Chris Pretends to be an Independently Wealthy Running Bro

Here begins my Three Part Tale of abandoning all parental responsibilities for the sake of a stupid hobby…

It's "States", not "Western"

Look. A 100 mile starting line. Cool. Or whatever.

Back in December, Western States and Hardrock both held their lotteries on the same day. I'd been entering into the Hardrock lottery since 2015, and the last time I'd ran States was 2016. Roughly speaking, the math said there was a 50% chance of getting into at least one of these races, and a 25% chance of hitting the proverbial jackpot. And, well, yeah, I got into both races and drew the ire and jealousy of thousands of runners while simultaneously ruining my family's entire summer.

States is "flat" and fast with only 18,000' of climbing (really, only 15k after the opening Fun Climb to kick things off) and 23,000' of runnable descents. Oh, and it can be hot as hell. Hardrock is basically the exact opposite: 33k of climbing, at an average asphyxiating altitude of 11,000', with tons of technical trails, and half decent chances of being caught above treeline during "electrical events".

It's a bit tricky trying to train well for both, and, one could argue I certainly failed to train well for either. In the months leading up to the race I put in a rather respectable, for me, amount of mileage -- appx 60 miles a week. I put in some "speed" work ranging from marathon to tempo efforts, but not as much as I'd done in the run up to States back in 2016. I also tried hitting near 10k of climbing per week -- enough to give the legs a sense for climbing required at Hardrock, but not enough to inhibit any of that "speed" development. And I prioritized a number of long descents on the treadmill to season the quads. And in the weeks before States, I put in a lot of sauna time to get ready for the heat, and hopefully to also slightly increase blood volume and serve as lazy man's altitude training for Hardrock. Basically, I tried to be well-rounded in preparation for both races.

Hardrock was 100% the focus race, which relegated States to that of a tune-up of sorts. Even so, I had grand illusions of posting a massive PR out there. In 2016 I ran 18:45 for my 2nd ever 100 miler, and it felt nearly effortless. Everything clicked that day, and I'm honestly not sure if I've quite replicated that level of execution in any race since. But with 9 more years of training, I figured 40 year-old Chris should be able to crush 31 year-old Chris. I've long thought that my peak genetic potential and perfect race execution might yield mid-to-upper 16s at States. So I decided I should run somewhere between 16:40 (10min miles) and 17:30 (easy round number). As a backup, I'd most assuredly break 18:45 and set a course PR. I honestly couldn't contemplate anything worse than that. Oh, also, I knew for a fact that I'd crush fellow Team USA alum Jeff Urbanski at States. That dude was going down!

It's time to read about a humbled man!

100 miles. 600 calories. What could go wrong?! (Not pictured: all the shit Kristin would schlepp around)

Kristin and I flew out to California on Wednesday before the race and snuck a couple of kid-free days (thanks, mom!) -- hiking, enjoying dinner out, relaxing on a beach, etc. Good times. Then it was time to pretend like I wasn't an old fart who sucks at training.

Casual pre-race stalking...

The climb up to the Escarpment was sluggish, but I was happy to take it easy. Jeff outpaced me, which definitely bruised my ego. But I caught back up soon enough in the high country and flowed through the single track. Around Mile 20 I started feeling a bit off -- loss of appetite, sluggish, slightly woozy. It could have been a touch of altitude, but also, Kristin wonders if it had to do with me taking an allergy pill at the start of the race to combat some sinus pressure I'd been feeling since we got to California. Either way, I didn't feel fantastic. And then came the climb out of Duncan Canyon. My legs felt dead. I couldn't drive my knees. My quads didn’t want to do anything. I'd guessed that normal-me should've arrived at Robinson Flat at 5:15. Instead, I was nearly a half hour late. By that point, I pretty much resigned myself to hiking every incline for the rest of the day to save my legs for Hardrock.

I'm already done with this stupid race.

I was very cautious on the long downhill to Last Chance back in 2016, but this time around I had more confidence in my legs. Looking back at splits, compared to 2016 I ran the downhill half marathon from Robinson to Last Chance a full 15 minutes faster, and I felt just peachy. In this section, Tara Dower and I kept going back and forth every mile or two, which was a fun experience for me. She, on the other hand, was hacking up a lung from apparently contracting the Bubonic Plague just before the race. When I reached Last Chance, and then descended to El Dorado, I had a sense I was back on track and might be able to eek out a sub-18 for the day. Then I had to climb up to Devil's Thumb…

Mandie made me a sign!

In 2016 I floated up Devil's Thumb and also up to Michigan Bluff. Those climbs felt puny and pathetic. This time around I walked practically every step. My legs just would not let me run uphill. So by the time I hit Michigan Bluff, I was sure a PR was out of the picture. Then, a sluggish jog to Foresthill had me arrive nearly a half-hour behind my 2016 split. That felt like a gut-punch.

Not enjoying this...

Kristin again sent me on my way, and I humble-jogged down to the river probably a minute per mile slower than 31 year-old Chris. It felt like an eternity. Climbing to Green Gate, again, felt impossibly slow with legs that would not cooperate. I took my sweet time at the aid station and then apparently, based upon comparison splits with 2016, crawled to the next aid station like an infant. Somewhere between Auburn Lake and Quarry Rd, my headlamp, which was supposed to have a full charge that'd last 5+ hours, warned of imminent doom. I put it on the faintest setting and practically sprinted to get to the Quarry Rd aid station so I could beg for a replacement headlamp. I was mercifully given a spare headlamp they had lying around, though no one knew for certain whether or not the red light on the back might mean "low battery". That sprint to Quarry Rd felt exhilirating, my legs actually carrying me purposefully, efficiently for the first time all day. But the panic completely jacked up my adrenaline and I crashed hard on the way to Pointed Rocks, with that janky LED Lenser replacement headlamp which has the world's most poorly designed beam and had to be held as a flashlight because apparently my head is statistically smaller than normal design parameters.

At Pointed Rocks, Kristin gave me a replacement headlamp and I set off on an ambitious attempt to "save my race" and come in under 20 hours. But I rolled into Robie a minute or two late, then looked up at that stupid neighborhood hill I had to climb, and said "screw it, I'm walking".

I ended up with a 20:05. Lightyears worse than last time around. I honestly felt a bit embarrassed. I also distinctly remember apologizing to Kristin at multiple aid stations for how slow I was going. The day kinda felt like a yaboyscottjurek meme.

Just get me outta here.

At any rate, it wasn't all that bad. I had a number of moments on the course, particularly in the high country, where I was able to look around and appreciate the beautiful scenery (before plunging into the ugly hell that is endless miles of glorified dirt roads surrounded by dead grass). I also had a great time seeing multiple Team USA alum: Jeff (who I crushed); Chad and Jake, who were crewing Jeff and were popping up at all the aid stations; and Mandie, who was kind enough to make me a sarcastic sign at Last Chance (she gets me). Chilling with a bunch of Virginia peeps at the award ceremony was also a highlight … man, I miss the East Coast.

I also somehow still managed to pass like a dozen people in the back half of the race and still finish 21st Male (or, alternately, F14). No matter how poorly you think you did, it's always nice to keep reeling people in as the miles tick by.

And, I don't know if it was luck or fate or what, but the shit-the-bed performance of my climbing legs meant I wasn't wrecked at all after running 100 miles. And that definitely boded well for Hardrock … 13 days later.

The world's worst finisher shirt.

Here's a fun table of crewed aid stations and how poorly I performed.

Crew Perspective: Kristin thinks States is a clown car shit show. There's too many runners who think they're hot shit and need a 15person crew and personal media crew at each and every aid station. Robinson Flat and Foresthill are mad houses, packed to the brim with twice as many cars and people as there should be. Also, we both agreed that the pre-race briefing was the biggest eye-rolling waste of time in the history of ultra running -- I think they spent the first 20 minutes back-slapping sponsors. States back in 2016 was nauseating enough. Nowadays, it's firmly jumped the shark on custom-made UTMB water skis.

