, no Instagram, no podcasts. Instead, I practically drank the content out of a fire hose. And I loved it.

It - the content and the racing, especially WSER, inspired me to no end. I feel like my dreams of coming back are pretty big but hearing past winners like Scott Jurek, Magda Boulet, Cat Bradley, and Jim Walmsley talk about the event and then watching Abby Hall win the thing off of getting a roll down Golden Ticket with her 5th place finish at Black Canyon (due to a pregnancy deferral ahead of her) after several years of coming back from a major, potentially career ending, injury, my dreams grew to uncontrolled proportions. 2025 Abby, that could have been 2023 me. That could be 2027, 2028 me. And it’s something about Abby’s story in particular that hits so hard. Back in 2022, when I was dreaming of making a US team, I had listened to her on a podcast for the first time (I generally am not a fan of athlete interview podcasts, most especially my own) and she spoke about relentless self belief. It resonated so hard. I would get on my treadmill and run uphill genuinely believing that I could make that team. Constantly envisioning crossing the finish line and holding the tape in my hands (you can guess how warped my mind was when I did win the race that earned my spot but there was no finish tape – one of life’s most complex questions front and center – what do I do with my hands?!)

I woke up on the last Sunday of June red eyed and tired (watching 17 hours of a livestream will do that to you) but more inspired than ever. Enter the Abby Hall effect. I got up and went out for a “run”, recommitted to the process of doing whatever it takes (even if it means walking, the most dreadful form of exercise) to maintain any fitness while I struggle through symptoms and treatment related to my never ending tick borne illnesses.

[Part of the WSER trail near Robie Point, Auburn, CA.]

But then we rolled into July. ETR month. Several weeks, and several failures, into attempting to retreat my Lyme, Bartonella, and Babesia (catch up on everything here). The high of WSER wore off and dread set in. I’ve known for a while now that running ETR would be out of the question for me this year. That, in of itself, was depressing enough for me. It’s the only race that I’ve run every single year since my first go in 2015. For my birthday this year, I had the course elevation profile tattooed on my forearm. In 2023, before all of this started, I ran my fastest time, notched my 3rd (in person) win, and came within 3 minutes of beating Josh’s best time on the course.

Last year, ETR was probably the single worst running day of my life. Maybe the only run I have ever regretted going on. It makes my stomach turn thinking about how poorly I felt but did it anyway. I was already in the midst of trying to figure out “what is wrong with me” while the rest of the world felt sure that I was simply “tired from racing and training”. Somehow I managed to run a 3:55 which was barely slower than my blow-up year (but 30 minutes slower than the previous year) but it hurt horrifically. When I finished my face, arms, and hands were totally numb. A day later I drove myself to the cardiac clinic convinced I was having a stroke. Ultimately, it was over the coming days and months that I’d learn I had a total of four tick borne illnesses wreaking havoc on my body at the time.

On top of my physical state around ETR, this year and last year, mentally I’ve struggled as I watch everyone around me prepare for the race. The ways in which I can essentially “ignore” it happening (avoiding social media, especially Strava) can’t hide what I know, most especially because Josh has been hitting the trail almost weekly with groups of friends. The active participation and preparation is in my house. It’s unavoidable. And, if I’m being honest, I’m somewhat ashamed to feel the way I do. On a deep level, I’m genuinely happy for those who get to train for it and race in a few weeks, but my human nature doesn’t allow me to not feel deep sadness. While they’re out there on Saturday morning, navigating the roots and the rocks, climbing and descending, laughing and sharing stories, refueling at Circle W on the way out, I’m generally laying on the couch, half awake from continued sleepless nights and over exhausted from 5 days of driving back and forth 75 minutes each direction to then sit for up to 3 hours a day receiving various treatments, trying to will myself to do something, anything. I’m also not so naive to recognize that I have been on the other side of this equation for others at different points of my life too, and that, yes, it could in fact be much worse.

[The view from the Escarpment Trail at North Point on a training run in 2023.]

I guess the point is that it’s complex. Humans are complex. Bodies are complex. Emotions are complex. And chronic illness amplifies complexity to a degree that you can’t possibly understand unless you’ve been in it yourself.

It’s clear that some people around me get it, at least on some level. The most common question I’ve gotten related to ETR this year is “are you going to be there”, with the recognition that simply being there will be a challenge. Those that certainly do not get it have said things like “well, can’t you just run it easy and not race” (LOL, no) or “but you look fine!” (LOLOL, thanks).

Of late, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around the difference in how I feel between watching WSER and ETR unfold. The best estimation I have is that one is still very aspirational (WSER) while the other is so wholly tangible (ETR); a thing that I’ve held and nurtured, have dedicated hours and miles to over and over.

In the end, I guess this is really just a post about feelings. And I’m openly sharing these feelings because I think it not only helps me process things in my own mind but also because I don’t think I’m the only one that experiences such dualities in their own athletic endeavors. I don’t want the world to pigeonhole me, or you, into believing that you can’t feel your feelings.

So if you see me at the race, know that I am feeling slightly better, that my treatment on some level seems to be working, but that I’m still deeply hurt, physically and mentally. And yes, I do look fine and I’ll be smiling and kind. And that I’m there because I love my husband, my friends that are running, Dick and the race volunteers, and the trail running community. I don’t dislike you if you are able to run but I do envy you, and I hope you will cherish every step through those woods.

Top WSER Related Content/Recommendations

If you missed the WSER content deluge, or are looking for some voices to fill your head on a run, ride, long car ride, here are some of my favorites from the week (also available on Spotify and Apple Podcasts):

Freetrail Podcast with Dylan Bowman

Western States Champions Show | Jim Walmsley, Scott Jurek, Hal Koerner, Magda Boulet, & Cat Bradley

Singletrack Podcast

Jim Walmsley Returns to Talk Western States Course Records, and the Next Era

Abby Hall | 2025 Western States 100 Champion (Interview)

[The infamous Placer High School track in Auburn, CA, where WSER finishes.]

You’re afraid your best performances are behind you.

You’re afraid you’ll be exposed as a hack.

You’re afraid you’re too old.

You’re afraid of being a one-hit wonder.

You’re afraid of what your peers will say.

You’re afraid you’ll never be a competitive athlete again.

Elizabeth Gilbert opens her book Big Magic with a list like this and it spoke (read: felt like it was blasted through a megaphone against my head) to me. She concludes this opener with “Everything is so god damn scary”. Can you feel it, reaching inside you and touching the depths of your soul? I can.

Willy Wonka & the Trail Runner Factory

This week, I landed in Auburn, CA. After the longest New England winter (seriously, it was so cold for so long and there was so much ice). It’s honestly a relief to feel absolutely torched by the sun in 70 degree weather. And just two days ago, I ran my first ever steps along the Western States 100 Mile (WSER) course, an emotional moment as getting to the start line of that race has been one of my long-term running goals.

[Views from the WSER/Canyons 100k course, approaching Robie Point.]

If you’re not familiar with WSER, here is the short version: it’s the oldest 100 mile foot race in the United States, which runs from Olympic Valley to Auburn, CA. It used to exclusively be a horse race until Gordy Ainsley’s horse went lame and he completed the course on foot (in 1974). Today, it is the most competitive 100 miler on US soil. Getting in is extremely difficult (and increasingly so). The race is limited to just 369 runners each year, with the primary method being the entrant lottery, from which 257 runners are selected. Runners must run a qualifying race each year to enter the lottery and the lottery employs an exponential formula for calculating the number of tickets a runner will have in the lottery (such that the longer you’ve been in the lottery, the higher your chances of getting in are). The lottery for this year’s race (the race is held in June each year, the lottery is drawn the previous December) saw just under 10,000 applicants with a total of nearly 69,000 tickets. That means if it was your first year in the lottery (# of tickets = 1), the probability that you got in was basically zero. If it was your third year (# of tickets = 4), the probability that you got in was still pretty close to zero. It is not uncommon to wait 6+ years to get in and up to 10 years.

A second pathway to entry is by winning a “Golden Ticket”, which is designed for Elite Athletes. A handful of races are selected each year as Golden Ticket races and the top 2-3 (depending on the race; those that award 3 are “super Golden Ticket races”) athletes (male and female) will earn an automatic spot into that year’s WSER should they accept their ticket. Golden Tickets can roll down to 5th place but no further. There are 30 Golden Tickets available in total (15 men/15 women). So basically, if you are really fast, you can run your way into WSER without having to wait through the lottery.

Why?

Trail running captured my imagination in 2012, when I was a graduate student at Purdue University amongst the corn and soybean fields of Indiana. Between dreams of solving world hunger, aiding climate refugees, and writing a thesis on sustainable farming methods to aid in the production of plant biofuels, I also dreamt of moving to Africa or Colorado and exploring the world on foot like Rickey Gates.

But it wasn’t until I moved to Albany, NY - yes, far from both Africa and Colorado (thank you to the two-body problem of academia) - joined the Albany Running Exchange and met Dick Vincent that a fascination with WSER would ensue.

I was already hooked on trail running and running long distances but Dick was the first person I’d ever met that had run 100 miles. And he’d done it so many times! It wasn’t just the distance that surprised me. It was the casual nature in which Dick talked about this accomplishment and more than anything it was the stories. Things gone right, things gone horribly wrong. The joy, the difficulty, the blood, the mud, the friendships, the adventure. None of the modern fanfare of today’s trail and ultrarunning. And to simply live to tell it all while living amongst the rest of the population like a mere mortal.

In Dick’s house hangs a photo; he’s crossing the WSER finish line and he’s clutching his friend and pacer. The emotion somehow transcends two dimensions into the third and it makes you want to be right there. It makes me want to be right there. The same finish line. The same look of hurt and relief and accomplishment on your face. The dust caked to your knees. Life lived 100 miles at a time.

[“The” photo. Dick (left) and his pacer, Mike Kelly, at the finish of the 1987 WSER 100. At 35, Dick finished 22nd that year in a time of 21:45.]

Grindstone

While getting into WSER remained on my goal list, I hadn’t yet attempted a qualifier. First, I was trying to get faster (2019). Then COVID happened (2020/2021). Then I made Team USA (2022). I just wasn’t getting the timing right – and for a lot of the bigger qualifying races you either need to enter when registration opens or get in through another lottery, so basically you need to know your plans by January 1 of each year.

All the while, I was certainly very aware of what was happening with WSER; which races were Golden Ticket races, who was getting Golden Tickets, who was running WSER, and following the live updates each year.

Golden Ticket races for the following year tend to be announced in the weeks leading up to the current year’s race. In 2023, on May 29th to be exact, WSER announced the 2024 Golden Ticket races. Amongst them was the Grindstone 100K, an east coast race (Virginia)!! Dick saw it too and immediately sent me the announcement on Instagram. We were both thinking the same thing: you have to run Grindstone.

I gave myself a few weeks to decide and by mid-June I was in and shifting my training. I had been training primarily for Boilermaker 15K (yes, a road race, approximately 56 miles shorter than Grindstone’s actual 66+ miles with about 11,000ft less elevation gain) and the Escarpment Trail Run 30K (Dick’s race in the Catskills, and while actually a trail race, still nearly 50 miles shorter).

Everything became about shifting to Grindstone and ramping up mileage as much as I safely could while maintaining speed. And week after week I surprised myself. I ran a 57 minute 15K at Boilermaker (nearly a 90 second PR) after a 90+ mile week. I ran a 2 minute PR at Escarpment, going under 3:25, which was the fastest women’s time in 20+ years after another 90+ mile week. I then had two back-to-back 100+ mile weeks. I largely trained 13-16 hours/week with most of my volume coming on single runs, hit big workouts, and had big long runs. The more I ran, the better I seemed to feel.

[Escarpment 2023, running up Blackhead. Photo by Jamie Kennard.]

And then in mid-September I ran Grindstone, my first WSER qualifier and a Golden Ticket race. After 11+ drizzly hours I ran into the arms of my crew - Dick, Michael, Liam, and added after he unfortunately dropped from the race himself, Ben - at the finish line. I knew I’d moved up throughout the day but I never knew what place I was in. Finally, I knew. Fifth. My first question: any chance 1 through 3 deferred their tickets? Obviously answer: no. But I was in the arena (and close to getting into the factory).

[Grindstone 100k 2023 finish with my crew - Dick behind the camera.]

Enter Courage

If you asked me then in 2023, or in early 2024, if I thought I could get a Golden Ticket at a future race, I would have said yes (and actually believed it). Grindstone was just my second 100k, and my first in 5 years. I ran very conservatively because I was so unsure of myself at the distance. Now that I knew what I was in for, I could do it again but with a racing mindset.

But if you’ve been following along for the past year then you know things have been rough. I’ve lost fitness. I’ve lost speed. I’ve trained significantly less. I’ve become a person who is chronically ill. It has been wildly frustrating, isolating, and sad. And it has so largely felt like it has been out of my control. As an athlete, I’ve spent nearly the last year afraid of everything listed at the top of this post because it is so (so) hard to not compare yourself to a past version of you.

