Big's Backyard Ultra 2022

Sweh photo! PC: Howie Stern

 

Have you ever torn your achilles while taking a dump? Well, I sure as shit have! … At a world championship sporting event no less. I'm really working on that Legendary status in the world of ultra running. ... We'll get to that in a moment ...

 

First and foremost, I want to give a shout-out to the rest of the Team USA runners, their crew, the timing staff, the Jeer Squad, the various behind-the-scenes folks like the media organizers and photographers, the other teams and organizers around the world, as well as everyone at home who followed along. As a Team Championship event, I was so incredibly proud to be a part of Team USA, grateful for the opportunity to represent my country (even though it was for an oddball fringe sport), and, above all, beyond ecstatic when we secured the Team Title.

 

Early miles with one cool dude (Keith of the Island with Holes?) and one badass lady (Jennifer Russo). PC: Howie Stern

 

My 2021 exploits are … infamous -- a failing knee somewhere around Hour 63 that eventually was held together with random bits of sports wrap until I finally relented and quit with the assist after Hour 84. After the race, I injured my "bad" hip and most of the last year has been spent trying to keep that problem at bay, but at least the knee got better. Training has been lackluster, races have been nothing but failure after failure, I got COVID again, and also a chest cold that was just as rough as COVID. Oh, and I got a Morton's neuroma flare-up a few weeks before the race, and scheduled an emergency cortisone shot for the Tuesday before the race. So yeah, not ideal conditions to compete at Bigs. That said, I think overall fitness and speed aren't nearly as important as 1) prior experience, 2) understanding how your body is affected by sleep deprivation, 3) level-headedness, and 4) stubborn persistence. Despite the crappy training and signs pointing to a possible shit-show, I still very much felt that I could suffer my way to 100 hours if need be, and planned accordingly. That's right, I wasn't anywhere near tip-top shape and yet thought to myself "400 miles? yeah, sure, that seems totally reasonable!"

 

My goals were fairly simple:

1. Team USA Victory
2. Go until my body quits

 

Action Shot! PC: Keith Knipling

 

So lets cut right to the whole body quitting part. During the 48th hour, while we were on our final Night 2 road lap, I had the urge to go to the bathroom, but didn’t want to wait 30 minutes to get back to the portapottys at camp. So, like nearly all of us have done on multiple occasions before (and since), I hopped into the ditch, walked a few paces over to the tree line, squatted down, and did what needed to be done. Afterwards, I started to stand up and heard/felt a sharp, painful pop coming from my right achilles just above the insertion point into the heel. Swelling in the ankle was almost instantaneous and my calf seized up. Teammate Jason Bigonia was running by right as it happened and commented that it looked like I was trying to "lift a bathtub" by myself. I started clunkily running to the turnaround point, and was somehow able to get back to camp in a decent time.

 

Is Howie trying to snap a pic of me? Better look away like I'm too cool. PC: Howie Stern

My crew chief, Jack, did a hell of a job wrapping the ankle up to keep it secure, and then he sent me off to begin the first trail loop of Day 3. I was noticeably slower, but found the right effort-level to get in just before the 3 minute warning for the next lap. This was repeated another 10 times. The effort-level slightly ratcheting up each time just to pump out the same nail-bitting attempt at a 56-and-change lap time. Usually, another 4 or so team members were in my immediate vicinity the whole time, and I did my best to keep hitting the same checkpoint times so we could all keep making it in hour after hour.

 

Lubin' up them toes. There's your money shot, Squirrel's Nut Butter! PC: Howie Stern

 

Then I went out on the first Night 3 road loop and started to mentally prep for chasing down 72 hours. But that 60th lap was incredibly slow, and the achilles area was in a good bit of pain. The footfall and stride pattern for the road was much different than the trail, and it was really aggravating the popped achilles. What should've been an easy 48min loop was a 55minute struggle. Pain in my left MCL was starting to appear -- a very similar feeling to the dead right knee of 2021, and something that briefly popped up during Night 1 -- likely due to the slight limp/hobble caused by the achilles injury. So I had Jack wrap my knee to stabilize it, just to be safe. He helped me out to the corral and when he let go of my arm, I nearly collapsed, unable to bear weight on my right foot. I'm not sure if he caught me or I somehow caught myself, but I genuinely thought I was going to fall straight to the ground mere seconds before the bell rang.