Intermission

 La - De - Da

Once the Meh Effort that was Western States 2025 was over, Kristin and I headed to the airport for a red eye so we could get home in time to watch our kiddo's dive meet on Monday. I relaxed and spent the day with the family. And then gathered up all of my shit for my solo plane ride out to Colorado on Tuesday. Kristin and I had bailed on our kids for 5 days, and then I came home for 30 hours to play Father Figure, only to turn right around and dart off again, this time leaving Kristin to solo parent for 6 days as I undertook the very serious task of … hiking and relaxing in the San Juan mountains.

Coming from the rarified air that is 600 feet above mean sea level, it's safe to say I was slightly terrified that altitude would absolutely wreck me at Hardrock. I was terrified of a DNF. Not simply because it was Hardrock, the one 100 miler I've wanted to do more than any other in the world, but also because if I screwed this up, got altitude sickness mid-race, and DNF'd, I'd have to start all over at 0 in the Never Lottery and likely wait another 10+ years for the opportunity to loop the San Juans. So, Kristin, the ever-understanding and ever-loving partner that she is, never once hesitated with the idea that I immediately go from States to Silverton to acclimatize. Man, I really lucked out in life, didn't I?!

I landed in Denver on Tuesday afternoon, around 60 hours after finishing Western States, and 10 days before Hardrock, and proceeded to book it to a campground at the base of Mount Elbert. Wake up at 600', go to bed at 10,000'! The next morning, for my first little post-States shakeout, I bagged Elbert with a 4 hr, 10 mile, 4500' hike. The hike up was slow. The air thin. The legs dead. On the way down, towards the end, I didn't even have enough in me to jog some easy downhills and flats … I was so tired I had to walk downhill! But it was amazing, and I felt nothing but gratitude for the opportunity.

Then, I drove my sexy Chrysler Pacifica rental over to Silverton to spend the next 5 nights sleeping in a van at 9300', in the abandoned lot next to Howie's house that he so graciously set aside for me.

I had no kids. I had no job. I had no responsibilities. I was free. 

I spent the rest of the week knocking out 10 mile hikes with 4-5k of vert, checking out amazing lakes and sections of the course, and reading and napping at 13,000'. I met awesome new folks, lounged around, and basically just had the time of my life. It was incredible.

After 5 straight days of hike-jogging at altitude, I'd netted over 50 miles and 20k of vert … the week after running States. 50 miles in a normal week is an accomplishment for me, so being able to do that mere days after a 100 miler felt rather incredible. And every day I could feel my legs coming back a little bit more, and my lungs better tolerating the altitude.

My family came out the Monday of the race and we spent a few days hanging out in Purgatory, checking out Mesa Verda, etc etc.

By the time that Hardrock started, I'd spent the better part of 16 days at altitude, spending 10 nights sleeping at 8800' and above, and taking numerous jaunts up to 12,500-14,500'. My body felt rested and acclimated. I was ready to go!

Intermission

Joy

 Snapshots of my first Hardrock…

Before I dive into anything, I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the tragedy at Hardrock this year. Somewhere just after clearing the first climb of the course, a seasoned runner at the rear of the pack collapsed on the trail. She was found unresponsive by a photographer buddy of mine who was out shooting the course. He spent the better part of an hour performing CPR until EMS arrived. Eventually, she was pronounced dead, and carried off the mountain. Some of us runners caught word of what happened during the race. I was already grateful for my opportunity to spend a day in the mountains, but hearing the news definitely heightened my perspective of the day. I soaked in as much of the beauty as I possibly could, and, importantly, I was patient with myself at high altitude … better to take it easy, enjoy myself, and get to the finish line in one piece for my family than to risk disaster. In the days after the race, members of the Hardrock family built a memorial cairn on the course, which will undoubtedly grow over the years as future Hardrockers pass by and pay their respects by placing another rock upon the mound.

Seeing Horty:

Rolling into Cunningham with ease at 10 miles, I had my first meet up with my crew for the day -- good ole Dr. David Horton! The day before States, Horty called me up, asked what my plans were for Hardrock, and basically said, "boy, I'm gonna come out and crew you!"

Kristin was ecstatic because she was relieved of any guilt she might have for not coming to any aid stations during the most looked-forward-to run of my life -- Cunningham is down a 4wd road and too early in the race to be a big deal; Sherman is too damn far away for normal people to get to; Animas is down a 4wd road that she wasn't a fan of last time we drove it as a family; Ouray would've meant driving the kids back to the hotel room 1.5hrs in the dark along the Million Dollar Highway; and Telluride would be in the middle of the night, 3hrs from the hotel. So, yeah, Horty was a life saver in her eyes!

It's not every day a runner gets to roll into an aid station to be greeted by a helpful crew who just so happens to be the first ever Hardrock champ … among one or two other lifetime accomplishments ;). It was, honestly, fantastic. I've run every 100mi+ race I've ever done without a pacer, and I've only been crewed a handful of times by my wife. So I know that I can tackle pretty much anything solo. I didn't *need* Horton to be there. But it was awesome to roll into the aid stations and see a friend like him.

Finding a friend, of sorts:

Somewhere around Mile 20, Amber Weibel and I crossed paths in/around the Pole Creek aid station. We were both 2 of, I think, 6 runners attempting The Double. We ended up going back and forth a billion freakin times during the race. We never really ran together, but we were always within a few minutes of one another. My legs were sluggish climbing, especially whenever I'd clear 11,000-11,500', but Amber was like a damn billy goat on the climbs, putting me to shame. On the other hand, I tended to descend a bit more quickly than her.

So for more than 24 hours we played this fun little game. I'd look down during a climb to see Amber gaining on me with ease. Eventually she'd overtake me, oftentimes as I was sitting on a rock, exhausted, during one of my every-1000-foot snacks. We'd exchange pleasantries. Then I'd try my best to keep up, utterly failing in the process, watching her get farther and farther away as we approached the top of a climb. Eventually, I'd make up ground on a descent or flatter section and overtake her, knowing I'd undoubtedly see her again in the early stages of the next climb.

I enjoy the solitude of the trails, but Amber's adjacence was an unexpectedly comforting and encouraging part of my Hardrock experience. I could always count on myself trying just a little bit harder on the climbs in a desperate attempt to keep up, and I enjoyed the thrill of the overtake on the descents. It's safe to say I wouldn't have had as good of a day out there had she not been around.

What my family does when they don't have to put up with me.

Lunch at Animas:

My first Hardrock was never intended to be a "race", it was supposed to be a "journey". So I allowed myself the freedom to chill at some aid stations for absurdly long periods of time. I rolled into Animas, Mile 44ish, after 12 hours of running (hiking) and the never-ending climb over Handies at 14,000'. I was looking forward to a nice little break for a few minutes. Horton immediately caught me as I came in, directed me to a chair, and said "hey, look who I found!". And out popped Meg Eckert, multi-day extraordinaire and team member from Big's last year! The three of us sat down and chit-chatted for a bit as I re-filled my pack and took a moment to eat some food and down some protein. It was one of those little energetic moments that made the day so special.

The Dark Descent:

I wasn't fixated on time for Hardrock, I just wanted to enjoy myself. BUT, crunching the numbers and looking at other people's finish times, I had this sense that I could break 30hrs if I tried really freaking hard and didn't run into (m)any altitude issues, so I drew up a race "plan" for 30 hours, knowing it was extremely unlikely I'd hit that given my relaxed approach, but nonetheless serving as a guidepost. Under that plan, I was supposed to arrive at Ouray, Mile 58ish, just after 8pm … before dark. Horton said that whenever he ran in the CCW direction, one of his goals was always to get to Ouray before dark. So Ouray Before Dark was my only real time check for the day, but more than anything I knew I wanted to roll into Ouray feeling good. The descent into Ouray is a more than 5000' drop, and I really wanted to enjoy that descent.