[I might not be as fast or fit as I used to be, but I’ve still been able to run in a lot of incredible places. Winter desert scenes from Red Rock Canyon, NV in January 2025.]

If you’re reading this as it hits your inbox, or in the roughly 12 hours that follow, then I am (hopefully) actively out in the field, experimenting with what my body is still capable of at the Canyons 100k. I am out there hoping to get my WSER qualifier for the year done. I am out there celebrating the fact that I can still run. I am out there exploring the world on foot, living out my dreams.

Just one year ago, I saw myself as a person capable of getting a Golden Ticket. I’m self-aware and realistic enough to know that I am not currently chasing a Golden Ticket. But just maybe one year from now, I will have the same belief and vision I did in 2023. And even if I don’t, I want to have the courage to find out.

Your dreams are worth chasing.

Your best performances are ahead of you.

You are authentic and genuine.

You have a lot of youth left.

You have a lot left to accomplish.

Your friends and family love you no matter what.

You will put in the work to be a competitive athlete again.

Every week in December, I reported to the Stram Center for another round of labs, too much of a regular and far too anxious of a person to have to wait 24-72 hours to find out “how much worse my liver enzymes are this week”. And every week, the date of January 1, 2025 inched closer. An arbitrary point in time that I hoped would demarcate a transition from unwell to well. While the hope of meeting this deadline was dampened as it grew nearer, each week, I still ran. Running was both terrible and amazing. It’s hard to explain but despite often not feeling so great – and certainly far from the great, fast, powerful that I’ve been accustomed to – it was just about the only thing that felt great. It was the only time life felt somewhat normal, perhaps because I could become temporarily dislodged from reality.

In the same way that all of these tick borne illnesses seemed to be lurking in my body, from September through November, I seemed to be doing the same at the Madrid Airport. Routinely sprinting between terminals, pacing between gates, searching for pockets of emptiness to either have a nap on the ventilation system or for a moment to remove my mask amidst a sea of infection, and inevitably ending up at the Iberia counter begging that they help me get back to New York or Massachusetts – no, not in two days, today, please – and questioning how they can possibly bear no responsibility while seemingly never having a flight that leaves on time. Oh, and let’s not forget their propensity to lose your luggage.

Travel is brutal. Tick borne illnesses are brutal. Scaling mountains as quickly as you can in far flung locations around the world… also brutal. Just in a different, usually pretty okay, and certainly self-inflicted kind of way.

Skyrunning World Champs 37KM

Between the Vertical Kilometer (VK) on Friday and the 37KM on Sunday, I tried to stay off my feet as much as possible. Saturday was largely dedicated to eating, resting, and visualizing the next day of racing, however, we did spend some time out on the course and at the finish line cheering on our fellow teammates competing in the 70KM.

[Dan Button leads Team USA to the finish of the 70KM.]

Overall, my body felt pretty good. I wasn’t horribly sore and I didn’t have a deep sense of fatigue but I could rationally calculate the energy that had been expended, a sunk cost at this point. Moreover, I was so mentally excited. Like, really excited – in a way I hadn’t been in quite some time about a race. My body was still an unforgiving roulette of good and bad days but with the dedicated preparation to preview the 37KM course, I knew that if I was having a good day, I could potentially have a really good day. The excitement and anticipation to find out was thrilling.

Before the race, everyone gathered at our Airbnb, a mere 400 meters from the start line, a true gift of race day logistics. That day’s runners strode back and forth on the street atop the hill, with a magnificent sunrise of oranges, reds, and pinks ushering in a pleasant day for running. Down the hill, the sounds of the chaos at the start line could be heard; music, announcements, Spanish, English, something in between.

Similar to the VK, the start for the 37KM was designed such that the elite men would begin followed a few minutes later by the elite women. Following the elite women, would be the open field. At 8:35AM, our race away from the center of Covaleda and into the mountains began with a flurry of (appropriately aimed; video of Josh just one more time) confetti cannons. First a short, and barreling descent, before several miles of gentle climbing uphill.

[Women’s start of the 37KM; photo by Andres Nuñez.]

As we climbed through the initial boreal forest, I was delighted to have my teammate, Laurel, right by my side. The pace felt comfortable and it was nice to chat a bit as we settled into a rhythm; the only thing bringing interruption was the oncoming torrent of the (mostly) men from the open field. The lone woman to pass us was the Spanish trail running legend, Oihana Kortazar, who I recognized from the Skyrunning World Series. Not running for the Spanish team, she was competing in the open division, which she handily won by 30 minutes and would have placed 5th in the elite race, well ahead of the first elite Spanish runner.

After roughly four miles of climbing, there was a brief downhill before the next climb, which would finally bring us up to the treeline and to the more epic portions of the course. At this point, Laurel and I separated, but I was certain she’d be zooming past me any minute. Each time I heard footsteps behind me, I was sure they were hers but I didn’t dare look back for fear of the dirt and rock I’d be eating almost instantaneously if I did.

Popping above the trees, I could now see the line of runners in front of me. Plenty of women were ahead and I was feeling really good. It was a confidence boost and I felt like I was managing the first third of the race exactly how I needed to.

[Getting above treeline early in the race.]

A few miles later, we were rolling into the first crewed aid station. It was uplifting to see plenty of other people but my eyes were peeled for three people in particular - Josh, Dick, and Eve - my crew. Finally, I caught a glimpse of Dick and Eve but no Josh. They had one of my bottles and some of my extra gels but not the two bottles and bag of gels specifically pre-packaged for this location. Those were with Josh… who was…? I grabbed whatever Dick and Eve had and dropped my two empty bottles. Trail running is just problem solving. I took off and about a tenth of a mile later realized I now only had one bottle; the gear requirements dictated that you must have 1L of hydration capacity at all times (even if the bottles were not full). So, around I turned, now running in the wrong direction, with plenty of people telling me just that, to go grab an empty bottle lest I be DQed for not having the required gear. Back on track.

The course through this aid area was basically a loop on an elevated wooden sidewalk, and just as I was coming to the second half of the loop (for the second time), I saw Josh. I was able to grab my second full bottle and more nutrition which was crucial since I was about to hit, in my opinion, the hardest section of the course: a narrow, steep scramble that went up roughly 1,200ft in a mile.

[Roughly mile 8 to 9 of the course, which snaked through steep, rocky terrain on social trails, flanked by rock cliffs on one side and a short drop down to Laguna Negra on the other side. Teammate Stephen Kerr shown here on our course preview day.]

The climb felt hot, humid, and exposed. It was the first time I felt like I was working hard, which I convinced myself I should be – this was a World Championship after all. In my head, I just have to make it through this climb and the next one, then it’s onto terrain that I’m really comfortable with and really excited about.

But, as it is with running, in one moment you can have so much optimism and so much desire only to have it vanish in an instant. As soon as we started descending, I was basically stopped on the trail with both of my hamstrings cramping (less than 10 miles into the race!!). There was part of me that wanted it to just be temporary, knowing we’d just had a brutal climb and that it could just be the need for electrolytes, but I pretty much instantly knew that my hammys were absolutely cooked from the VK and this was going to be something I’d have to manage the rest of the day. Trail running is just problem solving. Onward I went, but I was slowed to a jog, the kind of jog you definitely do not want to have while racing.

At this point, I started getting passed. I was frustrated but I was not fractured. Often as fleeting as the good moments are, so are the bad moments in long races. Still a lot of race to go. Just as we started the next climb to the high point of the course, Laurel went by looking smooth and relaxed. I tried to use her momentum but I was on my own.

Not far from the high point (Pico de Urbion) was the next aid station (a non-crew station). I stopped to fill bottles and to try and rapidly rehydrate while re-grouping. Better, but not great. Am I imploding? Physically, I clearly was not having a great moment, but mentally, again, I was still thinking about getting every minute I could back. Looking back, I am really proud of my mindset in these moments.

Next to pass me was Georgia, my new Australian friend whom I’d met while scouting the course. She looked so good and was clearly about to have an incredible second half of the race. We chatted a bit and she took off. Another moment for the memory banks: women rooting for women even in the depth of competition.

[Views from Pico de Urbion, 7,310ft above sea level, the high point of the course.]

Descending doesn’t feel great since I can’t really open up and flow, but at least I’ve found a pattern that doesn’t cause cramping, which is good because I have somewhere between 5,000 and 6,000ft of descending to do over the last 12 miles of the course. And, I’m rolling through the most epic, stunning part of the course, the bulbous maze of rocks that end just as quickly as they begin but inspire awe at every turn. I know most people didn’t get a chance to see this section before race day… I hope they have a moment to look up here.

[A maze of unique rock formations.]

I reach the next crewed aid station (roughly mile 14 of the course). It’s weirdly quiet. Like, there doesn’t seem to be much crew here. My crew certainly isn’t here. What. The. Heck. Aside from the aid station volunteers, there are just a handful of people waiting around.

Trail running is just problem solving.

I was able to fill up my bottles with some of the on-course hydration but the nutrition offerings were scant. I grabbed some fruits knowing it was something but surely not the kind of calories I needed at that moment if I was going to coerce my system into a higher gear of action. Providing some relief, well, more like a distraction and dissociation from my own physicality was the fact that my mind was racing. Where is my crew? I hope they’re not in trouble (car crash, injury, etc.). Can I make it 5 miles without totally bonking?

[Side note: The reason that my crew never made it to this aid station is because the course officials prevented access for anyone that wasn’t on a specified list from going there. This, in my opinion, was a serious miscommunication by the event. In all race materials, it was clearly stated that this location was an accessible crew location – and in the technical meeting, which both Josh and I attended, it was reinforced that this was one of the accessible spots by car.]

Somehow, I managed to stay relatively calm and continue to put one foot in front of the other even though the chances of meeting my expectations for this race were long gone. It helps that the 5 miles between aid stations were a net downhill, so I let gravity do most of the work as my body flopped and my feet thudded.

Finally, I could hear the sounds of the next aid station. Hope surged inside of me. Popping off the trail and rounding the corner, I could see the three faces that I expected to see, clearly having their own adventure (nothing made this more clear than after the fact when I realized there hadn’t been a deluge of “Josh videos” live streaming to the internet throughout the day).

[Coming into the final aid station. This photo is about as blurry as my own vision and mental clarity at this point.]

This aid station marked the base of the last serious climb on the course – about 1,200 ft in a mile (again). Electrolytes and carbs in, I was ready to give whatever I had left to the last 4 miles.

A few minutes into the climb, I felt collected, and like I was actually racing again. Despite every signal my body had been giving me for about 10 miles, I was coming alive, running up this climb. I could see women ahead of me. The gears shifted. Catch them. Every place counts. Slowly, I reeled them in. One, two. Too bad this race is going to be over in a few miles.

Roughly 20 minutes after the ascent began, I’m greeted at the top by some of the 70KM team members, which was a fantastic surprise and a huge energy boost.

[The top of the final climb.]

Soon enough, I rolled into the finish, relieved, feeling equal parts elated and disappointed. It wasn’t the great day I thought I could have. But that’s running and that’s racing. You can think all you want. You can talk about what you could have done. However, at the end of the day, it’s about what you did do. What I did do was make it to another finish line. I ran within the capacity my body had for that day. I scored one more time for Team USA, something I will forever be proud of and that the future does not guarantee again. And best of all, I got to celebrate and reconnect with my teammates, their family and friends, and my all-star crew of Josh, Dick, and Eve.

Morgan Elliot would go on to lead the team with a 4th place finish, which was so well deserved and hard earned, with Joseph DeMoor close behind in 6th (he would go on to earn a silver medal for his combined VK + 37KM finishes). Laurel Moyer finished about 12 minutes ahead of me in 18th place. I landed 25th with Stephen Kerr in 47th and Joshua Taylor in 54th. (Places by gender).

[The last descent before a climb into town to the finish.]

Beyond the finish line, we celebrated our captain's medal winning achievements, I caught back up with my Italian friends one more time, and over a team meal, a game of “Moo” was initiated (I’ll let you guess whose idea it was). Morgan, the unfortunate and unknowing target, sending us all on our way out of Spain and back to our respective lives with a tremendous, solo, “MOOOOOOOO”.

[How lucky am I?!]

BOOM. Josh blasts the confetti. Team USA erupts in laughter. Dick’s voice rings in the background, “Josh just shot himself in the leg!”. It’s all on video. 

The Day Before

Thursday, September 5th was the official kick-off for three days of racing at the Skyrunning World Championships. I’d learned from the World Mountain and Trail Running Championships in Thailand in 2022 that these days can be exciting but exhausting. As I was the only athlete staying in the town of Covaleda, where the majority of events were staged including the opening ceremony, I offered to host everyone at our Airbnb for our team meeting prior to the ceremony. Over the day, this evolved to Eve and I cooking dinner for 20 people (athletes plus partners/friends; although to be fair, I owned 20% of this equation). Despite the large portion of my day that this consumed, the team meal is genuinely one of the trip highlights. It was really the only time that the whole team was together and had a chance to bond before racing and it was so nice to meet the athletes you didn’t previously know/special to reconnect with those you did. 