 

"Howie, I'm exhausted! Leave me alone and stop trying to take pics of my sweet mustache." PC: Howie Stern

I slowly hobbled out of the corral and started the turn away from camp and down the road. I tried to shuffle into a jog but my right foot just wasn't doing anything. I couldn't jog, I couldn't even power walk. I hobbled for a few moments, then broke down crying as I watched the rest of Team USA journey on into the night. In 2021, I was at peace with throwing in the towel after 84 hours of running -- Harvey and I had broken new ground and the future was full of potential. When the realization that I couldn't go on washed over me this year, I felt a deep mix of sadness, loneliness, and despair. I wanted more from myself. I wanted more for my team.

 

Once I composed myself, I tried to get down the course as far as I could, in a last-ditch effort to keep going. I had a goal to make it to the 1 Mile marker as fast as I could, check my time, and assess from there. But at 0.5 Miles I got disheartened and checked my watch -- over 15 minutes had flown by. I sat down and proceeded to rip the wrapping away from my knee and my ankle, hoping that would give me more mobility somehow. I peeked at my ankle/achilles area and the entire ankle was engulfed in fluid. I limp-hobbled another 100 yards, stared off into the distance where the 1 Mile marker was, then sat down again in frustration.

 

After a few more tears, I picked my sorry ass up off the asphalt, turned around, and headed back to camp. When I got to the top of the hill near the final turn back into camp, I stopped and laid down, then patiently waited for the remaining members of the team to stroll by so I could cheer them on. Once the next lap started, I stood outside Laz's driveway and greeted everyone that remained, offering well-wishes with a lump in my throat. Then it was off to the timing tent to hand in my tracker.

 

Receiving my Quitter Coin. PC: Keith Knipling

 

After everything was said and done, I went to my foot doc within an hour of getting home, and he confirmed there is a divot in my achilles where it presumably burst. An MRI is pending, but we're expecting it to show roughly 50% of the tissue torn -- enough for an extended stretch of recovery and rehab, but not enough to warrant the added complications of surgery. So I'll be hobbling around in a boot for the next 4-8 weeks and working through an absurd amount of physical therapy to encourage proper regrowth of the tendon and build back functional strength. Maybe I'll progress fast enough to make it to Hellgate in December -- my all-time favorite race -- but then again, maybe I won't. It's undoubtedly safer to just plan to miss it. But coming to accept that is … devastating.

 

This is what happens when you get old and don't incorporate enough strength and stretching into your training...

If I said I was satisfied with how Big's turned out this year, I'd be lying. But I was honored to be a part of Team USA, and thankful to have made meaningful contributions to our team victory. I'll happily take team success over an individual PR. So, perhaps, I am content with how things shook out. It feels good to be World Champions alongside those other 14 incredible athletes whom I shared endless miles with in that little corner of the world known as Laz's Backyard.

 

Thanks to my wife for holding down the fort at home and juggling, quite frankly, an unfair share of work and parenting duties. Thanks to Jack for being in my corner yet again. And thanks to the handful of VHTRC folks at the race who made it feel like the good ole days of racing in Virginia.

 

Relaxing in the early hours of the race. PC: Keith Knipling

Showing eventual winner Piotr Chadovich how it's done. PC: Howie Stern

Confab with the crew chief (probably me bitching about how I don't want to eat anything). PC: Howie Stern

So afraid of cutoffs with the janky achilles that I donned a hydration vest to run multiple hours non-stop if need be. PC: Keith Knipling

Just a couple of photography nerds shooting the shit by the shitter. PC: me

 

Bighorn Bungle

Choking on green phlegm with bits of chewed up ramen noodles. This is how I will remember Bighorn 2022. Yummy!

Beautiful Bighorn scenery. Not pictured: me, on the verge of death.