After leaving Animas, I took my sweet time getting up to Engineer, walking way more than I should have. I got to Engineer Pass, around 13,000', just as the sun was setting. The views of the basins and mountains in every direction were absolutely spectacular. I knew I'd miss my Ouray Before Dark target, but getting to see the sunset was definitely worth it. As I rolled along the descent, into the twilight, I held off as long as absolutely possible before turning on my headlamp. After the high alpine meadows, the Bear Creek Trail turns into an exposed trail hugging the side of a gorge. It's a thrilling trail in the daylight. Take a turn too fast, slip on some loose rocks, and the next thing you know you'll be tumbling down a 150' cliffside to your death! At around 11,500' you pop into the gorge. By that time the sun had long ago dropped behind the mountains, with only the alpenglow left to light my way. But I pushed on, without a headlamp, for as long as I could, trying to balance the need for safety against the urge to fly down the mountain. Finally, somewhere near 10,000', I relented and popped on my light and cruised the rest of the way down the gorge. All the while, the deep, black chasm to my left echoed with the sounds of the rushing water far below, and the steep mountain walls surrounding me were charcoal shadows set against the darkening night sky. It was magical.

Then, I rolled into Ouray feeling great and sat down with Horty for 15 minutes or so for "dinner".

Climb by Moonlight:

We were gifted with a full moon at Hardrock. And after Ouray is the billion hour climb up to Kroger's Canteen, nearly all of it on packed dirt road and OHV trail. I'd been looking forward to this more than anything else. Hours of climbing in the dark, with a full moon to light the way for a good deal of it. I jogged and hiked that climb without a headlamp as much as I possibly could, enjoying the night sky and the silhouettes of the surrounding mountains. And yes, at one point I tried to convince a dude and his pacer to turn their headlamps off. They obliged, momentarily, but clearly didn't see the wonder in it quite like I did.

Heart to Heart:

Learning about the passing of a fellow runner weighed on me during the race, all the more so because I'd heard that my friend Howie was the first on the scene. I spent hours with those thoughts bouncing around in my head, balancing sorrow for the tragedy and concern for my friend against alternating feelings of joy and gratitude for my opportunity to run in the mountains. As I neared the approach to Kroger's Canteen, a truck's headlights were bopping down the mountain towards me. I had a feeling that I knew exactly who it was. When they stopped to let me by, I peered into the window to be greeted by Howie. We spent a few minutes chatting, checking in on each other. It was a departure from our normal interactions, where I'm sarcastic and complaining, or I'm flipping him off as he's trying to take a cool photo. I was glad to bump into him, and to hear and see that he was okay.

Party Time:

The final climb to Kroger's is a super steep scramble of 500' or so, with a decent amount of snow and loose rock. Climbing up it was a blast, trying to keep from sliding down by maintaining 3 points of contact as much as possible. At the top, it's a party. A tiny aid station occupying a little spit of ground on a 13,000' rocky saddle, supplies packed in, rave lights all around, music blasting. Exhausted and thrilled from the ascent, I parked myself on a rock bench and immediately "ordered" a shot of mezcal. One of the aid station volunteers happily obliged and took a shot with me. Clinking stainless steel shot glasses with a stranger in the middle of a full moon night above the San Juan tree line. Absolutely perfect!

10 minutes later, after scurrying down the scree slide on the other side of the saddle, running across loose rock above 12,000', I could feel every little bit of that alcohol coursing through my oxygen-deprived system. What a rush!

This is The Climb that Never Ends:

Telluride to Chapman. Up and over Oscar's Pass. I'd seen historical splits and they almost defied belief. 27-30hr finishers often struggling to break 4 hours over a 10 mile section of the course. A single climb and descent. 4 hours. Ugh! I wasn't entirely sure if it was a 5 mile climb and a 5 mile descent, or a 7 mile climb and a 3 mile descent. All I knew was it would take forever. I was right.

I started in the dead of night. 4 or 4:30am. And I climbed well into daylight. At some point after dawn, Amber caught back up to me, somewhere near this weird false summit with a big ole post sticking out of the rocks. I stared at that post for what felt like a half-hour as I trudged skyward, fantasizing about the rest/snack I'd reward myself with once I reached it. And just as I happened upon my breaktime, I look back and am greeted with an entirely too chipper "Hey there, Chris!". It was Maggie Guterl, pacing Stephanie Case. I have no idea where the hell they came from (well, I mean, they came from Telluride, just like me), but they were cruising and I ... was not. I latched on up to the weird double-saddle-summit, and then Stephanie and I cautiously contemplated the "proper" path to cross a steep little snowfield, while Maggie, with her enviably fresh legs, leisurely hopped down the 20-30' snowy drop. I couldn't decide if I should follow along cautiously or recklessly, and incorrectly attempted a middle ground, got about halfway down, then fell back on my ass and uncontrollably slid the rest of the way, with that old, icy snow chewing up my right butt cheek the whole slide down. Then the 3 of us merrily ambled over to the actual summit, a full 3 hours after I'd left Telluride, and began our descent down a fun little "road" that a buddy of mine aptly described as "filled with dolls-head-sized loose rocks". Fun times!

The Grant Swamp Scramble:

Amber, Stephanie, Maggie, and I found ourselves tackling the Grant Swamp Pass scurry at the same time. Amber got there first, and the remaining 3 of us observed her valiant attempt at the "proper" route -- straight up. When we arrived at the bottom of the scree, we could tell she was starting to stall, and so we cheated and went on the "official" flagged route that zig-zagged alongside -- the course markers elected to coddle the runners with scree switchbacks rather than force everyone up the old school "proper" chute. At any rate, Amber eventually abandoned her heroic effort and scurried over to the slightly easier "official" route. And on multiple occasions I just stood around, a few stories below, watching waves of loose rock shoot past me as Amber shouted "rocks!" and "sorry!". After an eternity, I finally crested, placed my rock on the memorial, and scurried on down the other side, doing my best not to get distracted by the Island Lake views.

Lakes!

What a Dick:

After making my way over to KT, I began the climb up to the Putnam Basin. This section, all the way up to the crest, is my favorite stretch of the entire Hardrock Course. As you work your way to the treeline, you hike through a gulley filled with trickling snowmelt, little rock outcroppings, and green shrubs all around. And then you pop onto the basin and are greeted with a couple miles of alpine meadow you have to cross, with incredible views in every direction. As expected, Amber caught up with me and we tackled the final stretch "mostly together" (as in, she was ahead of me and I couldn't keep up), working our way up the 800', steep-ass, grassy hill to 12,000'. After cresting, I turned on my descending legs and gapped Amber like a desperate bro fearful of being chick'd. Knowing full-well I would finish, I finally let my stride open up and began running a respectable pace. In the final miles of the course, I blew past another runner like the biggest asshole in the world. She was walking, accompanied by some random dude. The moment I passed, I got a weird, familiar feeling. Then I turned around and realized it was Katherina, with Howie by her side ... folks I'd been hanging around for my whole week in Silverton. Instead of stopping to chat and see how it was going, like a respectable human being, I yelled something stupid like "come run with me!", without breaking stride, and continued on to the finish.

Putnam

I've got dozens of other little snippets tucked away in my brain, little memories of a fantastic weekend on the Hardrock Course. But these are the big ones that'll stick with me.

I love this pic! Running with the kids, Horty looking on (in awe of my running skills). PC: no clue.

Prince of the Prairie

 Lazy Notes for a Lazy Race...

Somewhere in Hell (a.k.a.: Kansas). PC: Mile90 Photo.