(Team meeting/dinner in Covaleda. Team Captain, Joseph DeMoor provides some pre-race thoughts.)

Following dinner, the cool, neutral toned herd (we elected to wear our custom Kailas white/tan rain jackets, which would oddly be in high demand from other athletes throughout the weekend) made its way into the town center for bib pick-up and the athlete parade. Through the streets we strode, culminating with a stop at the 70km/37km finish line for a full team roll call. It’ll never get old hearing the European pronunciation of my name, “Meeee-shell”. 

The last and final stop of the evening for me (again, a matter of convenience being the only one staying in town) was the technical meeting, a meeting with event staff to address key information and answer questions. At this point, I was getting antsy. It was getting late, partially because everything happens later in Spain but also because nothing happens on time in Spain. They crammed a lot of us into a small, windowless room and closed the door. Some key things were addressed and some very key things were left out (one of which really impacted me in the 37km). I was relieved to leave that room, catch some fresh air, and be on my way to bed. 

As I sat in bed, visualizing the day to follow, reviewing my race plan, the feeling that consumed me was love. Not nerves, not fear, but a genuine and all-encompassing love. To have even made it to Spain was love. To have the chance to run for a US Team again was love. To be surrounded by so many amazing athletes was love. To have Josh, Dick, and Eve there with me was love. To have family and friends routing for me from home was love. To have been supported by so many members of the Albany Running Exchange was love. It was overwhelming, in the best way. The only other moment in my life I can remember a similar feeling was from our wedding day, when Josh and I walked in, together, to White Pine Lodge, and every person in the room was looking right at us; the people we loved, supporting our love. It makes you feel invincible, right? (Spoiler, my hamstrings would not agree with this statement 2 days later during the 37km). 

The Vertical Kilometer & Team Scoring

A VK, or vertical kilometer, is a race defined not by its distance but by its vertical gain. It must rise one vertical kilometer, roughly 3,280ft, and it must do so, in a distance of 5km or less. Translation: it is very steep and it hurts very much. The VK we would be running would be about 3.2 miles with just under 3,400ft of gain. It would also have a nearly flat ¼ mile section (it went up 55ft, which is a lot if you’re a #roadrunner but poppy seeds in skyrunning) near the beginning of the final mile and would reach an elevation of nearly 7,000ft. So, a little extra ouch, or, a lot more ouch if you’re a sea-level dweller like me. Technically, it would be my first ever official stand alone VK, although unofficially, I’d done one en route while completing the Whiteface Mountain Race in 2022 (which went up a VK and then ran back down the mountain). 

(VK course profile.)

The VK was staged from the town of Ágreda, a 90 minute drive east of Covaleda. Once in Ágreda, you had to pick up your bib for the VK (because that strangely was not part of the bib pick-up the night of the opening ceremony) and then take a ~15 minute bus ride to a spot nearby the race start. Most of the time during this journey, the skies gave us, you guessed it, a cold, windy rain. 

The men kicked off at 10:30am and the women at 10:50am. Just before the men’s race, the clouds lifted and the sun popped out. It was now officially hot, although the high point was still cloaked. Everyone jogged around, trying to shake out any pre-race jitters.

Laurel Moyer was my sole Team USA companion on the starting line as our VK/37km team featured a 4+2 configuration (4 men, 2 women). Team scoring for all races would be mixed gender and there were several permissible combinations for teams: 2+2 (2 men, 2 women), 3+3 (3 men, 3 women), and 4+2. Individual points would be assigned based on finish place by sex and then the top 4 runner’s points would be totaled together (more points for finishing closer to first, descending with place; ie. the goal was to accumulate as many points as possible over the course of the weekend with team podiums ultimately being determined by the sum of the three races). However, you had to have at least one runner of each sex in your total score and for your individual score to have the potential to count you must finish in the top 40. So, for example, if our 4 men went 1-2-3-4, the top 1-2-3 would score and then our top woman would score assuming she was at least 40th place or better. Honestly, the simplest math on this was just “run as fast as you can”. The goal here is to try and get Team USA on the podium. As a result, in my opinion, while individual results matter because they contribute to team results, it’s what you produce as a team that is the primary objective. 

Thunderstruck

There is something about classic American rock that makes it the preferred music for start lines around the world. And it makes me chuckle. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard Thunderstruck by AC/DC at half of the race starts this year; I can’t remember if this was one of them but I do remember Laurel commenting as we stood in the start corral about the strangeness of the music. 

The race went off in a sprint (of course) as we climbed a gradual grade on some pavement before hitting grass about ¼ of a mile in. Already, I was jostling back/forth with other racers. Flatter sections, I’d surge ahead. Steeper sections, I’d get passed. Laurel was just ahead of me and I tried to keep her in view. 

For the first mile, I was thinking, this isn’t so bad! I was working hard, but controlled and I’d run every step. Hill workouts at 20% grade seemed to be paying off. Another half mile down and I got to see Dick and Eve who had hiked up to cheer along the trails. And it was righhhhht about then that, BOOM, the literal wall of Earth made herself known. The 20% grade became 30%, then 35%, and eventually all the way up to 45%+. It made sense, we’d barely surpassed 500ft of elevation gain in the first mile. With the ¼ mile flat section, that would mean that in about 2 miles, we still had about 2,900ft of climbing left. I can taste copper in my mouth just thinking about that now. 

(Post race photo from near the start line looking up at the peak we finished on far off in the distance.)

While much of the first mile had been on a wide, grass path, the trail was much more narrow and rocky now, making it difficult to pass without going off the trails. With my legs already screaming, it was so much extra effort to try and move up. Just keep pushing. Laurel and I stayed pretty much equidistant (her slightly ahead) and I stayed focused on picking off the women between us. Every place counts. I went back and forth with the same women over and over.

After a short, steep but ridiculously rocky section, we popped up to the plateau, above the trees for the first time. The air was cooler, thinner. To the left, you could see where we were headed. The bald peak towering at a seemingly impossible height. The finish line still invisible. Running flat feels amazing, yet simultaneously impossible. My legs are jello, shaking.

The last segment to the finish is an absolute grind. The ground beneath is scree. It was shockingly cold and the wind was whipping so hard you could barely hear anything. At this point, many of the men had long finished and were making their way back down the mountain. One of the women I’d been going back and forth with, from New Zealand, was coming up behind me. Several of her teammates - including Jackson Cole, whom I’d met in Peru at the Cordillera Blanca Skyrace in July - were screaming for her. The support was a huge boost and she easily passed me. Zip it, Jackson! (Kidding, absolutely a super nice guy and incredible athlete, but I could use that Mario Brothers Boost Mode!). Two more women passed me. Every place counts. I focused on pushing harder, trying to get back the places I’d lost. Finally, my Boost Mode arrived! I saw some of the Team USA guys – Josh Taylor tells me “4 more minutes!”. Four minutes is nothing. Push, push, push. (What am I delivering a baby?!). The copper taste starts to build and your legs scream but 1, 2, 3. Got ‘em. Hold on to the finish. Where is the finish?! 

Finally, through the fog, the finish comes into sight. Longest 4 minutes of my life (that’s probably because it was more like 8). Laurel is there, just having finished, and (my) Josh is there too having made the ascent himself earlier in the day before the men’s race set off. I’m doubled over, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath. 

(Desafio Urbion VK finish line.)

In the show The Office, there is an episode where Michael hosts a 5k Run for Rabies (one of the best episodes of the whole show, imo). When Toby reaches the finish line he asks “where are we?”. Kelly then replies, “I don’t know, like 5 kilometers from the office”. Our situation is very much the same. We are 3.25 miles and 3,480ft of elevation away from where we started. Except we’re not on the paved streets of Scranton. We’re on top of some obscure peak in the middle of Spain. The only way out is to go back where we came from. Josh, Laurel, and I descend, trying to mitigate any further damage to our legs, which we’re trying to save for our next race in 2 days. 

(Photo op once on the way down, once we were out of the mist.)

The hike down with Laurel was a blast. It was another one of those experiences that makes racing with Team USA so special. She and I had run in a handful of the same races in the past (she lives in Pennsylvania) but we’d never officially met. As a fan of the sport, I’d been watching her progression so I was already wildly impressed with her and she was having a killer year (winning races like the Breakneck Half and races in the highly competitive Cirque Series). I think I not so secretly fan-girled her on this trip and genuinely was just honored to be out there racing as her teammate, representing the beast coast abroad. 

Our last event of the day was the VK awards ceremony, where we got to celebrate team captain Joe DeMoor finishing 2nd overall! Joe had a race all the way to the finish and was the defending World Champion in the VK. I’m sure he’d have loved to be atop the podium once again but it was a massive result. With Joe’s strong performance leading the way, Team USA sat in 4th place overall at the conclusion of the first day of racing. Laurel was the 18th woman and I was 23rd; with that, we both scored for Team USA alongside Joe and Morgan Elliot (19th male). 

With some paella to refuel, it was time to spend the next 30 hours trying to recover for our next race.

(Post-race paella!)

(Looking back on Laguna Negra; part of the 37KM course.)

A La España

Already over a month ago (gasp), the year-of-international-racing resumed for a weekend of racing at the Skyrunning World Championships. While this is the same discipline (skyrunning) as the Skyrunning “World Series”, these are mutually exclusive events (racing at the World Championships does not count toward the Series). One as an individual, one as Team USA. Except, if you finish top 3 (individually) in a Skyrunning World Championship, you get automatic entry into the Skyrunning World Series Finale race (otherwise you have to complete four Series events, finishing top 20 in at least one of them, i.e. what I’m doing, in order to qualify for the finale). The Championships, and my two remaining Series events, all in Spain. Surely this makes complete sense (kidding, it’s super confusing). 

Because writing about the Skyrunning World Championships would likely amount to a dissertation sized story that only maybe my Mom (AND HUSBAND; a friendly edit from Josh himself, as he reminds me that he is required to read these several times) and few very dedicated friends would read, I figured breaking things into several parts would help public consumption (hopefully true) and would help me write things up in a timely manner (already untrue). Anyways, welcome to Part I: where I’ve shared a random self-ingratiating anecdote to get things started but promise it will come full circle as I talk about the ~week of recon~.  

I found out about the Skyrunning World Championships sometime in April of this year (i.e. before “the sickness”) and eagerly applied (online application) to be a part of the US team. While I had not accounted for this as part of my year-of-international-racing, it would fit well. One, it was also skyrunning (huge plus given the limited time for training I’d have with so many races anyways), and second, the timing would allow me to stick with my current plan for the Series. Ultimately, to be selected, I was ecstatic. The World Championships would feature 3 distances: a vertical kilometer (VK; this is an uphill only race that covers a minimum of 3,280ft (1,000 meters) of gain, in 5KM [3.1 miles] or less), 37KM (23 miles), and 70KM (43.5 miles). I stated a preference for the 37KM, which meant I would also be on the VK team (it is common for teams to double up on these events; VK on Friday, 37KM on Sunday). 

Fast forward a couple of months to “the sickness”. Unforeseen. Unwelcome. World Championships looming. With my head buried in my hands, I bawled on the living room floor. Should I give up my spot on the team so someone else - someone better, someone not sick, someone not *me* - can have the opportunity to race instead? This question weighed me down, consuming my thoughts. 

I gave myself one week to decide. One week of treatment for Lyme and Anaplasmosis. If I didn’t start to feel significantly better, I would call it, relinquish my dream to another runner. If I did start to feel better, I’d kick-off the time I had left to prepare with a mini solo training camp in the Catskills. 

On August 13, I packed my bags (read: threw a bunch of [hopefully] clean running clothes into a laundry basket) and took off for a Scandinavia meets Brooklyn lodge deep in the Catskills. Three days later, I emerged from the woods still itching from an entire run ambushed by stinging nettles but confident in making it to Spain ready to race. And after the three biggest, and best feeling weeks of training I’d had since May, I was off to Spain, where the emotional and physical roller-coaster of the past few months would hopefully gently dump me on a mountainside of joy and bliss. But first! I had to beg the pharmacy to rush fill my script for medication to treat Babesia, having gotten labs back the day before revealing a third tick-borne infection. They say good and bad things come in threes, right?

(Duruelo de la Sierra, my home for the first week in Spain.)

Control the Controllables

The idea of preparing for a race not just physically but also mentally was absolutely foreign to me until 2018 when I started working with my first sports - or any - psychologist. She introduced to me the idea of previewing race courses so that I could mentally visualize my race unfolding. Revolutionary. (Also, often impossible.) Since then, I’ve implemented this a number of times for road races, trail races, and FKTs. Usually it requires the event being local but on a few occasions I’ve managed full (or near-full) course previews for out of town races (notably, that time I previewed Loon Mountain by taking a day trip to NH while on vacation in Stowe, VT and then ended up with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever - thumbs down - and the time I previewed the Grindstone 100KM course by adding on a few days to a trip to Maryland for a family wedding, which culminated in changing into my wedding attire in the back of an Albany Running Exchange van between the trailhead and the American Visionary Art Museum - thumbs up). 