 

My training had been lackluster ever since Big's, 8 months prior. A hip issue had a lot to do with that. But so did life, and my predilection towards sleeping in and skipping workouts. So dreams of a podium evaporated well before race day.

Then there was the heat. 98 degrees for a high in Sheridan, WY. I did zero heat training ahead of the race.

And the altitude. I've never really "felt" the impact of altitude below 10,000', but there's a first time for everything!

 

So, I was going into a mountain 100, at altitude, in the searing heat, with sub-optimal training. Not ideal!

 

Oh, and the days before the race I had a sore throat which developed into a wet cough the night before the race, forcing me to get up multiple times in the night to hack phlegm into the bathroom sink. So … yay!

 

On the one hand, I really had no business being at Bighorn. Everything pointed towards a sufferfest. But, on the other hand, I DNF'd Hellbender 6 weeks prior (attempting to run in a post-migraine haze) and it'd been 3 friggin years since my last Hardrock Qualifier, so I really needed a finish both to boost my morale and to keep alive my Quixotic quest for a Hardrock start, hopefully before humans land on Mars.

 

I had no real expectations for the race given everything being stacked against me. Really, I just wanted to enjoy the mountains, the meadows, the views, and hang out with VHTRC folks. I got what I asked for, and a lot more.

Happy Trails peeps!

 

As a sign of my commitment to not really giving a shit about my performance at the race, I brought along my phone for the very first time in a race, and made sure to snap copious pics of the incredible scenery along the way. Sadly, the few minutes wasted snapping pics did not account for the infinitude of time I spent on course.

 

We got started at 9am and it was already fairly toasty. I donned cooling arm sleeves for only the 2nd race of my life, the other time being Western States. They made a huge difference throughout that first day. I played it fairly conservatively up the first climb, but somehow still found myself ahead of Jordan Chang. At one point, I realized he and Will Weidman were right behind me, so I stopped for them to catch up. Moments later, Jordan took off. Between that and the pre-race briefing where he tapped me on the back but then kept on walking, I'm starting to wonder if I've somehow done something to offend him. At any rate, Will and I plowed ahead for a time, but then even he separated from me. I was on my own for the rest of the race.

Despite unusually dry course conditions, I still somehow managed to lose a shoe to the mud ... and then waste time snapping a pic, cuz why the hell not!

 

Oh, so remember how I said I developed a wet cough the night before the race? Well what I failed to include was that by race morning I had also developed an, umm, loose stomach. Good news: in the early miles I wasn't hacking up a lung, yet. Bad news: between miles 11 and 18 I had to jump off the trail THREE times.

 

I soaked in the scenery and got stuck in some conga lines for a few hours until dropping into Sally's Footbridge at Mile 33. By then, my quads had been totally shot for at least 2 hours. It'd taken an inconceivable 6:40 to get there. If I were feeling good, I would've expected about 5:40. It was hot down there, and a bit of a shit show. A dozen runners were either over-heating or frantically figuring out what they needed for the upcoming 18 Mile climb. I quietly found an ice chest and filled up my sleeves and ice bandana, trying hard to avoid the pestering aid station questions about my health -- are you dizzy, have you been peeing, do you regret signing up for this race?

Before my race turned into a complete train wreck. PC: The awesome folks at Mile 90 Photography (Kansas City represent!)

 

Moments after starting The Climb, I encountered rock fields and rock walls that had been baking in the sun. The searing feeling on my flesh forced me to stop and cover my body in a toxic dose of zinc oxide.

5000' of climbing in 18 miles doesn’t seem that bad, and I fully expected plenty of running opportunities, but in actuality they were in rather short supply. More often than not, I found myself keeled over, hands on knees, panting, struggling to control my breathing, and inevitably trying to convince the chick that was passing me that I wasn't dying and that I'd be fine. Above 6500' of altitude, this became a fairly common occurrence as I slowly worked my way up to the turnaround.