1) I love mountains, but there's a special place in my heart for an endless expanse of prairie. It is, for me, the quintessential American landscape. Only about 4% of the original tallgrass prairie remains today, a majority of it in the Flint Hills of Kansas. So, on the weekend of the 10th anniversary of my first 100 miler, I ventured from the fake Gateway to the West (St. Louis) through the real Gateway to the West (Kansas City) and on down to the tallgrass prairies of the Kansas Flint Hills for the Heartland 100.

2) Heartland 100 is old school. Like, laid back podunk old school. I mean that as a compliment. Compared to most races these days, it's dirt cheap at around $200. There wasn't even a pre-race meeting, you just showed up and checked in an hour before the race as if you were casually popping into a local 5k. And the race packet: 1 bib, 1 set of cheapo bib clips, 1 collapsible cup, 1 prairie/race themed calendar, and the world's cheapest technical long sleeve shirt. Simple. The aid station fare: unremarkable, but sufficient.

3) The course is an out and back that meanders along prairie/ranching roads, almost exclusively gravel, rock, and packed dirt. And while it is Kansas, it isn't "canal style" pancake flat, with around 5,000' of rolling hills, frequently topping out for truly breathtaking views of wide-open expanse. It's one thing to feel isolated and in the wild in the middle of the mountains or a forest, but it's another thing entirely to feel like you're floating, unmoored, on endless miles of open grassland with the sole sign of humanity in sight being the worn-down dirt road you're travelling on.

4) Race day conditions were brutal. Temperatures reached the low-mid 80s. And it's the prairie, so there's literally no shade or shelter from the elements from sun-up to sun-down. And it's October so typical summer training conditions that elicit heat adaptations are long gone. I tried to be proactive, but only snuck in a few sauna sessions before the race, and it most certainly was not enough. A little after 10am, the sun made itself known. I spent about 3 hours trying to slow down, fighting off heat exhaustion. I felt like I was hardly moving. I went from comfortably moving at course record pace (~14:30) for the first 50k to arriving at the turn around in 7:45 -- a 30minute setback in less than 20 miles. For the next few hours, I tolerated the heat better, but the pace remained slow all the way to sun-down. That heat plus exposure was the most exhausting race condition I've ever experienced. I'd honestly say it was worth another 5-7k feet of vert, meaning it likely added 60-90minutes to my finishing time.

5) When I first put Heartland on the calendar, I wanted to take a crack at the course record of ~14:25. But after Hardrock, I didn't put in very good training, and I gained like 10 pounds. So I thought, maybe 15:30. Then I popped my hamstring 3 weeks before race day on a stupid, pointless track workout and I thought, maybe 16:30. Then I had to run in 85 degree punishing sun and I thought, man I'm so slow and I suck so bad.

6) Just as was written, I got to watch the sun go down in a limpid, gold-washed sky and settle into the distant hillside. Though unlike Jim and Antonia, I saw no plough resting against the horizon, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun. Instead, I was popping a squat, taking care of some business on an unfenced field of tallgrass, admiring the view. Not quite as poetic as Willa Cather had once written, but memorable nonetheless.

7) After sunset, I didn't dare try and pick up the pace, for fear of aggravating my hamstring, so I continued to plod along slowly, walking every little hill. I frequently stopped, turned off my headlamp, and gazed in awe at the stars and soaked in a darkness nearly devoid of light pollution. I contemplated lying down on the ground for awhile, but was a tad afraid of throwing a cramp in my hamstring whenever I'd try to get back up, so, instead, just more standing in darkness.

8) As I approached the final turn onto the paved road back into town, I heard a train, doing its thing, a mile or two away. Then I realized we were heading in the same direction, and a train crossing stood between me and the finish line. I tried picking up the pace while I assessed just where the train was, and quickly realized I'd never make it. I approached the crossing just as the gate arms lit up and lowered. And then I stood there for what felt like 4 minutes, watching the train whiz by in the night. After it passed and the gate arms rose, I casually walked the final 200 yards to the finish. Stupid ass train!

9) My reward for a victory, in 17:15 or so: another buckle, a knockoff super bowl ring to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the race, and a decorative cutting board in the shape of the state of Kansas -- cuz yeah, who doesn't want a cutting board (my 3rd or 4th cutting board running award) to remind them of their greatest regret in life … having been born in Kansas.

Bling.

This cutting board should be blank, because there's nothing at all worth acknowledging in the state of Kansas.

10) Now, from 100% country roads to 100% single track -- Ozark Trail 100 is less than 2 weeks away.

Learning to Ice Skate

Shippey 2025

The world doesn't need another race report describing how I ran a lot, ate a lot, and complained a lot. Probably why I have a 1 year backlog on race reports….

(10minute read)

I thought this one could be fun.

The weekend before MLK Day, I took another crack at my local 100 miler, 10 minutes from my house, on some pretty sweet trails in a Boy Scout camp. The trail conditions were … performance limiting … to say the least.

I thought I'd give a run-down of the winter weather and trail conditions that we experienced at Shippey this year, to shine some more light on this stupid sport and what it's like to run for a long-ass time in the dead of winter.

The Run-up:

2 weeks before the race, STL got hit with a winter storm. Hours of sleet and then 4-6" of snow. All of the early sleet formed sheets of ice multiple inches thick, screwing up transportation (and extending Winter Break) for an eternity. Then, another round of snow a few days later.

A week before the race, a bunch of us got together to run sections of the course, frolicking in a winter wonderland of fresh powder. It was glorious!

The 2 days before the race saw sun and temps reaching nearly 60. Snow melted, water run-off was everywhere, and all that was left was dense packs of ice and crusty snow. …Oh, and then it rained the night before the race. …And then a polar vortex sent temps plummeting. Forecasts were for the wind chill to steadily decrease to 0 throughout the race.

Screws? Nah!:

At the pre-race meeting, a few folks discussed adding sheet metal screws to their shoes (or using yak-tracks). I quickly brushed aside the idea. I am smarter, tougher, more experienced, and cooler than everyone else, and I say that screws will be unnecessary!

Let's Make Things Unnecessarily Difficult:

In 2023 when I ran Shippey, I ran it self-sufficient -- stopping only twice, at Mile 37 and Mile 70, to restock my pack. For 2025, I decided to up the ante and attempt to run completely "unsupported", starting the race with everything I'd need, save for a planned stop somewhere in the race to refill water, as if I were stopping at a creek in the middle of nowhere during an FKT attempt. Spare gear and over 6000 calories clocked in at exactly 15 pounds strapped to my back. If I ran into a problem, my solution had to be somewhere in my pack, or else.

I strolled up to the starting line looking like a complete idiot!

Loop 1:

From the get-go, just before dawn, in 30 degree temps, it became clear the ice was thicker and stronger than I had anticipated. Despite south-facing hillsides being nearly devoid of ice or snow, there was still a surprising amount of slick stuff on the trails. And anywhere that wasn't south facing … woah boy! Everyone was sliding and falling constantly. The rain and temps had coated the entire area in a deathly glaze of ungodly slick ice.

Even in places with barely any ice on the trails, it was still treacherous. The RD likes to leaf blow the course ahead of time to help shore up the often underutilized trail network and make it more pronounced, for the betterment of all. But, it has a cost. If there is a winter freeze thaw cycle during the race, it can create a muddy mess on the trails because there's no leaf matter to bind with the mud. And this year, even the slightest fraction of an inch of ice now had a firm foundation of solid ground to prevent footfalls from cracking it and breaking it up.

For many stretches, particularly downhills, there was a fun gamble to be made. Intentionally run just off the trail in the hopes the ice was thin enough and that the underlying layer of leaves/grass/sticks/whatever compromised the integrity of the ice layer, letting you crush your way through it with each footfall, providing much needed traction. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes you just fell on your ass as you careened downhill into one tree, and then another, hoping, praying the ice would crack.