I also happen to like this style of training. I find it gives added purpose to the process and I feel like it allows me to build a deep connection with the place I’m learning (and their local eateries post-run). Finally, it allows me to put one more item, knowing the course, into the “controllables” bucket. “Control the Controllables” being another element I learned from the sports psychologist. When you know the course inside and out, you don’t have to think about what’s coming next, where to turn, the best path to take, or what to do if course flags get pulled, you just go. In 2022 for the Breakneck Point Trail Marathon, where the winner earned a spot on Team USA for the World Mountain and Trail Running Championships in Thailand, this was key. Flags got pulled out on the course. It affected the men’s race. I was the only woman affected (the RD was able to remark the course before second went through). When I got to the spot where the flags had been pulled, several men were fanning out in the three possible directions you could go to try and find the route. I knew the course that year so well that I could see the whole thing with my eyes closed and could recognize individual palm sized rocks on the trails. On race day, it wouldn’t have mattered for me if the course was marked or not. “Straight”, I yelled. Jay Lemos, Ben Nephew, Brian Rusiecki, and I then proceeded to have an absolute party rolling down the “Abusive Jeep Road” to the next aid station; still some of my all-time favorite miles ever run, running with some of the legends of beast coast trails.

Headed to the Skyrunning World Championships, I couldn’t undo getting sick. I couldn’t go back and make the last 2+ months of training feel better, be faster, or be stronger. So I did the next best thing I could think of, which was get my butt to Spain early and learn the course, leaning in to what gives me confidence in the mountains. 

Pieces of the Puzzle

I arrived in Madrid, Spain on August 29, 8 days before my first race (the VK) and 10 days before my second race (37KM) with a bag of unmarked white powder in my carry-on (Albany TSA insisted they needed to open and test every one of my 12 sealed single-serving 0.35oz collagen packets). Instead of being gently dumped there, it was more like being catapulted as the pilot announced to expect turbulence as “we’ll be landing in a thunderstorm” (are you even supposed to do that?!). After sunny 90 degree days with low humidity all summer, Madrid, and the region I’d be heading to, were in a seasonal transition. Storms rolled in. It was pouring. Lightning flashed in the distance. 

(A stormy Covaleda afternoon.)

Desafio Urbión, an event that has existed in this region for many years, played host to this year’s Skyrunning World Championships. The slew of events were based out of Covaleda, Spain, roughly three hours north and slightly east of Madrid, with a handful of the week+ long events starting and/or finishing in other locations around the region. Exiting the outskirts of Madrid, everything grew quiet. I barely saw any cars and the towns were seemingly fortresses with no people. Fields and fields of sunflowers lined the road. I would have stopped for lunch… except there wasn’t anywhere to go. 

Famished, I arrived in Duruelo de la Sierra, an even smaller town than Covaleda and just a few miles up the road for the first part of my stay. I arrived at the time when everything closes for the afternoon and with dinner still eight (!!!!) hours away. IT WAS NOON. 

(Uniform rows of pine forest were in abundance in an area with seemingly strong roots in the logging industry.)

But you’re not here to read about my culture shock, you’re here for the RECON! Let’s crack that tin of canned sardines open!

My recon was limited to the 37KM course only, and not the VK. The VK was actually staged from an entirely different town about 90 minutes away and (1) I didn’t want to drive that far with my limited days, (2) I was hardly sold on doing the VK once, let alone twice, and (3) there’s obviously going to be a lot more nuance to a 23ish mile race versus a 3ish mile race that just goes uphill.

Figuring out how I’d see each part of the course, including some spots which were pretty remote, without drop-off/pick-up options, and without overdoing the training was like solving a puzzle, but way more fun than the algorithmic puzzles I was trying to solve several months ago as an economist. Ultimately, here’s how it played out (I’ll spare you a lot of the details, many of which I’ll save for the race recap itself, but if you’re a course recon junkie, you can read my obnoxiously long (32 pages) recon document I compiled throughout the week for the team here [honestly, it’s mostly course photos]):

Recon Day 1

Linked up with fellow VK/37KM teammate, Stephen Kerr (also a New Englander and former MA resident who I’ve raced and run with before), and, over the course of the whole run, which was a ~9.3 mile loop (with 3,000ft of gain), saw miles 6.5 through about 11.8. This preview run included two of the most challenging climbs on the course, including the climb to the course’s high point, Pico de Urbión (at roughly 7,300ft). Given the combination of altitude, the time change, and my new mid-day fasted lifestyle (kidding, but also not kidding), I felt pretty terrible on this run but we saw some cool things and had some good laughs. 

(Highland cows on the course!)

(View from Pico de Urbión, the course's high point.)

Recon Day 2

Went out on my own for a ~12 mile lollipop loop from the start/finish (with ~3,500ft of gain) in Covaleda where I got to see the first 6.5 miles and the last ~3.5 miles (the first and last 1.5 miles were the same, the only repeat section of the course). Before the return to town, I also peeked down the last climb of the course – STEEP! The first ~4 miles were steadily uphill so I did a short hill workout on this section (6x2 minute hard uphill) on my way out. Ended up running into/sharing some miles with two members of the Australian team - Georgina and Blake - which was super fun and I loved seeing them throughout race weekend. This section was quite different from day one, with much of the course in this section below the treeline. I took far fewer photos here primarily because I was doing a workout but also because it was less visually interesting, although I did observe a sheep gnawing on the course markings which was amusing. This section also had a few spots where markings were not totally clear and I had to do a little bit of back/forth to find the next flag.

(Lots of pine/fern areas below the treeline on the course.)

Recon Day 3

Rest day from running but did a ~4.5 mile out and back hike (~2,000ft of gain) from course aid station #4 back to where Stephen and I turned off the course allowing me to see miles ~11.8 to 14. Definitely the most interesting and unique part of the course, featuring stunning rock formations. Ended up being perfect for a hike because I took sooo many photos. It was also good to see the very short (~less than 0.2 miles) but very steep (roughly 400ft) climb around mile 12.5 of the race course.

(Super fun rock formations that we got to weave in and out of during the second half of the course.)

Recon Day 4

Final recon day! Parked at course aid station #5 (of 6 total) and ran up the dirt road I drove the day prior, with a few trail cut-throughs, to aid station #4 and then ran the course from aid station #4 to #5 (miles 14 - 19). Ran about 8.6 miles with about 2,200ft of gain. Had a little bit of uphill to start this section of the course, but mostly the on course portion was downhill and super runnable. 

(Two Japanese athletes zipping by me.)

At the end of these four days, I had seen all but 1 mile of the entire 37KM course (the last climb – roughly 1 mile and 1,200ft of gain). I wrote diligent notes every night while I ate dinner at my hotel. I shared them with the team. I could close my eyes and visualize the course. My own race plan fell into place. This was exactly what I needed and I felt good about the work I’d done. The last piece of the puzzle would be to string it all together on race day. 

Send the Party Crew

With course preview complete it was time to relocate to Covaleda (where I’d be staying for the remainder of the trip at an Airbnb with Josh, Coach Dick, and Eve) and to rest in preparation for events like a dinner/meeting with the team, the opening ceremonies, and most importantly the races. And as I moved from a 1,000 resident town to a 2,000 resident town, the party crew huddled together in Terminal C of Newark Airport ready to descend upon Spain with their red, white, and blue paraphernalia. 

(Dick, Josh, and Eve on their way to Spain.)

So, as I work on wrapping-up writing about my most recent experiences at the Skyrunning World Championships in Spain, it seemed opportune to re-share one from the pre-substack archives. I hope to once again rip the technical descents like I did four years ago, but if not, and this was the pinnacle of the space that running holds for me, I accept my fate.

Despite a horrific musical ability, for both playing any kind of instrument and most especially for singing, I have always felt deeply connected to music for the lyricism and poetic nature that can encapsulate personal emotion, the setting of a particular environment, or even the entire movement of a generation. For me, both sound, sight, and scent are complexly intertwined where each elicits the other. Every time I hear a Taylor Swift song, I can also hear the laughs and top of lung belts of my college girlfriends, see the glittery sequences of dresses cut too short and high heels too high, and smell the warmth of hair straighteners and curling irons mixed with a (now) unfathomable amount of hair products. Whenever the leaves start to change, the cooler air sweeps in, and the smell of fall is in the air, I’m immediately transported to moments crossing the pedestrian bridge across the Tippecanoe River as I walked from my apartment in Lafayette, Indiana to Purdue’s campus as a graduate student, with the melodic and moody rhythm of The Civil Wars ringing in my ears. The list of these connections between time, space, and scent in my life is seemingly infinite. 

A week out from the most daunting physical task, perhaps of my running career thus far, a song I’ve known for years lodged itself deep in my brain, connecting itself to my emotions and my physical being. Maybe it was the figurative emergence from the dark into the light, or the notion of being able to stand atop a pile of rubble and just let every emotion slip into the forgettable depths behind you, or simply the mention of the Devil. Either way, as I ran around in circles in my final days leading up to a Fastest Known Time (FKT) attempt on the Devil’s Path in the Catskills of NY, Shake It Out by Florence + the Machine ran around in circles in my head. 

'Cause looking for heaven, found the devil in me

Looking for heaven, for the devil in me

My main goal for the year had been the Superior 50 Miler, put on by Rocksteady Running in Northern Minnesota. It is an event, place, and community I’ve developed strong ties to over the past few years having run the Superior Spring 50k, volunteered at the Superior Fall 100 miler, and most recently having paced a friend at the 100 miler last fall. I was most looking forward to experiencing the three elements the event identifies itself by: rugged, relentless, and remote. The Superior 50 Miler, like a large majority of races this year, was ultimately cancelled.

I’m not even sure why, or when, I narrowed in on doing the Devil’s Path, but it was almost certainly with the pursuit of something rugged, relentless, and remote in mind. 

The Devil’s Path is a 24 mile route of red blazes, most commonly traversed from east to west. It is considered one of the most challenging hikes in the country and has been called the most dangerous and toughest hike in the East (although, challenging as it may be, I do think there are a few more dangerous and more difficult). There is one road crossing (which is actually a lot for the Catskills). The route has between 8,000 and 9,000 feet of elevation gain, climbing over five Catskill High Peaks (peaks over 3500’), but it’s not the climbing that makes this route such a beast, it’s the descents, most of which are simply piles of rocks and boulders where there are almost always at least three wrong ways to go and never a right way. 

It’s always darkest before the dawn

Throughout the spring and the summer, I put in serious time in the mountains. Each weekend, I would seek to balance the mental strain and inherent immobility of my new desk job as an economist with the physical ferocity of hours navigating technical terrain in remote locations. The Catskill Mountains had become my escape as COVID upended every other element of our lives, personally, locally, and nationally.  I ran trails I’d run dozens of times but I also sought out new routes and new places. Almost always, against my own instincts, I ran alone. I hit some climbs hard and took risks on sketchy descents begging my feet to move on instinct, but mostly, I moved at a relaxed effort, not ready to leave each present moment for the one that came next. Not quite ready for the leaves to bud and then not quite ready for the leaves to fall. The days and the runs were never long enough and the cuts, scrapes, falls, and bruises were never painful enough to make me think twice about doing it all over again the following weekend. 

I can see no way, I can see no way

And all of the ghouls come out to play

And every demon wants his pound of flesh

Unlike races, which happen once a year, on a predetermined date, FKTs stand alone. They are, generally, individualistic and open to an attempt from anyone at any time. In this way, when attempting an FKT you are running in first place, scared of being caught, and running in second place, working to close the gap, all at the same time. There is no race day tactical strategy of cueing off nearby competitors, there is only pushing yourself as fast as you can possibly go either chasing the ghosts of past attempts or running from the ghosts of future attempts.

For nearly the entire summer leading up to my attempt, which I had planned for September 20th, I had no idea just how fast the ghost I would end up chasing would be.

In my mind, I had settled on the fact that I could reasonably complete the Devil’s Path between 6:15 and 6:45, a time estimate that was in large part based on several training runs I had done on the Devil’s Path through the end of August and my general estimate of my overall trail fitness at the time. It would put me in the range of about 2 hours faster than the listed FKTs (both supported and unsupported). 

But, the problem with a mental commitment to a certain time is that it can confine you to boundaries of your own making. There is a delicate line between hubris and self-belief. Hubris can leave a runner chasing a (currently) physically unrealistic goal from the start, almost certainly lending themselves a terrible race or FKT attempt, while self-belief has the ability to elevate you higher than what you may believe you are capable of achieving. Trails, especially technical trails with sharp changes in elevation, tend to complicate this balance; every inch of every mile is so unique that a per mile pace is utterly useless, forcing you to develop an internal monitor of effort as automatic and essential as the beat of one’s heart.