 

In the final miles before the turnaround, it got fairly muddy and mucky, with good stretches of rotten snowbanks. At one point, I had to jump off into the woods again. Having exhausted my supply of TP, and being at too high an elevation for broadleaves, I was forced to test out the usefulness of pinecones. I'd score them at 3 out of 5, not ideal but useful in a pinch.

 

As dusk approached, I got to see Jordan on the return journey. He looked solid! Then Will, who also complained of early-mile quad seizures. I was finally starting to feel a bit better, and optimistically hoped I'd be able to pick up the pace and catch up with Will, who was maybe 30minutes up on me.

 

A few minutes later, trudging across another snowfield, I sank about 2 feet through the snow … and then rapidly descended another foot through freezing cold water below. As it was happening, I tried, in vain, to lunge forward and avoid the Watery Hole of Despair. Instead, I pitched forward hard, right into the snowfield with my face and hands. As I tried to extract myself, my calves seized up. I was stuck! My mind immediately flashed to those LifeAlert infomercials. Help! I've fallen and I can't get up! I laid there for at least a minute, my lower half stuck in snow and freezing water, my upper body unable to secure enough grip to pull myself out. Trail running … so much fun …

 

After my Herculean extraction from the snow, I plodded on to the turnaround at Jaws aid station. I had a great view of the sunset on the meadow at 9,000'. Ahh, serenity! The aid station, however, was anything but serene. There were at least 10 runners in there, hunkered down in chairs, in various stages of duress, lulled into complacency by the coziness of the giant tent complete with doting aid station workers and a friggin modified home furnace. I raided my drop bag and got out of there as quickly as possible to begin the long journey to the finish, leaving somewhere around 12:30 into the race.

Worthwhile sunset after the 5 Billion Hour Climb

 

Not long after the turnaround, darkness descended, and so did my gut, again. I hurried off the trail, dredging through 3' snow piles, to eagerly test out the Eskimo Method for the first time in my life. And I've gotta tell ya, wiping your ass with snow is a solid 5 out of 5! I highly recommend it!

 

Right afterwards, I hopped back on the trail immediately behind a merry band of runners, one of whom was lubed up in about 37 pounds of Bengay. The putrid smell laced the woods and I temporarily dropped back as far as possible to avoid vomiting. When that didn't work, I resolved to charge ahead through the clouds of Bengay and on to the fresh air ahead.

 

I came into the next aid station, Camp Upper Whatchamacallit, complete with a cast iron oven and stove, and decided to slurp up a healthy dose of ramen noodles. Earlier, I'd eaten a granola bar which severely aggravated my sore throat so I decided 1/3 of my nutrition plan was out the window for the rest of the race -- no more stroopwaffels, Bearded Bros bars, granola bars, etc. I needed "soft solids" that were easy to take down and I figured I was likely limited to noodles and rice from here on out. Not ideal, but whatever.

 

I started feeling good on the 18 Mile descent, passing a few folks, cheerily chastising every single person wearing unnecessary Kogalla chest lights (they're dead set on burning the retinas of every competitor they come across!). As I descended, the sinus pressure from my cold slowly died off as the altimeter wound down. Pheww! I did some math and thought I had an absurdly small chance at still securing a sub-24 finish, so I picked up the pace and continued my smooth descent.

 

After a few hours (yes, a "few" hours) of downhill escapades, the wheels started to come off. My quads tightened back up, and pain developed in the ball of my foot. It felt like I was stepping on a pebble that I couldn't dislodge. I tried making it back to Sally's to optimize time, but finally relented a couple miles up the trail and took off my shoe to dump it out. This did not work, which meant I likely had maceration from the sloppy trail conditions near the turnaround. So I was forced to strip off my socks and shoes at Sallys, Mile 66, diligently clean them with the help of an aid station volunteer -- wash, rinse, clean and dry with rubbing alcohol, etc. -- and then slip on new socks and shoes. The whole ordeal took nearly 15 minutes, but the maceration receded and the dirt and gunk was cleaned out of the skin folds, which meant the rest of the race would be considerably less painful … assuming I could keep my feet dry.