At one point, there's a particularly steep hill -- The Water Cistern Hill -- around 25%. It faces northwest so it never received enough sunlight to melt the ice and snow away, and it received head-on wind after the rain came down the night before. Slick as an ice rink. I could not for the life of me toe-in to get any traction. I scrambled and dove for trees alongside the trail, but kept wiping out and sliding back down. Finally, I gave up and pulled out my cheater poles in the hopes of gaining the tiniest modicum of grip. It took me an eternity to get up that stupid 200' hill. Perhaps the single most frustrating moment of running I have ever experienced.

By the end of the loop, my pack felt like a ton of bricks. I rolled in a solid 2min/mile slower than my Loop 1 from 2023.

I really, really wished I had screws. But I didn't start out with them so it violated my unsupported mentality. That said, a lot of people later complained that even screws didn't provide enough grip into the ice. Also, rumor has it crews bought out the entire region's supply of yak-traks during the race.

Loop 2:

The sun came out. I could benefit from everyone else who'd used screws or yak-tracks and ever-so-slightly ground out particles of ice that spread along the surface, creating a small bit of grit that the sun and wind froze into place. There were tons of ice scratches all over the place where other runners' screws kinda-sort-but-not-really bit into the ice on the prior loop.

The jeep road sections were icy slush, formed from the surface layers over the mud puddles being cracked and broken. And a lot of south-facing stretches of trail turned to muck from the mid-day water runoff. I only lost my shoe in a vat of mud one time!

Some stretches, the sun just made things worse. By the midpoint of Loop 2, I probably bit it 15 times in the span of 3 hours, failing to adapt to the changing trail/ice conditions. Landing hard on my ass here, sliding off the side of the trail there. After one of my falls, which capped a stretch of maybe 5 in a half hour, I simply laid there in a modified child's pose and treated myself to a little meal of gels and granola bars until I built up the resolve to carry on.

After 40 miles, I'd felt like I'd run 80. Every minor muscle in my legs was completely shot from all of the slipping around. My core felt like I'd been punched repeatedly.

Loop 3:

This was a transition loop for the trails in the late afternoon. Plenty of grit was accumulating on the icy stretches, but it was also peak mud.

A unique feature revealed itself on the Water Cistern Hill. Postholing from the prior week of course scouting and flagging left shallow depressions in the ice layer, like mini moguls. Enough runners with screws and yak-tracks had used these barely-visible depressions and carved out additional nanometers of the ice. Sometimes it was enough for cavalier steps, and sometimes it was still too slick. For me, the hill resembled a rock climbing route that I had to plan out. See that pyramidal rock sticking out 2mm from the ice?! Can you lock one of your shoe's lugs on it to get enough grip? Can you make it over there to the rotten log barely sticking out of the ice? Oooh, look at that series of depressions! You'll probably only slip off 1 or 2 of those this time around!

One section of the course has 3 creek crossings within 30 minutes. Bone chilling cold that would numb your feet for miles afterwards. The first 2 loops they didn't bother me. But by the 3rd loop, I would've happily spent 10 minutes at each crossing devising a complicated series of rocks and logs to cross over safely. Too bad all of the rocks and logs were encased in inches of ice! My neuroma was shocked by the cold water every time, and the next few miles felt like running on thumbtacks.

Loop 4:

Night set in and the muck started to freeze. Stretches of jeep roads had fields of razor sharp ice shards sticking out of the re-freezing mud, always surrounded by sneakily slick ice patches. There were a few times where I thought, "If I slip and fall the wrong way, I just might impale my neck and bleed to death out here … awesome."

Miraculously, most of the water runoff began to dissipate, and many stretch of mud hardened over into fairly runnable chunks of trail. But picking up the pace was always a daring proposition because there was still tons of ice littered along the trails and putting your foot down 1cm from where you intended would result in your feet flying out from under you and crashing hard onto the frozen hellscape.

Loop 5:

Trail conditions actually improved as the temps plummeted. More and more grit accumulated on the icy surfaces, and more and more mud turned to ice-free dirt. But the cold hit hard and I found my bottles freezing rapidly. I spent much of the final hours of the race persistently chewing my bottle nozzles, trying to break up the ice before it completely blocked the flow. With 2 hours to go, my nozzles were frozen shut and the liquids in the bottles began to freeze, too. My remaining calories were all gels, which froze solid. For the final 90 minutes I consumed nothing, save for whatever snot and ice accumulated on my mustache. But hey, there was a heck of a lot more runnable trail. Tradeoffs!

I'd break out the course conditions about like this:

• 20% runnable dry ground -- mostly the tail end of the race after the mud re-froze
• 15% mud
• 30% ice
• 35% crusty snow and ice that sometimes had enough grit, if you were lucky and stepped in just the right spot with just the right amount of force and momentum

Etcetera that no one cares about…

After each loop I spent 7-10 minutes to sit down in the Start/Finish building and re-organize my pack with the next round of nutrition. Reflecting the way I'd operate if I were doing a 100-150 mile unsupported FKT. It was good to feel out that process.

I spent 30 minutes on course not moving -- swapping gear, organizing something, eating, desperately looking for a way to cross a creek without soaking my feet, figuring out another way to strap those godforsaken poles to my pack so they didn't clang or get loose or dig into my side.

I started out with a nano puffy that works well in sub-30 temps. I thought it'd be fine given the lower level of effort required from the slower running conditions and the wind chill, but there was still plenty of dead-air hollows throughout the course, and the morning sun had me changing gear within 90 minutes of starting the race. For most of the race I had a mid-weight long sleeve and a Houdini wind breaker. Sometimes I had to take off the Houdini during the day. But I had so much shit in my pack that I couldn't simply wrap the Houdini over the pack to take it on and off. Anytime I needed to take it off or put it on, I had to stop and take off my pack. I'm honestly a bit amazed I finished the race wearing just a long-sleeve and a Houdini when some of the ridges clearly had wind chills in the range of -5.

God help you if you tried to get something out of your pack or open food packaging while running! After the first couple crashes from attempting to multi-task while navigating ice patches, I either had to wait for strategic locations on the course, or just stop dead in my tracks.

I usually love running in snow, and I have many fond memories of winter long runs in Shenandoah and Rock Creek Park in DC. I find it peaceful, the crisp, cold, clean air, just you and the crunching snow beneath your feet. But man oh man, I did not enjoy a full day on ice. I really hope I don't have race conditions like that ever again.

A Big Farewell

USA! (PC: No clue ... someone who wont mind)

 

53 hours into Big's, I was feeling amazing. I was back on the trail, enjoying the hell out of Laz's backyard, as always. A few hours earlier, I realized I had run my 100th daytime loop at Big's. I was on top of the world. I'd had zero sleep, but I just knew I could get to at least 72 hours, no problem. And after that, just survive each hour until I couldn't do it anymore. Piece of cake!

 

Slap-happy first Yard. (PC: someone)

 

 

But then, my bad achilles started to ache. The next lap, it was bad enough to noticeably slow me down. The lap after that, I was hobbling to avoid the sharp pain that occurred any time my achilles stretched or contracted -- basically, if I couldn't keep my foot perfectly perpendicular to my lower leg at all times, I was in a world of hurt. Starting Lap 56, I knew it was over. I didn't have it in me this year to limp on for 12-24 hours like I'd done in 2021 and 2022. I wasn't willing to cause more extensive damage to my achilles, again. As I hung back behind the rest of Team USA to start the loop, I welled up a bit, finally composing myself before slowly moving through camp to have my Goodbye Loop and finally finish OVER time, rather than quit mid-lap for a Did Not Complete.