The more I repeated the “ultimate” goal of 6:15, the more I really believed it: “wouldn’t that be amazing?” And I believed it would be, until, I didn’t, which happened when, on Labor Day, just two weeks before I had my attempt planned, another woman, Charlotte Winkler, ran 5:33:51. In that moment, 6:15 on the Devil’s Path was no longer an amazing feat, and anything close to 5:30 was seemingly impossible.

The emotions were tumultuous. I felt inspired by Charlotte’s talent and grit and in absolute awe of her accomplishment, arms open wide to congratulate her. At the same time, I already felt defeated, capable of surrendering without even putting up a fight. The fists of imposter syndrome pounded on my skull, loudly, there to remind me, as they have for my entire life, that I’d put myself somewhere that I didn't belong.

And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't

Well what the hell I'm gonna let it happen to me

At that point, I questioned whether or not I should even run the Devil’s Path. There were several other seemingly more attainable FKTs in a reasonable radius that had also piqued my interest. Ultimately, it was the answer to the question: “Does it sound like a meaningful experience if there were no clocks or places?” that set me straight. Yes. It would still be the culmination of a summer’s long project, one that made me stronger and less fearful, and one that brought ten times more joy than it did pain. Even if I wouldn’t run the fastest known time, I could still run my fastest known time. 

And I've been a fool and I've been blind

I'm always dragging that horse around

Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground

Thankfully, as much as the mind can become beholden to the confines we create for it, it also has a great ability to forget and to do mental gymnastics. With each day that passed in September, I forgot, just a little bit, how hard the Devil’s Path is and I found ways to make up minutes and seconds all along the route from the comfort of my own home -- “if I can have a fast mile going across Plateau, then I can make up a minute or two”. Slowly, I lowered my own time goal closer and closer to 5:30. 

A week out from the attempt, I was already rationalizing how I could run 5:45 on a perfect day. Then, the night before, in my journal, alongside my preparation notes for the following day, I wrote: “I am more than capable of 5:25.”

And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope

It's a shot in the dark and right at my throat

FKTs generally offer little, if any, fanfare. The starting line is rather ominous and lonely. There is no announcer, no music playing, no other contenders. At Prediger Road, where my journey on the Devil’s Path would begin, it was just me, a trunk full of kettlebells for a pre-run warm-up, some strangers sleeping in their cars, and my husband, who oscillated between trying to sleep in our car and very quietly taking videos from inside the car, questioning the sanity of my actions outside. 

Just before 7am, the fading green tunnel of summer that lined the trail into the woods began to let light poke through. With temperatures in the mid-30s, I could see my breath, that is, when I remembered to breathe as a slight apprehension swirled inside my central nervous system. Then, at the hour, minute, and second of my own choosing, like taking a plunge from a cliff into a pool of water below, I held my breath once more and took off.

You actually spend the majority of the first two miles of the Devil’s Path heading east; the only time on the whole trail you’ll do so. It feels counterintuitive running away from your end point. These first two miles, however, also offer some of the most runnable terrain of the day. Relatively flat, it’s a good place to open up a bit -- also counterintuitive to a general racing strategy of starting off easy, leaving gas in the tank for later. But I did it anyway.

A little under two miles, you intersect and turn right onto the Overlook Trail, a wide, and very runnable, trail that ascends from Platte Clove Road to the Overlook Fire Tower. It is, however, a tease, as you only spend about one tenth of a mile on its faster surface before the red blazes lead you west for roughly 22 more miles. As soon as you turn right back onto the Devil’s Path, you begin to climb. 

It doesn’t take long for the climbing to make my legs feel slightly heavy. My thoughts are consumed with assessing each moment. Every muscle twitch and beat of the heart is registered; a sixth sense that only athletes know. Is that a tightness in my calf? How is my breathing? Is it time to eat something? Engage the glutes. For now, I stave off any feelings of doubt. 

The first four peaks are relentless. A series of false summits and technical rock that demand engagement of every limb and muscle to both go up and down, which will ultimately leave my arms and core sore for a week after this attempt is over.  Just before the first peak, Indian Head, there is a lookout. I turn my head just enough to catch a glimpse of the sun rising over the horizon, but not so far that I depart from the narrow trail that skirts the edge of a cliff. It’s truly magnificent and for that moment, I feel as though I am on top of the world. 

Indian Head is my first “check point”. While I’ve committed to focusing on me and my effort, I am also, inevitably, aware of what I’m chasing, a product of an academic background and professional career built on studying numbers. Just under 50 minutes; one minute ahead. 

There are three more peaks to cover in the next 3 miles: Twin Mountain South Summit, Twin Mountain, and Sugarloaf. It takes me nearly an hour to get through all three, more than three times what it would take me to cover the same distance on the road. The grade of these climbs and descents are mind-boggling, generally around 20-30% and at times 45%. Gravity seems to be stronger here than on other parts of the planet. 

I make it to Mink Hollow in 1:54. One minute behind. Up next is Plateau. Plateau offers those who dance with the Devil great rewards but first you must climb 1200’ in less than a mile. On the way up, there is a spring that you hardly have to step off the trail for. Its water is cold and refreshing. I refill one of two half liter soft flask filter bottles I have on me.  A large flat rock and a lookout facing east with sweeping views of where you’ve been marks the end of the climb and for the next two miles you are gifted a relatively flat and straight tabletop to run on through the soft pine forest that grows there. For the first time in nearly 2 hours, I’m running with a steady and uninterrupted cadence, and more importantly, my mind gets a break from memorizing complex rock patterns and governing how my feet will land on them. However, 20 minutes later, I’m back, plummeting down impossibly steep trails. This time, dropping 1600’ in less than a mile. 

Half-way. Tied. 

One of my biggest fears for the day was having to wait for a car to cross Route 214. Thankfully, there are none and I zip across the road through the Devil’s Tombstone Campground, bypassing the opportunity to refill my water at the spigot located there. 

Just two big climbs left. I can feel myself slipping. Doubt begins to hover but doesn’t fully penetrate my thoughts. I’m halfway in terms of distance and, ideally, more than halfway in terms of time, but I feel so tired. My legs are heavy and I’m moving a lot slower than I did on my training run here. I’ve also run out of water, which isn’t  a big deal since it’s cool and I know I’ll make it to the next refill location before desperation sets in, but still, it could have been avoided with a quick stop at the campground. I hike a lot more than I’d like to but still try to run a few steps here and there. Thankfully, unlike the first half of the route, the descents on the second half are much more runnable, which is great if you still feel like you can run. When I reach the top and begin the next descent, my body responds; mind and my feet are still connecting without much effort. 

This descent leads you to Diamond Notch Falls, which is one of the most beautiful spots along the Devil’s Path. A large creek flows and cascades over the infamous Catskill rock. No time for gawking today though, the creek serves solely as a, now, very much needed water stop. Bottles filled and ready for the last climb. 3 minutes ahead. 

At some point during a long run like this, your brain shuts off most function. All that is left is survival. Memory is only good if it’s muscle memory. And as soon as I start climbing West Kill I forget if I was 3 minutes ahead or 3 minutes behind. All I can remember is the number 3 and I’m too tired to try and do the math. I’m convinced I’m actually 3 minutes behind and it makes me push a little harder. The burning in my legs and lungs is deeper than I’ve ever known. Confident I’ll bounce back once I hit the peak, I treat the second mile of this climb like it’s my last mile of the day. At the top, I’m depleted, but as soon as I’m going downhill, I find another wind. 

Just over 4 miles and 45 minutes later, I barrel out of the woods and into the small parking lot to both some familiar and some strange faces, in a total time of 5:29:34. 

And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off

One of the questions I was often asked after the fact was “when did you know you had it [the FKT]”? In reality, the answer to the question is actually how I knew I had it, to which the answer is beyond numbers and stats, and is rather how I felt as I began to work my way from the final peak to the end of the path. I had entered the most sought after and elusive of states that runners can experience: flow state. 

Calm and relaxed, every step became perfect. I moved so smoothly through the obstacles that I could have just as easily been on my couch at home visualizing the experience. As my body flowed over the trail, simultaneously, my thoughts, worries, fears, and insecurities rolled off my back and blew away with the wind. I was present. I was exactly where I belonged: outside, on a trail in the mountains, and on a journey that I had curated for myself. I had shaken the Devil and had the greatest dance of my life. 

Finish line greeters/party people: Dick Vincent, Alanna Moss, Dan Rutledge, Josh Merlis, and Ellie + Ollie, the dogs.

The bolded sections of this piece are lyrics from Shake it Out by Florence + the Machine. They are not in the same order as the song.

[nearing the end of the first climb of the race; the first of many roped sections]

Congratulations, You’ve Landed at the World’s 9th Most Dangerous Airport!

Only 9 days after returning from Austria, I was headed to Portugal (well, more precisely, an island 500+ miles from mainland Portugal) for my next race in the Skyrunning World Series, Ultra Sky Madeira. I had been tracking the weather for Madeira for months and was thrilled by what I’d seen: sunny and 60-70 degrees. Every day. I imagined the bright blue skies, epic views from the winding singletrack, and letting the ocean add a touch of sea salt to my hair, just like I artificially do at home with Bumble and Bumble’s Surf line of hair products (#notsponsored). However, like some other things about this island and this race, I’d find out that I had been blissfully unaware. 

Thankfully, I didn’t realize the dangers of Funchal Airport until well after we’d (safely) arrived. We were driving to one of the bigger towns in search of electrolyte tabs (long story) and drove under what seemed like a really well constructed and maintained highway overpass. Josh remarked “this is really nice” at about the same point that I realized we were under the airport runway. The airport runway. Which was essentially a (very short) highway overpass that dead ends… in the ocean. Cool, cool, cool. Don’t Google that one if you ever want to visit Madeira and are afraid of flying. 

Alright, funky airport covered, let’s talk about the weather. Sunny and 70 degrees on Madeira is a vibe and what that vibe isn’t… is accurate. Catching our first breath of fresh air in nearly 10 hours, the humidity hit me like a strong ocean wave. Gross. I woke up the next morning in our Airbnb in a cloud. Where is the ocean view? It’s raining?! A few hours later, the sun would pop out down low and the world around us would become a steam bath (but at least it was sunny?). The mountains never once fully revealed themselves in the week that we were there. My expectations for a potentially dry day of running on race day dwindled and my dreams of cool sunny days traversing ridgelines with ocean views were shattered.

Life on Madeira

Admittedly, I did very little research about Madeira before arriving; most of my efforts were spent on course maps and race related logistics. It is not a beach island. The coasts are rocky and the terrain is very mountainous and steep. The roads are narrow, winding, steep, and travel often includes several blasted tunnels through the bases of mountain passes. Everything was wildly lush, with a seemingly endless variety of trees, bushes, and flowers. Houses were terraced high up on the hills and I wondered how the earth wasn’t constantly washing away beneath them. When unobstructed by the dense fog, it made for a very dramatic landscape no matter where you were on the island. 

[a view along the coast from the base of São Jorge, looking east toward Africa]

We stayed in an Airbnb in São Jorge, a tiny, seemingly not so touristy town that was about 15 minutes from the start/finish area of the race, and actually sat right on the race course (about 20 miles in). Across the street was a bakery - and I’m talking ~traditional~ bakery, like where you go to buy your bread every day. Everything was freshly baked and the flour had a yellow-ish tint. On our first morning, a suave looking business man in the shop served as my translator to help me order my coffee. We were then offered a shot (it was 10am). In what does not seem to be a coincidence, all of the morning consumers of the alcohol were male, while throughout the course of our stay we observed a ratio of approximately 100:1 old women to old men out walking the steep hills of Madeira. I’m fairly certain that these women long outlived their husbands. 

All through the night, a nearby rooster crowed. Seriously, all. night. long. The days were more sleepy. This new, intimidating, humid island would be my playground for the next 4 days. 

10,000 Slithers

Fun fact: Madeira Island has no dangerous animals such as snakes, scorpions, or poisonous spiders on the island. There are also no bears. Unfortunately, I did not know this fantastic bit of trivia as I set out on my first scouting run. After clearing my first set of concrete stairs and some paved roads, I hit my first trail, which was literally a path through someone’s garden. 

[many sections of the course on the lower part of the island passed through property lots like this]

Instantly, the world slithered around me. I could see the lizards making their escape from my thunderous footsteps. I figured snakes lurked all around as well. My skin was crawling. I tip-toed, taking extra precautions to only land where I could see the ground and avoided touching anything hanging overhead, just in case. 