The rushing river at Sally's Footbridge

 

By that point, there was no chance in hell of making 23:59, so I slow-hiked my way up the 2500' climb to Bear Camp, all the while making sure to keep my feet as dry as possible. Along the way I started to get … sleepy. It didn't last long, but it was definitely weird considering I've never felt sleepy in any 100 Miler before, much less within 18-20 hours of starting a race.

 

The sun rose and I rolled into Kern's Camp and wolfed down a piping hot cup of noodles. Then the fun began! A few yards outside of camp I gagged and tried mightily to no vomit. I succeeded, but had to hack up a considerable amount of bright green phlegm mixed with bits of chewed up ramen noodles. I officially had a full-on chest cold and could no longer take in solid food for fear of gagging on blobs of phlegm and vomiting all over the place. Yay running! But at least I had my trusty Long Haul sports drink for calories. … Except, well, without any solid foods to help moderate my "loose stomach", taking in only liquids was a dicey proposition, and over the next couple hours I paid the price with multiple jaunts into the woods. Well, not so much the woods as, well, just right out there in the open meadow. Wildflowers, piles of grass, some excellent velvety wildflower leaves … we became intimate friends.

Wildflowers! (aka: TP)

 

By the time I had to venture up the long, easy-grade climb to Dry Fork at Mile 83, I simply had no energy to do anything but slow hike the whole damn thing. I arrived to the Aid Station at about 22:30 and immediately thought I should be done by now, and friggin Jordan Chang is definitely chilling at the finish right now! I was exhausted. But, I still had work to do.

 

I'd hoped to crest out after Dry Fork and ride the long descent at a good clip, but without any real calories, and practically no liquids either, my quads were not up to the task. And I got so frustrated that I refused to stop and put my cooling sleeves or hat back on, or dose up on sunscreen. The sun beat down on me and I slowly lumbered down about 4,000' of altitude, roasting along the way.

 

After a lifetime of "running", I finally made it to The Dreaded Fire Road. Only 5 miles of painfully flat, exposed running to go! I checked my watch and realized I'd at least be making it in under 27 hours, and then proceeded to knock out some 9minute miles, willing my depleted, dehydrated body down that godforsaken road.

Crying, or coughing "lung snot" into my hand? (PC: Mile90)

 

Once I finished, I met up with Will Weidman, who'd been hanging out for over 2 hours at this point, and proceeded to spend, I dunno, a solid 40 minutes just sitting there, hacking up green goop from the depths of my lungs. But, I was done. I had my stupid Hardrock qualifier, and I finally got my stupid Bighorn buckle.

 

Blergh!

Did I mention I abandoned my family for like 5 days for this miserable experience? Man, I am a horrible husband and father.

All that suffering for a stupid hunk of metal...

PostScript:

I'm finally posting this after 6 weeks while holed up in my home office, recovering from COVID. Feeling sick the days before Bighorn, and with my travel partner Will getting a call that his kid might have been exposed, we both took COVID tests in the parking lot of Sheridan's Albertson's grocery store out of an abundance of caution. We both tested negative. That said, my current COVID infection came with the *exact same* symptoms I had at Bighorn -- most notably the sore throat followed by buckets of neon green chest goop. I've never had crazy chest congestion like this before, so I find it a bit ... unusual ... that I've now had it twice in 6 weeks. So did I have COVID at Bighorn and somehow tested negative? Who knows! All I know for sure is that Bighorn was the most god awful exhausting race experience of my life and it took my body 3 weeks to get over whatever illness I had going into the race. And then I got the same damn symptoms again a few weeks later! I'm starting to believe I'm cursed and I should just give up running altogether. Now, if you'll please excuse me, I have to run to the bathroom and cough up some more crud into the sink...

Aint Nothin Wrong with a DNF

Three years ago I had an amazing time at the Hellbender 100 in the mountains outside of Asheville, NC. That kind of race is my jam! Long, slow, unrelenting. 100 scenic mountain miles and over 20,000' of climbing? Hell yeah! The moment I finished, I knew I would be coming back, and it's not just because I was awarded a bottle of vodka at the finish line. I signed up for 2020, but yeah, we all know how that went. And out of an abundance of caution, the race was cancelled again in 2021.