 

The moment I cleared sight of camp, dropping into one of my favorite technical stretches of the course, I broke down completely. I let the tears flow. This was it. This was my last lap at Big's. After this, I'd be retired. Moving on to other running priorities, and streamlining my running calendar for a few years so it didn't always feel like I was being pulled in too many directions.

 

Running so hard. (PC: Frank Evans)

 

 

Little parts of my body -- inflamed tissue pressing on my MCL, a partially torn achilles, a strained achilles -- keep preventing me from achieving what I truly believe I am capable of at Big's. If those little 1 square centimeters of space didn't cause a problem, I just know I've got the fitness, the mental fortitude, and the ability to overcome sleep deprivation to get to 100 hours. Maybe not a world record these days, but certainly back up into the echelon of Harvey and Jon. But the last 2 attempts, it hasn't happened. Maybe sometime in the distant future I can give it another go. After all, I've come a long way from my 2021 bow-out at Capital from nearly losing my mind from sleep-deprivation-induced hallucinations. But for now, I am 100% content to say that my 84 Hour Assist in 2021 is enough. I'll always be a part of the story of Big's, a part of the evolution of the backyard world record and the pursuit of probing the limits of human endurance. And for that, I will forever be proud, and grateful.

 

After 30-some minutes of hiking the course, saying my goodbyes to each little turn, and tree, and awkwardly placed rock, I heard folks shouting for me. I approached the observation bridge where crew sometimes come to cheer on runners. Keith was there, letting me know they found an achilles brace in camp, a possible solution, if I could just get back in time.

Keith wondering if he's going to be randomly burping up mango 8 hours from now.

 

Well shit! Some things never change. Another year, another frantic sprint to camp for a final attempt to patch up a broken, failing body. I took off like a banshee, dragging my left leg along for the ride. All it could do was plant in place like a peg leg, as I forced all of my energy into the use of my right quad to drive my body forward. Hobble-sprinting, I made it the 2.1 miles back to camp just after the 3 minute whistles. My crew threw on the brace and handed me a pack filled with enough gear to last me until the night loops began. It was survival time at Big's once again!

 

But as I went down that damned road hill to the "virar", the strain in my achilles stabbed with every flick of my left foot. I might be able to continue on for a few hours, continually degrading my tendon along the way. But the writing was on the wall. Goals would not be achieved. Coming back through camp, without hesitation I turned to the timing tent and handed in my chip to Good Mike, choking up, unable to get the words out of my throat, unable to say 'thank you', unable to say 'sorry'. And yet again, Dobies handed me a beer, I told my little tale, and then I walked off, just another DNF on the day, as Big's went on, with me on the outside looking in.

 

Me and some old hillbilly. (PC: Frank or Sarah, maybe Alyssa Justice, who knows!)

 

 

I always bitch about how much I hate Big's. Mostly though, it's that godforsaken night course. That and the headache of abandoning my family for the better part of a week and trying to convince someone to waste their week waiting on me hand-and-foot. The trail is magical. The format is challenging and full of surprises. I enjoy the logistical challenges and all of the unique punches that get thrown, I even enjoy the momentary stresses of trying to problem solve in 3-10 minute increments. But most of all, I love the camaraderie of the runners and their crew. I love being in camp. I love seeing old teammates and trying to carve out a few minutes throughout the race to chat with new ones. I love seeing folks push and find their limits, cheering them on along the way.

 

Wish I coulda pushed myself to the limit like these awesome dudes.

 

 

I cannot thank Frank and Sarah and Brian and Mario enough for sharing their time with me and helping me to fail to achieve whatever goals I had. Keith was an awesome tent-mate that made for a fun and … interesting … camp experience. I'm still not quite sure how or why Kristin keeps agreeing to let me do stupid stuff like this, as I leave her alone for days at a time to juggle a stressful teaching job and a couple of rambunctious kiddos; she's an amazing partner who never agreed to any of this in our wedding vows!

 

Missouri! (PC: Alyssa Justice, probably)

 

 

For now, I'm moving on. The next 3-ish years will hopefully see me back at Barkley and Western States and the 24 Hour World Championships, and tackling Hardrock for the first time (as they say, "10th time's a charm in the Hardrock Lottery"). There are multi-day FKTs I want to tackle. And, regrettably, I have some asinine ideas about multi-day records that I … ugh … that I … want (vomits in mouth) to have a go at.  … And I may end up going to Little's for a while, just to hang out and casually knock back however many miles the next best person wants to do!

 

After that, who knows! After all, driving back home from Big's, I let slip to my amazing crew chief, Frank, that perhaps my Big's retirement isn't going to be permanent … perhaps I'll try to race my way back in for a team year in, say, 2030 (through Capital, of course) … probably all of the team will be new, and they'll see this rando in his mid-40s stroll in, wondering who the hell this guy is anyways?!

 

Brian trying to decide what to do when he didn't have to fill up one of my bottles

Mario and Sarah overcomplicating the race nutrition plan with "complex", bougie food

Brian, Frank / Heisenberg, Sarah, and others cheering me on, with Tracey admiring my uncharacteristically genuine smile. (PC: someone who wasted their time all weekend at an old hilbilly's house)

 

 

Oh, and as Keith and I were struggling to pack up our ludicrous amount of shit, we think we invented a new form of running to replace Big's for us. It's this idea where a few people drive to a forest or park or wherever to meet up and spend a few days casually running the local trails and hanging out by a fire at night. Less stress, less time away from home, and much less gear to pack and worry over. We're thinking of calling it camping. If I give it a try, I'll have to let everyone know how it works out!

 

So long Big's, it's been real!

 

All of this is required for hobby jogging, hiking, and attempting cat naps.

 

 

Katy Trail FKT

 

The calm before the stupid.

The conversation went something like this…

Chris: "So I'm thinking of finally running the Katy Trail."

Mom: "Oh, I've always wanted to bike it. I could do it with you!"

Chris: "I plan to run over 100 miles per day and not stop to sleep…"

Mom: "I think I could do that."

 

This is the woman who's idea of no-nonsense parenting could be summed up with the following catch phrases: "quit your bitchin", "tough shit", and, my personal favorite, "life's a bitch and then you die." Yeah, I think she's got what it takes to bike 238 miles non-stop without sleep!

 

The Katy Trail is one of the premier rail-to-trail projects in the country. A stretch of crushed limestone spanning most of the width of Missouri along the old Missouri-Kansas-Texas railbed, connecting multiple rural communities and traversing endless agricultural fields and Missouri River flood plains and bluffs. From the moment I moved back to Missouri in 2019, I knew I wanted to eventually go for the Fastest Known Time on it.

 

Somewhere in Missouri.

 

 

There are long stretches without any services, making a speedy effort particularly tricky. After a few loose discussions, the idea of sharing miles with my mom seemed pretty cool. She could serve as a "rolling aid station" and we could meet up every 30 miles or so for access to the next round of calories and gear. Have some meals together, take some photos, enjoy an adventure! Call it "quasi-self-sufficient".

 

Well, then my sister, Courtney, got roped into the works, on account of my mom starting to get concerned about the problem of sleep, or lack thereof. And the next thing I knew, there'd also be in-laws in an RV! An over-the-top crewing proposition, of which I had no intention of maximizing its usefulness. But if it offered my 69 year old mom -- with her engineered joints and a history of sleep issues after decades of hospital night shifts -- the opportunity to forge ahead of me a few times to nab a couple hours of shut eye, well, then I was all for it. Also, it meant I might be able to push a bit harder! Spoiler alert on the crewing front: my mom never once stopped to sleep, but we did get around 8 solid bouts of support, some of which may or may not have included a niece smearing sticky bomb pop juice all over the legs of an exhausted, crabby runner.

 

My mom ringing the bell to start the journey.

Fine. I'll waste some time and ring the bell 3 minutes after we'd already started the clock.