On this run, I had planned to go point-to-point from our Airbnb in São Jorge to the finish in Santana. It would be about 8 miles and around 4,000ft of climbing. I descended to the sea, getting my first taste of how unique and varied the terrain on this course would be. In addition to concrete steps, paths through gardens, and pavement, there was a unique type of path that was constructed on many small rocks that were not laid in a totally flat fashion and featured a rolling element. Not quite steps, but also not not steps? The best way I can think to describe this feature is as a rocky caterpillar path. And wow, do they love this kind of path on Madeira! When wet, it was extremely slippery. When dry, it was still tricky to navigate going downhill and get into a rhythm. My cadence never quite seemed to match up with the rolling pattern. 

[caterpillar paths]

A few miles later I found myself with a decision to make. The course markings, which had been blessedly laid out all over the course so far, ended. The two options to go in the direction I needed to go were a road or a large creek. I wanted so badly to take the road but the GPS tracks followed the creek, so I waded through its warm, slimy, uneven waters for what felt like an eternity (in reality it was an upstream half mile that took about 15 minutes). I mentally prepared for this to be part of the race course and tried to note where I could do more rock hopping to stay out of the water. How do you know when the algae in water is toxic? 

From there, I passed through what felt like an abandoned village, all the while staring down the wall of earth I would soon ascend. Concrete steps. Caterpillar path. A short but steep climb later, I had gone only 5.5 miles in just under 90 minutes and covered just half of the climbing (2,000ft) to the finish. Mildly defeated, I called my day here. 

The following day, Josh and I made our way up the mountainous terrain for a hike to check out the course's high point (Pico Ruivo). The prognosis for our day was dismal; cool and rainy. Fortunately, a short bit into our hike we could sense that we were very close to being above the clouds. The moment when we lifted out to blue skies was magical. It has the power to turn defeat and dread into pure excitement. The terrain was even more dramatic and trails wound through the hillsides. Fog filled the valleys. How expansive and stunning this must look on a perfectly clear day. 

On the final day before the race, I ran out and back from our Airbnb in the opposite direction of my first Madeira run. Less than 24 hours after that final scouting run, I would race 28 miles with about 12,000ft of gain and equal loss. Over the three scouting days, I’d managed to see a little less than a third of the course and about a third of the total climbing. This meant that there was a lot to be explored on race day. 

[views approaching Pico Ruivo - the island high point - as we broke through the clouds]

First, You Shall Climb ~7,000ft in 8 Miles

Early morning races are absolute torture for me. I am not a morning person. I never have been. And I’m fairly confident I never will be. So when the alarm for a race is going off closer to my natural bedtime than my preferred rise time, I am groggy. Josh took a video of me at 4:50am in the car. The best I could muster was a heavy eye roll. If I ever get back into race directing, my target audience will be night owls. 

But whether I liked it or not, at 6am, the race began as a blur of headlamps winding through the streets of Santana. The air was damp and thick. Rain threatened but did not yet come. 

[course profile]

After about a mile on the road, we hit dirt. From here, we would cover roughly 4,000ft of gain in the next 4 miles. I knew it was going to be a grind. I’d positioned myself at the start to be toward the front and within the top 10 but now that we were running and it was dark, it was hard to tell who was who. I tried to settle into a comfortable rhythm, hiking steadily and only running where the grades were gentle enough to do so, reminding myself that this was truly going to be an ultra effort and nothing less. The ground beneath me felt slippery but it was not technical for several miles. Once again, I was out here without poles. 

Maybe a mile or so from the first aid station (near the top of the first climb), the trail narrowed to technical singletrack. I was with a handful of men and we were all moving at a similar pace, however I was stuck on the end and was finding the effort to be a bit stop and go. I worked a bit harder here to get around and position myself to be more alone, just how I like my trail running. By this point, it was also quite misty as we were in the clouds and it was clear that it was going to be a very slippery, wet day. 

Coming into the first aid station, I felt good. The misty air kept temps comfortable for running and abated the choking on air sensation that accompanies oppressive humidity levels. A short while later, I reached the top of the first ascent. It felt familiar from the other day when we hiked here and I was able to quickly scale the boulders and descend from the ropes on the other side.  

In just about 3.5 miles, I would reach Pico Ruivo, the high point, but to get there, the course spit us down a steep downhill and then brought us back up on a backdoor trail that was littered with rope climbs up near vertical terrain. I’d known there would be some ropes like this from previous years photos and videos, I just didn’t know how many. This is where I got my rope climbing lesson. It was seriously gnarly and slow going. But also absolutely awesome. In the post-race recap video, you can get a peak at what this section looked like. 

[clipped in event staff assist with roped sections]

I hit the second aid station just below the high point and had another refuel from Josh. At this point, I wouldn’t get to see him again for another 9ish miles (there was one aid station between but it did not allow personal crew access). From the aid station, the race course cut across the popular walking path that goes to the top and instead scaled up the remaining portion of the climb through a jungle of trees that forced you into a near bear crawl at times. 

[weaving through gnarled trees up to Pico Ruivo]

Finally, I reached the high point. About 8.5 miles in, I’d already covered nearly 7,000ft of gain. There was a moment of relief. In some ways it felt like the hard part was over (silly, me!) but wow, I was tired (not great!). All of a sudden it seemed like the fatigue from Austria was going to hang out with me for the rest of the day. I needed to accept that and move on. I trusted that gravity would do a lot of work for me over the next 10 miles and that as long as I kept eating and hydrating, I would be okay. I would deal with the last 8 miles when they happened. Run the mile you’re in.

Then You Shall (mostly, but not totally) Descend for 11 Miles

The descent from the high point began with nothing other than… some stairs! To be honest, a large part of the next 5 miles are a blur. It was misty and foggy so you couldn’t see anything. Other than a handful of volunteers at some trail intersections, I didn’t see anyone. We went uphill, we went downhill. It was runnable, it was extremely technical. We were on top of a ridge, we were in the trees, we climbed some more ropes. I was actually shocked at how technical parts of this section were. And even more shocked at how poorly I was navigating them. This is my specialty. It was so much like the Devil’s Path but no matter how much I willed myself to be smooth, I was slipping and sliding and rolling my ankles everywhere. 

[the descent begins with a few ounces of coca-cola left in a flask]

On top of my choppy running, my legs were starting to cramp. I was only 11 miles in. But this problem felt very much mine to own. You see, I made an absolute rookie mistake and forgot to bring enough of my own electrolyte mix to Madeira. My recent order hadn’t arrived before we left and instead of seeking something else out before leaving the States, I assumed I’d just grab some from the race vendors as Bix is the hydration sponsor of the Skyrunning World Series. In Austria, they had a booth and I had used their hydration mix at the aid stations with success. 

Unfortunately, the scene in Madeira was quite different. Packet pick-up was just that - packet pick-up and nothing more. They didn’t even have bathrooms available in the building. We inquired about where to get electrolyte mix. Even just asking sent waves of confusion over the volunteers. Ultimately, it was suggested that we go to a particular store about a 30 minute drive away, which… turned out to be essentially an equivalent of a Payless shoes. So from there we drove to another town to a running store. There, I was able to acquire “Ta”, a French made electrolyte tab. The employee at the shop assured me Ta was good. Ta it would be!

TA IS TERRIBLE.

Fortunately, I had enough of my own mix (Skratch) to get to the first aid station. From there, my plan for Josh on refills was contingency based. If the aid stations have Bix, refill with that. If not, give me the damn Ta and I will literally drink the mess I’ve made for myself. 

When Josh gave me my first replacement bottle around mile 5, I was elated when I did not taste Ta. However, at the second aid station, the bottles I got there tasted like water. Maybe it was unflavored Bix? One questionable variable with using hydration from aid stations is you never know the concentration an electrolyte mix will have. Some aid stations will follow the recommended ratio on the packaging, others guess or purposefully dilute the product. Personally, I usually double or triple the recommendation because I’m a salty sweater. This is why having my own mix would have been key. It was a total blunder but I tried to not let it consume me. This is just something we have to work through. I thought of Courtney Dauwalter and her “filing cabinet”. What would Courtney do?

At 9:30am, 3.5 hours into my race, as I tried to navigate technical terrain in the middle of the jungle on an island some 500 miles from the closest continent, I fumbled with my phone and I called Josh (how cool is technology?!). “I’m okay but I need you to add salt to the rest of my bottles.” “Yes, literally, just add a ¼ tsp of salt to each bottle.” 

A short while later, I finally saw another runner. Unfortunately, it was a runner who was dropping out at the aid station just ahead; she’d rolled her ankle. 

From this no-crew aid station I had about 4 miles to the next one, where I’d see Josh again. The terrain that followed was wild. First, we had one of the steeper descents of the whole day. It was just about a half mile long but was probably a sustained 30-40% grade. It sort of felt like someone had just come through this patch of earth with a machete and declared it a trail… yesterday. It was really soft, crumbly black dirt with small leaves. So much fun to run down because you could slip and slide and just throw yourself at the downhill without having to worry about rolling your ankle on a rock or landing hard on any. At the base of that, you hit an absolutely gnarly, muddy, wet creek-like section where navigating through the terrain felt like trying to walk in heels on large circular boulders covered in slime. Finally, you hit two absolutely pancake flat miles along a levada (an aqueduct). 

[path along a levada; not the exact one we ran, but the same concept]

Some extra salty electrolyte mix in hand, I began the “urban” section of the course and braced myself for an endless amount of stairs. Fortunately, I was now on the section of the course I’d seen through two of my scouting days. Unfortunately, that didn’t make it feel any easier. The sun had popped out and it was hot. Without a breeze, the air was thick. I continued to run alone. 

Last, You Will Endure Painfully Steep Uphills With Descents Constructed of Concrete

At mile 19, the course drops roughly 1,000ft in a mile to the sea below. Briefly brushing by the ocean, an ascent of equal proportions begins on the other side. While I feel reduced to a bit of an “ultra-shuffle”, I am still moving forward; still able to run the slight ups, still able to power-hike, and still able to let gravity pull me down. Atop this climb, I reach the 5th, and second to last, aid station. Another bottle swap, more gels in the pack. 

[a very picturesque aid station location with some much appreciated flat, soft ground]

Before I get to the next climb, I must first endure the dreaded creek. At some point before the creek, the race I’m running merges with at least one other race. Suddenly I’ve gone from not seeing another competitor to saying “obrigada” (“thank you” in Portuguese) every 100 meters as runners let me pass. Approaching the creek, I notice that runners are actually going right across – elation!! Wow, what a relief, I had gotten it wrong on my scouting run. The course volunteer here sees me and yells, “Michelle!!!” We’d bumped into him on Pico Ruivo as they were checking course flags and he had recognized me from the local TV station where I was apparently briefly featured with my quick interview at packet pick-up. He then absolutely shatters my heart and tells me, nope, you’re going up the river! This special torture is apparently reserved for the 45KM runners. Through its luke-warm, slimy waters, I sloshed once again.

[my Portugal media moment; getting asked by a local news station if I was “going for the win”. (No.)]

[sloshing through the creek; slightly faster on race day than during my training run!]

​​

On the other side, I rejoin the other race(s). On a long gradual straightaway, I hear “CUPCAKE” coming from high above. Josh is on the bridge several hundred feet above cheering (and taking video, of course). I’ll see him again, and for the last time before the finish, at the next aid station about a mile (and 1,000ft of climbing) later. 

The next climb is long and relentless and there are so many people to get around. I’m definitely not feeling as fresh as I was several hours ago and I’m pretty much ready for this race to be over but I’m also feeling a bit of a rush being around other runners. Maybe I’ll catch someone that’s in my race? 

What shocked me about the last 4 miles was how absolutely brutal and difficult they were. One moment you were running down a steep set of stairs, the next you were climbing straight up a cliffside. There was no chance to find any kind of rhythm. My legs and feet ached from all of the up and down on the day. I tried to push, knowing I was so close, but I would get right to the edge of every muscle seizing and have to pull back. 

Finally, after something like 4 or 5 hours, I was actually running with one of the guys I’d run with on the first climb. I couldn’t believe it. I can’t remember if he caught me or I caught him but what I do know is it was nice to have someone to work with; we pushed each other through the rollercoaster of ups and downs, zigzagging through runners from the other races. He translated what a course volunteer was telling us at a road crossing. Obrigada, obrigada, obrigada. 

With about a mile left, it started to rain. All that was left was a few twists on some city streets. My aching feet pounded the pavement. What felt like a sprint was actually hardly more than a shuffle. Get. To. The. Finish. The heart overrides the body and the mind. One last set of stairs. 

“And we have now, Michelle Merlis, for the 5th place in the Madeira Skyrace.” 