By the time 2022 rolled around, I'd turned into a completely different runner. I no longer live within close proximity to the mountains. And in the last year, my focus on the Backyard format had transformed the way I'd been training. Then throw in trying to juggle a brand new side business (Long Haul), a full-time job, and parenting two young kids with my hard working spouse. At the end of it all, 2022 Chris is simply much different than 2019 Chris -- less mileage, more stress.

 

I'd run four 100 Mile trail races in 2019, but only one since. I was itching to get back into the mountains for a fun, tough 100 Miler. I knew I didn't have peak mountain fitness, but I ran for 84 friggin hours straight at Big's, so I figured I could, at the very least, casually stroll through Hellbender, enjoying the fantastic trails and scenery. And that was my plan. No hard racing, no stress, no worrying about a top place or solid finishing time. I just wanted to get out there and enjoy an amazing race with an amazing course, put on by an amazing race director and amazing volunteers. Simple.

 

But things didn't turn out that way. When, by all expectations, I should have been strolling to the finish of my umpteenth 100 miler, I was instead passed out in a cheap motel room 3 hours away. There were no broken bones, there was no heat exhaustion or hypothermia, nothing of the sort. My body just felt … empty. Depleted. Sluggish. Right from the start. So I quit. I gave up. I DNF'd.

I ran by this cool sign ... and then I quit

There's this underlying thread in ultrarunning, a machismo-fueled point of view, a finish-at-all-costs attitude. Many brag about having never DNF'd, others take pride in gutting it out through some genuinely sketchy conditions, and there are some who push their body so hard they spend post-race in the hospital. So much ego. I've never understood it. For 99.99% of us, running is a hobby, an enjoyable aside to the daily grind of normal life. It's not a war, or a deadly disease we must fight, it's supposed to be fun and freeing and enjoyable. And yes, at times it sucks, and there's a good deal of character-building to be had in gritting it out and overcoming obstacles. But there always needs to be an awareness of the difference between pushing yourself to achieve amazing things, and fighting against yourself.

 

I drove 10 hours to get to the race, battling a headache most of the day, then at bedtime I went into a migraine that nearly caused me to throw up. I maybe had 2 hours of restless sleep before waking up to pouring rain at 2:45am. Then it was time to get ready for the 4:30am start. Race morning adrenaline warded off the headache and provided me with about 90 minutes of decent running to begin the day. Through the pre-dawn rain, I led the race with a buddy, eventual 2nd place finisher Will Weidman. I was intentionally slow and collected. The objective: have fun, revel in the joy of a full day of mountain running. But by the 2 hour mark, that comfortable pace felt exhausting. I slowed. Still exhausted. I randomly lost my breath. Downhills were klunky and lumbering. I was walking flat sections of trail because I could not get my legs to propel my body forward. I was tripping over rocks and roots I had no business tripping over. 12 miles into a 100 mile race. If it had been halfway through the race, I might've muscled through -- maybe it would pass, just another race day obstacle to overcome. But I was hit with whole-body fatigue right from the start. Honestly, I felt hungover. It was clear that something was wrong. I probably could have powered through, spent a good deal more hiking than I'd wanted, and still finished in a somewhat respectable time. But at what cost? If this were an ordinary weekend long run, I would've skipped it and slept in, given the migraine. Or, if I were starting the run and felt sluggish and empty, I probably would've cut it short to focus on rest and recovery, to live another day.

 

There will always be another race waiting for us. Another chance to test our limits. Another opportunity to prove to ourselves we've put in the work and that we can do great things. To have staying-power in the sport that you love, you've got to listen to your body. Every race I've ever run, my wife has told me beforehand, without fail, "be safe, and listen to your body." I love ultra running, I love the trails, I love the grind, I love the process. 40 years from now, I want to be that old geezer, fighting cutoffs and loving every minute of it, showing those young whippersnappers how it's done. But I can't get there if I don't listen to my body, if I ignore it when it's clearly telling me that something isn't right.