 

 

Fast forward to Mile 215 or so, somewhere near Who-The-Fuck-Knows, Missouri. Dead of night. Sleep deprivation taking its toll. I am wracked with intense levels of déjà vu, constantly. I've been here before! I've seen all of this!

 

This isn't your typical every mile looks the same kind of déjà vu. This is much different. At one point, I start to have … pre-visions. I am a precog in a Running Man crossover film. I know, for a fact, an absolute fact, that in a couple of miles we will cross over the highway we're paralleling, at a pedestrian crossing angled at 45 degrees to the roadway. I know this because I've been here before. Even though I haven't. Ever.

 

I inform my mom of the inevitability of future events. She has no response. And then, a couple miles later, it happens. Road crossing at a 45 degree angle. Just like I'd pre-visioned. My world is turned upside down. This kind of thing must have happened a half dozen times, but that roadway crossing is the one that really breaks me down.

 

Reality is an illusion. I must be dead. Is this some sort of after-life test or replay of my life? My mom must be dead too. Are we in Purgatory? Does god really exist? What the fuck is happening?!

 

Hours of nothing but this.

 

 

The crippling uncertainty of reality shakes me to my core. The déjà vu I can understand. My brain is tired. I can convince myself that something unique is just up ahead, and then I see a rock or a tree by the trail and think yup, there it is, that's unique, wow, so crazy! The fluidity of time is breaking down. Neural pathways are going haywire. The feeling of déjà vu can be explained. But not the foresight. I don't simply feel that I've been here before, I know what is going to happen before it happens.

 

And then, eventually, with maybe 15 miles to go, deep recesses of my brain open up and everything makes perfect sense.

 

Last year, Google released a "trail view" of the Katy Trail. I'd sat down and thumbed through stretches of the trail, particularly the final sections. I knew what was about to happen because I'd fucking seen it on the internet! One less existential crisis to worry about!

 

As we near the end of the trail, though, the déjà vu keeps popping in and out. And I eventually realize that while checking out that Google trail view last year, I'd also been trying to envision myself running the Katy Trail, what it would feel like running those final miles, straining to break 48 hours or whatever. And, I think, I may have even had dreams about running the Katy Trail. This all comes ebbing and flowing, memories and dreams and feelings mixing and conflicting with reality, getting stronger as the end nears.

 

Do I have déjà vu about shitting my shorts in the final hour of the Katy Trail because I've done that before in other races, or because I imagined it in my race vision, or because I dreamt it, or because small amounts of diarrhea and gas are leaking out of me in the here and now and my brain is so exhausted that it simply feels like it has already happened? Well, I mean, yeah, technically it did already happen just 1 mile before, but still, you get the idea. I can't make sense of anything anymore. I just need to be done with this stupid run!

 

My mom and I finish, unceremoniously, in the dead of night, at the Machens Trailhead, 238 miles from our starting point in Clinton, after 45 hours and 37 minutes of bliss and joy and peace and stress and frustration and cool breezes and oppressive sun and beautiful views of endless fields and midnight strolls under towering bluffs and, yes, even a dash of existential crises.

 

I stop my watch. We ring the bell to finalize our travels, and then we spend about 10 minutes struggling to take photos and videos of ourselves as the cold and the sleep deprivation and the exhaustion sets in. And then we hobble our asses another mile along a "private" road (that isn't private) to the imposing barrier local farmers put up to keep cyclists from accessing the trail, where my sister is parked, ready to whisk us back to the real world after our 2 day leave of absence.

 

What a stupid hobby.

 

Glad that's finally over!

More bell ringing.

Pretty sure she'll never do anything this stupid again!

 

Worthless details that really only matter to me:

 

Pacing strategy:

I wanted to attempt a 9min run / 3min walk strategy. Why? Because I thought it closely reflected an optimal 72hour effort and long-term I'm interested in exploring just how far I can go without sleeping or substantially compromising running efficiency, and I think it's somewhere in the 60-72hour range.

 

I maintained this well for 25+ hours. I occasionally skipped a walk stretch, or shortened it to 2 minutes; but a lot of times that was to compensate for, say, a quick bathroom break or a food stop.

 

Someone should tell them it doesn't actually take that long.

 

 

In the 2nd day, that plan disappeared to counter the unforgiving sun and exposed trail. I couldn't justify walking in the exposed sun just because my watch said that's what I should do. So instead, I did a lot more running, mostly to get to the next patch of substantial shade, which was few and far between. It meant covering more miles with the pointless allure of setting an even more massive FKT, but I was also tiring myself out.

 

As the sun set on Day 2, I started to struggle to keep the daytime pace, and it began to frustrate me. I eventually decided that I had to give up trying to maintain pace. The FKT was well in hand, and it truly didn't matter if I finished in 45 hours or 44, so stop trying to force it! It was a weight off my shoulders. I could finally start enjoying walking breaks at night and enjoying the stars like my mom and I did with Night 1. Except right about then my left achilles became noticeably stiff and achy. Yup, my bad achilles was rearing its ugly face again. That meant transitioning from walking to running was absolutely exhausting. It was less painful to keep running and limping along rather than limp-walk and then try to shuffle into a limp-jog over and over again. But it was also more exhausting, mostly mentally, to just keep running.

 

Selfies with the Missouri River (and a mouth full of food).

 

 

I didn't kill myself in the final hours, but it certainly was not a cakewalk. And the final few miles were filled with exasperated sighs and heavy breathing as my body began to sense the end and desperately wished to finally give up. It was all normal, I told my mom, as she repeatedly asked if I was okay.

 

Splits of note:

First 100M: 19:00

24 Hours: 126M

200M: 37:45

Final 100M: 19:15

 

Dobies-style chart showing how awesome I am at pacing

 

 

Fueling strategy:

I went for a fairly optimistic, for me, plan of 300cal/hr. It'd be split into 100cal of Hyle in 10oz of water, with the rest of my liquid needs coming from water whether that was 1oz extra per hour or 10. Then I had 100 cal of a gel or chews or those Spring wolfpacks or whatever. And then 100 cal of solid food in the form of belvita crackers, fig bars, candy bars, etc.

 

Organization!

 

 

And then a couple of regular meals each day, compliments of my sister picking stuff up from Sonic or McDonalds or gas stations or wherever.

 

Also, I tried to down 15-25 grams of protein every 6 hours or so.

 

The fueling worked perfectly for 26+ hours. Then the heat and sun had me distracted and my calories went down a bit. In the final hours of Night 2, I cut way back on food as my insides just wanted to expel everything out the other end. That also meant not drinking much of anything for the final couple of hours to try and shore up my stomach.

 

All told, I burned about 24,000 calories, and consumed around 12,000. There's no other diet on earth that can deliver 4 lbs of fat burn in 48 hours!

 

Smoothies and hashbrowns!

 

 

 

"Drop Bag" / Crew Plan:

	Mileage	Distance to Next
Start	0	38
Sedalia	38	35
Boonville	73	48
North Jeff City	121	43
McKittrick (Hermann)	164	37
Klondike	201	37
Finish	238

 

Deviations from the crew plan were minor:

My mom carried an intermediate drop bag from Boonville for me to take at McBaine (Mile 95), splitting up the nearly 50 mile overnight stretch.

 

We made such good time overnight we texted my sister to skip North Jeff City (Mile 121) and meet us later at the next location, Tebbetts (Mile 133), giving her the chance to sleep past dawn.

 

Missouri. Pretty much what you'd expect.

 

 

And then our Klondike meetup was shifted back to Defiance (Mile 206) where my sister's family parked their RV for the 2nd night.