[Ultra Sky Madeira Top 10 Women and Top 10 Men]

A Closing Note

It’s hard for me to believe that this race was nearly two months ago. Thankfully, hard days and long days also happen to make for strong memories. Even though I think I could have a better day on this course (I most definitely want to go back), I was really thrilled with this race and, overall, things seemed to be going so well. If you follow me on Instagram then you already know what happens next (so if you made it this far, you can move right along) but upon returning home, I got rocked by covid. After a week of being so sick I barely moved, our cat, Hudson, whom we’d had for nearly 8 years, died suddenly and unexpectedly. Back in Austria, I’d also noticed a lump on my chest and finally had an initial appointment with my primary. I’d been having a weird vascular issue in my right leg so I had an ultrasound to rule out DVT. That pretty much wrapped up the 10 days I had at home before heading to Peru (to stay and race between 10,000 and 15,000ft above sea level no less). It was unpleasant, scary, and gut wrenchingly sad. In Peru, I felt off. How could I not? A few days after we returned from Peru, I had the feeling that something was off, off. My body was puffy. I would pass out for 2 or 3 hours every afternoon, totally exhausted. I barely ran and when I did it was miserable. I was nauseous. Just the effect of high altitude? Long covid, perhaps? Maybe my iron had tanked? Fast forward through many more terrible feeling days, sitting in doctor’s offices nearly every day, and most people just telling me I just needed to rest because I had raced a lot recently, I finally got some answers (over a month after I started feeling unwell and a few days after my arms and face were tingling and numb with pins and needles and I had the feeling of being unable to get in a full breath). Anaplasmosis and several positive Lyme bands. Another bout of tick-borne illnesses. Just under two weeks on antibiotics and I’m already feeling so much better. The symptoms are passing. Physically, I’m getting closer to normal. Mentally, some clarity is coming back. 

I’ve felt so sad about not writing and sharing my experiences in Portugal and Peru sooner; it’s like I’ve been stuck, idling, forced to just watch life and time pass by. In between upcoming race recaps and updates, I do hope to write a longer piece about this recent medical experience. Partially, I think it will bring me some peace for something that has been very difficult but mostly because I think it is a story that a lot of people can relate to - medical gaslighting, a complicated and convoluted health case system, the need to be one’s own advocate, and the power of trusting your gut. 

Thank you to everyone who has reached out, listened, and given your care and love; it means a lot. To be healthy is such a gift and I’m relieved to be getting back to the normal routine of running and writing (the Olympics have been a wonderful distraction). In a few weeks, I’ll be headed to Soria, Spain for the Skyrunning World Championships where I’ll be competing as a member of Team USA in the VK and the 37KM. Stay tuned for some more action in the mountains and be well. 

It’s 7:30am and I’m at the mandatory pre-race briefing. It has gotten underway in a somewhat comical manner. They’ve prepared slides with different sections of the course with important details like distance and vertical gain. All of the photos on the slides feature a bright sunny day with clear blue skies. From the large pavilion we’re under, I glance over my shoulder toward the start/finish area. It continues to rain. It’s 45 degrees down in the valley; 5,000ft higher, where we’re headed, it’s surely snowing. As a result, there’s enough nylon in the room to create a waterproof bubble over the entire town of Maria Alm. The presenters give details on each slide and then promptly say, “unfortunately, this part of the course is canceled”. I chuckle at the fact that the race organizers have taken extra care to prepare an alternate race route (the “B course”) in the case of bad weather but have not gone so far as to create a slide deck with its details (note: the B course was also used in 2023 but I believe because it was very warm). Not that it really matters anyway because the race starts in one hour whether you are aware of what the course is or not. 

[Start/finish area for the weekend.]

The information that seems particularly useful in this briefing is related to what to do in an emergency situation. And the possibility of an emergency is not taken lightly around here. In order to gain access to the start line, you must pass a gear inspection to ensure you meet all of the requirements. This race has the most required gear of any race I’ve done: GPS watch with the course map loaded, trail running shoes (seems obvious, but they explicitly prohibit barefoot running and shoes without good traction), at least 0.5L fluid to start and a collapsible cup/flask, a rain jacket, hat, gloves, survival blanket, ID card, charged cell phone with ringer on and emergency number for event saved, whistle, and a first aid kit containing a triangular scarf, blister kit, small and large bandaids, at least 6 meters of medical tape, 1 gauze bandage, 1 wound compress, and tweezers. In addition to this, you’re given a GPS tracking device, and you must mark all of your gels, etc. with your bib number (so you can be DQ'd in the event that you litter on the course). I’ve also added a few items of my own: a buff, winter hat, waterproof pants, long sleeve shirt, hand warmers, and an extra contact lens. They repeat “the emergency number is 140”. I say this to myself over and over before ultimately deciding that in an emergency situation I’d probably have a hard time recalling it and instead take out my phone and put it in my notes. 

[Most of the required gear that will go in my pack.]

The logistics of race morning were simultaneously slightly complicated and wildly simple. On the one hand, my hotel was approximately 150 meters from the race start/finish area. On the other hand, the timing of the pre-race briefing/not knowing how long it would go and the cold rain made figuring out when to do a warm-up a challenge. I would typically start a warm-up for a race like this about 40 minutes out from the start but it seemed likely the briefing could still be happening, and even if it wasn’t, it would leave me wet and cold with too much time before the start of the race. In the event the briefing took quite a long time, I didn’t want to be left with no chance to warm-up. In the end, I opted to do a “back-up” warm-up at 6:55am; I went out for 15 minutes and then back to my hotel room for a complete outfit change into my race gear before heading to the briefing. I then hoped to get in another 5 minutes with some short strides right before the race start, which I was ultimately able to do. 

At 8:28am I tuck myself into the middle of the pack at the starting line. I avoid the instinct to count how many women are standing in front of me. I wait for the instructions I’ve heard many times before: 10, 9, 8… 

[Pre-race planning.]

Don’t be an Idiot (Start - Mile 5)

Honestly just really good advice for myself everyday. But, clearly I’ve already proven myself to be an #AmericanIdiot because we’re a mile in and everyone around me has their poles out. Racing with poles over steep terrain is common but I don’t own poles and have never practiced with them so I’ll be going this race as a bipedal being. At the awards ceremony that evening, the race winner, Hillary Gerardi, will tell me “this was a poles race” and one of the first things I swear to do post-race is get a pair of pole and learn how to use them (shout-out to my parents for their “sponsorship” of buying me said poles). 

In terms of what I actually meant when I wrote “don’t be an idiot” on my race plan, things are going well. What I didn’t want to do was go out too hard. It is (almost always) an easy thing to do: there’s an excitement in the air at the start of the race, your adrenaline is going, and you’re (hopefully) feeling fresh. Given the reality that I’ll be running for somewhere around 5 hours with an insane 4000 ft of climbing and descending in the middle, running too hard too soon could make for a very painful day. My goal here is to only run grades that I think I could still run at the end of the race. 

The first 4 miles feature two climbs: the first more gradual - about 1200 ft in 2 miles - and the second more steep - about 1400 ft in a mile. The first climb feels good. We cover a mix of pavement, gravel, and singletrack. The footing is solid and I’m in a long line of people that are moving consistently but not very quickly. It sort of feels good to be “stuck” at a slower pace. After a short downhill on some gravel, we hit the base of the first “real” climb. Some of it takes soft singletrack under the trees but most of it is through this strange rock/pebble not quite stream bed but also not quite boulder field swath of mountain. Every step is energy sucking. And it’s confusing. You think you’re going to be stepping on solid ground, but as soon as your foot makes contact, you sink, like you’re on a beach. Oof. I try to take the most direct path up and try to stick to hoping from one big rock to the next. 

I actually pass a few women on the way up, which is also confusing. Historically, I’ve considered myself  a much better downhill runner and a comically terrible hiker. Usually I will get passed on an up and do the passing on the downs. However, for the better part of the last year, I’ve been dealing with some aches that have made uphill work feel better than downhills and while I’m feeling 100% now, it has left me feeling a bit timid and lacking some of the downhill confidence that I had. 

Someone dressed in a winter Yeti costume marks the point at which we turn back down the mountain. From here we drop 2200 ft in about 2.5 miles down a mixed paved/gravel road. I look to my right and see the treacherous path we’ve just ascended and wish we were pummeling down that instead. It’s easy to run fast when you’re dropping 1000ft in a mile on a road, but it’s also easy to wreck your quads. I try to find a razor thin line between braking and trashing my quads and running too fast and doing the same. The women I’ve passed almost immediately pass me back and are long gone. 

Survive (Miles 9 - 11)

Apparently I don’t give myself a plan for miles 6-8 but it might as well just be an extension of “don’t be an idiot”. White blank space is fine too as it’s a good chance to recenter before the climb that lies ahead. Back down at 3000 ft above sea level we have our first aid station – I fill a bottle here. I’ve taken two flasks with me; one that was full at the start and a second that has Skratch powder waiting in it. At this point, I haven’t quite finished the first bottle. One of the advantages of these weather conditions is that your body isn’t screaming for hydration. But to be clear, at this point, I am absolutely soaked, a combination of sweat and the perpetual absorption of the unending deluge from the skies. There is probably more water locked into what I’m wearing than in my 16oz flask. 

From the aid station, we start to go up again. At first, gradually. Then, we cross a bridge over a large stream and the real climb begins, a beautiful singletrack maze of switchbacks. We pass a white and yellow hut and from here on up, I’m in new territory (I’d run up to this hut the day prior to get a sense of what I was in for). Over these ~2.5 miles, we’ll cover roughly 3500 ft of climbing and then come right back down what we went up. 

[Left and the hut and keep going up!]

I’m not alone, but I’m also not really with anyone at this point. There is a group just ahead of me; I work to catch up to the back of their group, hoping that some of their momentum will help carry me higher into the mountains. It does for a while, but then we pop out on a steep gravel road and I slip back a bit. 

We’re passing through someone’s farm it seems and there are sheep everywhere. It’s adorable. They all remind me of Hudson (my cat). Some have bells that clank as they crank their heads in wonder of what is transpiring around them. Mental note: maybe Josh and I should get some sheep...after all, he has been referring to himself as a “farmer” lately (the result of installing a set of sprinklers and then proceeding to obliterate our well. 🙃) 

We’re back off the gravel road and winding through a semi-technical section of single-track. The rhythm feels good and I feel like I’ve hardly noticed the fact that I’ve been grinding uphill for half an hour (maybe I don’t hate hiking?!). But I'm starting to notice that it’s getting colder. My mittened hands, which press into my legs just above the knee with each step, are pushing against skin that’s turning increasingly more red. Water squishes through the gloves and in my shoes with each step. Between the brush and the fog, there are glimpses of what awaits: tiny little dots move in zig zags through a blanket of white. They seem impossibly far away and so much higher on the mountain. If my words haven’t painted a clear picture of what this looks like, you can just watch for yourself! 

When I note this section as “survive” I’m not thinking of actual survival, more of a I-don’t-like-hiking-so-just-get-through-it vibe. However, as we go higher and higher, the rain turns to sleet, which turns to snow. The footing gets very slippery - a glass-like path packed down by every step taken ahead. The lead runners have been flying by for some time on their way back down - and other than noticing Hillary, who is in the lead (by a lot), it’s really hard to make a tally of how many women are in front of me, so I have no idea where I sit but I guess that there are less than 20 women ahead. The pace is regrettably and unavoidably slower. My toes start cooling and then my hands. The higher we go, the colder they get. 

At least you’re not climbing up a hot volcano in Mexico. As I inch toward the state where hypothermia becomes a real consideration, I find a lot of comfort in this thought. I’m also starting to do some serious calculations in my head about how much further I can go in these conditions. Fortunately I know that in a dire situation, I have gear I can utilize, but I don’t want to stop. Just as my mind is racing, I notice that runners who have been just ahead of me are coming back in my direction. Instant relief. (Note: looking at gps data after the fact, it looks like they actually turned us around a bit earlier than the route called for, I would assume because the weather was so bad… I guess too bad for even the bad weather route). 

I seriously don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a race volunteer. I am also amazed that there is someone standing out here. The wind is whipping the snow around and this person is pointing for us to turn-around like they’re near steps from the summit of one of the world’s highest peaks but it’s too dangerous to take those final steps so they’re screaming for everyone to turn back before it’s too late. 

[Somewhere near the high point of the race. Not sure why I am smiling.] 

Find a Rhythm (Miles 12 - 14)

For the immediate part of the descent, you could slip and slide in the zig zag path you’d just come up, or you could slip and slide straight down. From photos and videos, it looks simple, like you just glissade down but then you realize it’s actually kind of rocky and these snow covered rocks still move so you can either destroy your backside or you can try and stay upright and risk your ankles. Needless to say, the first part of this descent is not particularly fast but at least we’re headed in the right direction. 

Getting out of the snow and sleet feels like being thrown from a rocketship after an alien abduction. There is so much forward momentum and it is so much fun. The first singletrack section is the most like I’m familiar with in the Catskills and I feel very at home. Flow. 

At the bottom of the descent is the next aid station. I ran out of hydration a while ago and I’m eager to feel fully refueled before the next 5-6 miles because I’m hungry, not for food but for competition. I drink some of their electrolyte mix and take a bottle of that to go. I also have them fill half a flask with Coca-Cola, which is certified trail running rocket fuel. 