 

After the first climb and descent, I just knew my day was over. I elected to lazily hike and jog the next climb and descent in the off-chance my body turned things around. And so I strolled into the aid station at Mile 33, after 5 hours of, quite simply, not feeling like myself, resigned to quit. I instinctively went to my drop bag and started pulling out nutrition for the next section of the race, then stopped, looked around somewhat confusedly, collapsed to the ground and sat for a moment, then leaned over and rested my head on the grass. It felt good to give up. It felt like the right thing to do.

 

Listen to your body! Are you injured? Do you need more recovery time? Did you bite off way more than you could chew? Know the difference between pushing yourself and fighting yourself. Do that and you'll have staying power. Perhaps I'll see you out there on the trails, 40 years from now, loving every minute of it!

Chris Tries to Not Suck at The Barkley. Chris Fails.

 

Who's excited for failure?! This guy! (PC: Sarah Smith)

From the moment I was born, I was destined to become a Barkley finisher…

 

…Just kidding.

 

I can't say when exactly it was, but by 2018, after a few years of feeling like I was nailing 100 milers, I decided I wanted something more challenging. When you look to The Next Level in hard, competitive US ultras, there's basically 2 options:

1. Hardrock
2. Barkley

Now, I'd love to run Hardrock, and I've presently been waiting in the lottery for something like 8 years. But Barkley always held the highest level of intrigue. It's a tremendously extreme type of event designed to probe the limits of human endurance. And technically, anyone who's good enough to belong there has a path to get to The Yellow Gate -- do awesome stuff to impress Laz, apply, get on the "weightlist", and patiently wait your turn. So I set about that path. Barkley was now my Primary Running Objective.

 

In 2019 I cranked out HURT, Hellbender, and Old Dominion in 5 months with solid top placings, and then nailed Grindstone in the fall. I decided I had gained enough fitness to have a shot at finishing a Fun Run. So I finally applied for Barkley and received a spot at the bottom of the weightlist, happy to wait a number of years as I slowly rose up. But in 2021 I decided to explore an accelerated route. I had a sense I'd be good at Backyards and I figured that race format would allow me to explore limits of sleep deprivation and fatigue, and it didn't hurt that Laz created the event style. I eventually wound up at Big's, the world championship for the format, right in Laz's backyard, and made a decent show of things. But I didn't win, so no automatic entry for Barkley. Nevertheless, by January I received my condolences. I was headed to The Yellow Gate!

 

But there was a bit of a hitch. My training since Big's had been complete crap due to aggravating the labrum in my bad hip. I was largely limited to steep hiking and spending each night diligently stretching. Descending was de-prioritized to limit impact forces and allow my hip to heal. As a result, I felt that my climbing would be okay, but my descending at Barkley would be pedestrian at best. So no lead packs for me. I tried to not worry about what veteran I might work with, and instead focused on learning the course and gaining experience. I was now transitioning from my Primary Running Objective's multi-year Phase 1 -- Get into Barkley -- to (hopefully) the multi-year Phase 2 -- Not Suck at Barkley.

 

The 2022 Barkley Course Map!

I drove down to Frozen Head from STL a couple days early, jamming out to Dua Lipa and Taylor Swift. I made the astute observation that Tswift is a fan of The Barkley. If you listen to Treacherous, it becomes pretty obvious. This slope is treacherous. This path is reckless. And I, I, I like it. I'm guessing she heard about The Documentary when it was first coming out and wrote the song for her Red album, but the music execs made her change some of the lyrics to make it sound like a standard relationship song. But the timeline lines up, and the chorus lays it all out. So yeah, Treacherous was the official race song of The Barkley this year. Awesome!

 

I'm sure even Jared Campbell would agree that Taylor Swift wrote a song about The Barkley.