 

There is one major exception to the plan worth mentioning, so as to let you know it wasn't all roses and rainbows. In the heat of Day 2, I failed to remember 1) that there was no trailhead / train station water access between North Jefferson City (Mile 121) and Marthasville (Mile 187); and 2) that even though we bought water at the guest house by the Portland station (Mile 149), it was 15 miles to McKittrick/Hermann (Mile 164). Combined with my mom accidentally misreading the mileage to me not long after Portland (Mile 149), I believed it was 18 miles between Portland and McKittrick/Hermann (Mile 164), not 15. I'd only filled up 40 oz and skipped my 20 oz handheld because I had used it all of Day 1 and it was entirely superfluous and unnecessary then, with the water access at practically every station on the western half of the trail. In the heat, I began to panic … and get pissed off at Missouri State Parks shitty lack of funding allocation (seriously, how hard is it to install a couple of seasonal water fountains at your premier trail's trailheads?). There'd be no way I'd make it anywhere close to McKittrick. I'd be out of water long before that, and screwed. My mom had plenty of water and offered me some, but with my sun-baked brain I firmly refused. I was fine accepting water at one of our "aid stations", but taking it from her in the middle of nowhere was tantamount to muling, and I pull my own weight! She texted my sister and at some point, on a random intersecting road, I bumped into my niece sprinting down the trail with an ice cold water bottle in hand … a trail angel sent to save my day! My pity-party crabbiness is all rather amusing in hindsight, given that it could have all been avoided if 1) I'd just used a 3rd bottle, or 2) I'd memorized it was 15 miles between train stations, not 18.

 

A trail angel delivering much needed water.

 

 

Gear:

I started with Craft Nordlite Ultras. I really like how cushy these shoes are, even if they are 10+ ounces. They're like running on clouds! Except. Well, their engineers have gone with the new shoe trend of making stupid stiff plastic tongues that end up jabbing into the crook of your foot. This isn't something you really notice in normal running, but after a dozen plus hours, it gets to the point that it starts causing inflammation.

 

At Mile 133, I switched to Saucony Endorphin Pros, which are my favorite shoe of all time. They're meant for speedier running like lameo road marathons, but my feet never seem to mind 100+ miles on them. When I swapped shoes I accidentally picked up the pace to well over 6mph until the next train station. I was flying!

 

5-10lbs on my back at all times (I left the remote in the hotel room though).

 

 

I used my Suunto 9 watch and had tested a setup that was supposed to last 63 hours. A 6hr training run confirmed the battery drain rate. But 34 hours into the Katy Trail, my watch let me know I only had 4 hours left, and that switching to the crappiest update rate would only earn me 11 more hours, which was unlikely to get me to the finish. I hastily began recording on my phone's Strava app. My mom also called in my sister for an emergency meetup to bring a charger and power brick -- also, dusk was approaching and she'd forgotten to pack enough clothes to stay warm for the night, which was kind of important. When we met right around sunset, I was already over the run and ready to be done. I was crabby as hell. My sister gave me the charger for the watch but I refused to look her in the eye and grumbled that she shouldn't even be here, this wasn't part of the plan, this is unnecessary, I have my phone for a backup. And then the damn watch kept getting stuck in a stupid calibration loop when I tried connecting it to the charger, forcing me to wildly swing the hunk of crap in big figure 8s over and over again. I struggled with this for what felt like an eternity, all while stubbornly refusing anyone's help. Then I grumpily jogged on down the trail to begin the longest 10 hours of running of my life.

 

I also had a Garmin inReach Messenger to send a ping every 10 minutes so that my family could keep track of our progress. That worked like a charm.

 

For a solid hour to start Night 2, I kept looking at my watch and only 1 minute would pass (or, worse, I'd think that surely 5 minutes went by and come to find less than 60 seconds had elapsed since I last looked). Time slowed to a halt. Caffeine didn't help. A little bit of chatting with my mom barely made a dent. I finally relented and threw on some headphones. Music was a lifesaver.

 

Dead time:

At roughly Mile 15, I came upon my mom, with her bike flipped over. She had a flat. Already! The tires were pretty new and stiff, so it took us the better part of 15 minutes to change her tube (it didn't help that her shifters weren't responding and we couldn't get the chain to run down the cassette).

 

In Boonville, the trail no longer goes across the old railroad bridge, instead it winds through the town to the highway bridge. In the dark, I missed the terribly marked turn and went on to the dead-end bridge, wasting 10 minutes.

 

"Warning. Danger. Bridge Up. Do Not Go Beyond This Point." ... Does this mean I made a wrong turn?!

 

 

Then, immediately afterwards, I spent 20 minutes chilling at a gas station while my mom got her affairs in order for the long stretch of night ahead of us.

 

A couple other un-rushed stops and photo ops probably resulted in 60+ minutes of "lost time".

 

Relative Stupidity:

When I moved to St. Louis in 2019 the Katy FKT was above 72 hours. Denise Bourassa dropped that down to 70:22 in 2021. I don't want to come off as smug … but at 45:37, I think the record will still be in place when I die. Now, somebody go out there and prove me wrong! (nobody will, because that's a terrible idea and people have better things to do with their time)

 

If I had continued on to 48 hours, there's a half decent chance I would've hit 250 miles. That would've been enough to place me 3rd all-time among US men (if the Katy Trail were a certified course and a certified race … which it isn't). I'm starting to get confident that I just might have it in me for a push at the American Record of 270.6, and become #2 all time in the world. If I can accomplish that, then maybe I can finally stop all of this stupid flat running that keeps wrecking my achilles, and go enjoy some forests and mountains!

 

Memories or whatever:

I can't decide how much more enjoyable it would have been if we'd gone at a slower pace and tried to enjoy Day 2 a bit more with a couple of café stops and things like that. But on the other hand, Night 2 felt like a death march trying to get to the finish, and I really don't want to imagine having spent extra hours out there.

 

My niece making sure I was properly applying lube to my toes.

 

 

Seeing my sister occasionally on Day 1 was pretty cool, and then her family on the morning of Day 2. It was such an easy going day+. I was in a good mood, all was right with the world. I wish I'd tried to be more positive on Day 2 though.

 

I don't think my mom and I will look back on this adventure in the years to come and think "Wow, what a great way to bond. Family is the best!" It'll probably be more like "why the hell did we do that?" and "man, Chris can be a grouchy asshole when he runs". Either way, I'm super proud of what my mom accomplished. I'd venture to guess no one her age has ever completed the trail in that amount of time. Pretty freakin awesome!

 

Who's dumber? The idiots biking and running across the state, or the person who agreed to help them?

 

 

But, here are the good memories I have of the adventure:

• Unexpectedly bumping into Courtney along the trail in the early hours
• A nearly 4 mile stretch on Day 1 with prairie restoration on either side of the trail -- random bits of tallgrass and wild flowers, and milkweed, randomly interspersed with sumac (and absurd amounts of ragweed), separating the trail from fields of corn, soybean, and fallow -- exploding with birds and sounds of crickets and grasshoppers that freely bounced to and fro (sometimes viciously attacking me). The whole time you could see your destination off in the distance, as you approached the High Point of the Katy Trail.
• Sonic for lunch in Sedalia
• The incredible starry night sky as we meandered through the river bottom between Boonville and Rocheport
• Hours of nighttime running, framed by river bluffs on our left and the Missouri River to our right
• The absurdity of me and my mom trying to operate our cameras at the finish in the dead of night

 

 

 

 

Parting Thoughts:

 

Cocodona 250		Katy Trail 238
$1600	Entry Fee	$0
>$300 flight	Travel Cost	$34 train ticket
Hot exposed dry desert	Scenery	Hot exposed farmland
A buckle I'll never wear	Swag	Rocks in my shoe
+40K	Vert	0K
Would probably have to put up with Sensemen	Crewing/Pacing	Whatever I wanted
5+ days	Time away from Family	2.5 days
According to website, yes.	Life altering?	Debatable

 

(Most photos courtesy of The Red-Headed Step Child, aka: my little sister.)