The Race Begins (Miles 15-17)

I can’t quite feel it yet, but I know what the 3500 ft of descending in the last 3 miles has done to my quads so it’s a nice change of pace to go back uphill. Coming out of the last aid station, we have our last big climb of the day. This one is “only” about 1500 ft in 1.5 miles, which means it’s more in-line with the kind of climb I can get back home on our steeper trails. 

We start up a gravel road that’s more mild and I oscillate between running and hiking. I catch a glimpse of a woman in front of me. It’s the woman that was just behind me in the snowy photo (Maria Müller of Germany). We’ve been back and forth all day and she has been very strong on the downhills. 

It’s time to race. 

The gravel road ends and we’re going up some very steep singletrack. I’m getting closer. We pop out of the woods and into a field for the last section of uphill. I’ve just about caught up but have to stop and get a rock out of my shoe that has been bugging me for miles. I fall back a bit. Then I notice Maria is stopped up ahead, confused on where the trail goes. There’s a sign at a cow gate pointing left, up the hill, and you can see the next flag, but I see the confusion, are we supposed to go over the gate or stay on this side. As I get closer I realize we need to go over the gate then up to the left. 

Throughout the course, there are a number of these cow gates. They come in various forms. A few are grates on the ground (we have some earlier in the race), a few are gates that you unhitch a latch and then push open, but most (and with a very dense concentration in the last few miles of the race) are like little step ladders with 2-3 steps on each side. Step up and over then down. 

Maria doesn’t seem to notice the steps and I’m trying to yell to her to tell her but instead she scales the metal gate. Only when I go through does she realize there were steps. As I pass her, I say “see you on the downhill”, thinking that she’ll for sure pass me in about 3 minutes when this climb is over. 

I don’t look back. 

Up here, I notice it’s a bit cooler but it’s not until my feet are trudging through ice cold water that it really dawns on me how much higher up we are again. We’re on a bit of a plateau in the trees. It’s very rooty and there is a stream running where the trail is. Where there isn’t water, it is muddy. We’ve also merged with other races that are happening at the event. The effect of hundreds of other runners having been through this section over the past 24 hours is evident. 

Another cow gate and I’m onto the final section. I’ve seen this portion of the course in its entirety as I ran it my second day in town (on a very nice sunny day). It doesn’t even feel like the same trail; it is so muddy. And these cow gates that once seemed like fun obstacles are now the mortal enemy, a weapon employed to cramp every muscle in your legs. 

Weeeee! (Mile 18 - Finish)

I’m so close to the finish and I take stock of the fact that I feel pretty good. Sure, my legs are tired and it’s possible I’m one more cow gate away from crumbling into the fetal position on the side of the trail but I feel strong and mentally, I’m not thinking about getting caught, I’m thinking about getting to the finish as fast as I can. 

Well, it turns out the fastest way to do that is to just slip and fall on your butt and slide through the fields across a muddy concoction on cow and horse dung that’s as slick as ice. The first time it happens without warning. I’m coming down a grass field just before the final uphill and my feet come out from under me. I land hard on my back and left shoulder and slide about 30 feet. Ouch. Wow, my left clavicle hurts. I hear the guy behind me take note of my fall with a “dang, that didn’t look good” expression. About 5 seconds later, I hear him go down. When I glance back, his feet are in the air and he’s sliding. 

The last two miles I’m around more people than I have been since the middle climb. It’s hard to tell who is in what race but I’m focusing on anyone moving around my pace. A lot of people are walking so I assume they are in a different race. With about 1.5 miles to go, we completely top out. No. More. Climbing. (Also, this is one of the most picturesque places I’ve ever been… on a nice day, of course). 

[A small body of water 1.5 miles from the finish with views of the mountain range we were in earlier in the day.]

I catch a glimpse of a woman that I know is in my race. She’s pretty far ahead but my instinct is to work to close as much ground as I can. I’m pushing, pushing, pushing. I think the gap is closing. We hit the last descent, a set of switchbacks through a field. I’m slipping but not falling again and again, and then I’m slipping and I’m falling, sliding, one last time. As I take my last mud bath of the day, I know I’m not catching her (she beats me by 39 seconds). 

With about one tenth of a mile left, I pass my hotel balcony. A small stretch of pavement, turn the corner and I’m at the finish. My first skyrunning race is complete.

[Last meters of the race and my hotel room on the right (Hotel Pension Pinzgauer Hof Maria Alm).]

Onward

Shuffling off to my hotel room, I feel that I’m the muddiest I have ever been; somehow I think the layer manages to protect me from cooling off instantly. I’m tired but whole. Other than my left shoulder/clavicle, I don’t think I’ve done any damage. The aches that have plagued me for months don’t exist. 

[Mud. Photos are hard to do it justice.]

After a shower, my next stop is food. I get something called “crazy fries” from one of the food trucks at the event. Pulled pork, coleslaw, and curry cream sauce all on top of fries. Five stars. 

My last stop of the trip is the awards ceremony later that evening. It kicks off with 15 minutes of a marching band playing. Instantly, I am convinced that all races need this. I’ve finished 10th woman overall, and while I consider “placing” a very subjective measure because it is simply dependent on who else shows up, I’m admittedly thrilled to be in the top 10 (a standard number of points for the Skyrunning World Series are awarded through 20th… and I’m trying to collect as many points as possible!). 

[Skyrace podium: top 10 men and top 10 women.]

The night continues with a band but with my eyes growing heavy and my quads growing more sore with every passing moment, I opt for sleep. Plus, Josh isn’t here so the chances of this (scenes from the closing ceremony at the 2022 World Mountain and Trail Running Championships in Thailand; worth watching all the way through) happening are low. But don’t worry, ya’ll, he’s off to Portugal with me and armed with unlimited data on his international phone plan. Stay tuned for updates from the other side of the Atlantic! 

Additional Stats for my Running Nerds

Shoes: Merrell Long Sky 2 (took a chance and wore a pair of demos from the Merrell booth)

Rain Jacket: Salomon Bonatti Waterproof (a few years old, best piece of gear I own)

Hydration: 48oz Skratch (16oz pre-race, 32oz during), ~24oz Bix, ~10oz Coca Cola

Nutrition: 11x Precision 30g carb gels (1 pre-race, 10 during… ~240cal/hr, not quite where I’d like to be but I’ve been using Spring Awesomesauce for the last few years (#saucegate) and this was my first non-awesomesauce race so even though this is the low end of what I should get per hour, it was obviously significantly more than I have been getting.), some watermelon at an aid station

First, I would like to make it clear that (1) my husband most definitely said this, (2) he did not actually poop himself (this time), (3) he approved this message, and (4) I debated the efficacy of this as an opener for an entire overnight transatlantic flight and then some. But, I am trying to be more authentic, and this is the reality of my life: my husband says things like this all of the time and poop is an unavoidable topic if you are a runner. Also, I’m pretty sure that I now have your attention (which, because I read books and listen to podcasts, I know is limited - yes, I’m an attention span expert), so thank you for being here (or, since this is your inbox, allowing me to be here?)

So what is actually going on?

In 2018, when I started taking training and racing more seriously, I had a handful of lofty long-term goals, one of those goals was to compete in the Skyrunning World Series.

Skyrunning is a type of trail running defined by the International Skyrunning Federation (ISF, the governing body) as “running in the mountains above 2,000m (~6,000ft) altitude where the climbing difficulty does not exceed II° grade and the incline is over 30%.” Basically, highly technical and steep races. The Skyrunning World Series is one of the ISF sanctioned circuits that has been around since 2004. The number of races and event list has changed over the years but this year includes 21 races on 4 continents (although most of the races are in Europe).

At the end of 2023, the Skyrunning World Series launched an application for a 2024 Elite Athlete Program. It purported to offer exposure to the elite athletes and provide varying degrees of support from free race entries to accommodations and in some cases travel support. Like many programs, teams, etc. of this kind, I applied, figuring my chances of being selected were low. 

To my surprise, I was selected. It felt like a sign. Maybe now was the time to go for this goal. And here we are. My intention for this year is to compete in the Skyrunning World Series (and, along the way, also squeeze in a Western States qualifier…more on that another day) which means running at least 4 of the series races plus the finale. Let’s do this!

First stop, Austria. 

Deciding which races in the series to do was hard as there are so many amazing locations to choose from. First, I ruled out the ones with recommendations that you “wear a helmet” (I’m looking at you, Minotaur) or have high alpine climbing experience requirements that I do not meet (Zermatt). Next, it was about picking races that could fit into my overall schedule (nothing before the end of May, are there races my husband could go to, nothing too close to Escarpment, leave some space to run a 100k, is it someplace I would be comfortable traveling solo, try to leave enough time to recover between races). And, as we all know, even when you’ve come up with a perfect plan, you can expect to have to adjust those plans (this is definitely a metaphor for trail running). 

So, first, I was going to go to Austria. And then, I was going to go to Mexico instead. But then everyone I was supposed to go to Mexico with could no longer go, so now I’m in Austria. Right on track. 

The race in Austria is called the Hochkonigman (“High King”) and is staged from Maria Alm, about a 1 hour drive from Salzburg and very close to the German border. It is a quintessential town that you would find on a postcard; perfectly manicured inns along the valley surrounded by deep green fields rolling high into the hills with cattle and horses grazing against a backdrop of jagged rock with snow capped peaks. 

[A view of Maria Alm and its surroundings.]

I flew to Austria via Boston to Frankfurt to Salzburg and then took a bus from Salzburg to Maria Alm (actually, two buses, successful transfer!). Upon arrival in Maria Alm, I was wildly sleep deprived, hungry, and euro-less because Salzburg was close to the smallest airport I’ve ever been in and had no bank or exchange booth. It was drizzly and the mountains were obscured by the clouds; I was surrounded by a world masked in gray. The forecast for the rest of the week was no different: rain, rain, rain. In fact, the weather forecast was so bad, that the first thing I learned upon arrival and connecting to wifi was that the skyrace course had been changed to the “B” course due to weather, “high accident risks”, and no-fly restrictions. After checking into my accommodations and getting a meal, I went for a short shake-out, covering the first ~2.5km of the race. Instead of starting to feel more like myself, my body felt like garbage and I felt a pit in my stomach. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should just get back on a flight and go home. I’m sure my cat misses me…  

The next morning, I peered out the window of my room expecting to see more gray, but instead, could see the mountains, the clouds peeling off of them as blue sky started to appear. My mood was instantly lifted. This is why I came here. After breakfast, I went for a walk, eager to just stare at the peaks and study the ridgelines. Every passing moment what materialized looked more and more unreal. By the time I went out for my run, running out/back on the last ~5km of the course, the world around me looked like AI generated images. 

[A view of the peaks where the race course will go.]

To be honest, I am terrified. 

The race (the “B” course) will be about 35km (21+ miles) with 2,920m (9,580ft) of elevation gain (and equal loss). Ironically, the “B” course is longer and has more vert than the original course. We’ll top out around 2280m (~7,500ft) above sea level. Looking at the peaks from below, it’s hard to believe there are even trails that go up that high. The biggest climb features almost 4,000ft of climbing in just over 2.5 miles for about a 30% grade the whole way. And then you descend what you just came up, which can be even harder than going up at such a steep grade. This is Skyrunning (aka, it will involve some very slow hiking). 

[Course map topo.]

From what I can tell, this race also serves as the selection race for the team that will go on to represent Austria at the Skyrunning World Championships (a single event with country-based competition, outside of the Skyrunning World Series, but also governed by the ISF – a post on this in a few months) so it should offer some steep local competition… and since most of the rest of Europe is also “local”, I suspect no shortage of talent on the start line. 

Sitting in town, my mood oscillates between excitement and fear. Will my body and my mind be able to handle the challenge that awaits? Only time will tell. 

Get what you came for. 

Over the next month and half, I’ll get the opportunity to race three times, “Part I” of a year of skyrunning. And it begins on Saturday. Here’s what I’m hoping to accomplish:

• Get more international race experience. I’ve only raced internationally twice before: Transvulcania (La Palma, Spain) and the World Mountain and Trail Running Championships (Chaing Mai, Thailand). Neither were exceptional races. Traveling long distances, adjusting sleep schedules, avoiding food allergens, and running courses I’ve never seen is tough. I’m hoping I can do more to figure out what works so that I can show up on start lines ready to really race no matter where they are.

• Practice this style of racing and work on weaknesses. When it comes to the skyrunning style of trail running, my weaknesses are plenty. But what better way to practice them than doing the damn thing? This is also part of what I think is so cool about being a trail runner. You have to be a master of so many skills. 

• Have fun and live the dream. Seriously, if this isn’t living the dream, I don’t know what is. How lucky am I?

Since 2018, I’ve spent most of my time training, and oh how do I love training. This year, we get to do things a little differently. It’s time to race. Actual training will be limited. Races will be the workouts. Recovery will be a job. Life will have the chance to be fully lived.

And with that, I have to go play outside.

[Can’t stay away from “the grid”!]