Jack, my crew chief at Big's, met up with me at the start and we set up camp in the cool kids spot right next to the gate. Our site ended up housing runners Greig Hamilton, Harvey Lewis, Karl Sabbe, and myself, with Mike Dobies, Keith Dunn, and Sarah Smith hanging out there as well. Monday was spent finishing setup and organizing gear. And, obviously, checking out the map and handing in my virgin license plate. I spent a couple hours copying the map, reviewing the course description, and chit-chatting with folks. Then it was time for some tossing and turning. The conch blew around daylight on Tuesday, and things got real. I was genuinely nervous to start a race, for the first time in years. I had no idea what the next day+ was going to be like, but I was ready for the adventure. All I knew for sure was that I was going to keep going until I got timed out. As I walked to the gate, everything became a bit of a blur. And then, the cigarette was lit.

 

Home sweet home.

Race gear -- 90% of which will go unused!

Pre-race action shot (PC: Jack Kurisky)

The first climb, a completely new section, started out battering my legs like a Tonya Harding hit job. Instead of a chill jaunt up the typical Bird Mountain Trail, we immediately met off-trail slopes as steep as anything I'd dealt with in training. Many people flew up hard and fast, but I focused on warming up my calves for the entire first climb. The first book was a breeze, then it was on to the first descent. I quickly linked up with Jodi Isenor's group, including Alyssa Godesky. I figured this would be a good place to hang out. The early miles of The Barkley is basically a form of speed dating where virgins desperately seek out a veteran date to show them the ropes. Jodi was on my pre-race list because of his experience and his sweet, sexy past Fun Run. I fully trusted Jodi to navigate the course in a time respectable enough for a fun run finish.

 

Me and Jack at The Yellow Gate.

After the 2nd Book we climbed up Jury Ridge, starting on the easy North Boundary Trail. The pace was calm and patient and I felt like the whole group was being smart about effort and I was looking forward to working with them for the first loop. At one point I joked that I was just going to follow Jodi for a whole lap and then drop him hard. Later in camp, Dobies had to explain to Jodi that I was being sarcastic, and not a "real asshole". My wife warned me about that kind of behavior, but when it's something you're born with, it's just really, really hard to not be sarcastic 24/7. Sigh…

Anyways … towards the top of the climb I stopped to pee and get a quick bite to eat, then again to tighten up my shoes. When all was said and done, the group was out of sight and I was left close to Katie Wright. I was comfortable just chilling with her for a bit and had zero intention of hightailing it ahead of the gal who stepped in to help crew me on my 4th day at Big's. We easily grabbed the 3rd book and then departed down to the next one.

 

Katie and I took a less than stellar line starting down and it was slow going. We ended up on a minor ridge too close to the drainage on our right and kept drifting down towards it and its healthy supply of boulders. There was a "road" higher up to our left and we kept trying to intercept it while skirting the drainage, but had little success. Eventually we were passed by a couple of freewheeling Euro chicks who basically blasted down the drainage and we kinda sorta followed suit.  At some point along the way, I was using my poles on the descent to control my direction and one pole slipped between two rocks and quickly learned a painful physics lesson. The carbon fiber pole snapped like a twig. Fan-freakin-tastic. We ended up coming down to the book location, but it took way too much effort and time. As we arrived, folks already had the book in hand, and I was not the last one to pull a page. As a result I impatiently failed to make a mental note of precisely how the book was hidden, which came back to bite me big-time on Loop 2 in the dark.

 

Cheater sticks aren't supposed to look like that.

I took off on the next climb, easily following the ridge and separating from the others. At one point I picked up a stick -- Old Hickory -- that worked well as a replacement pole. The Barkley is a fickle beast … it takes away your brand new carbon fiber cheater sticks, only to offer up bespoke walking sticks, complete with ergonomic knobs to cradle the edge of your hand. The next book was the first one I found all on my own, which came with a pretty awesome sense of accomplishment, even though it was just a simple rock on the top of a mountain. Then it was easy work getting up to the Garden Spot, and as I approached the Water Drop I saw Jodi's group heading out.

 

I had a patient water fill and stripped down to a t-shirt. Because it was getting warm and sunny, I mixed up a bottle of my Long Haul Ginger Peach Tea to sip on in the afternoon hours. It was so delicious! (blatant company plug, go buy my sports drink) I figured I was about 5 minutes behind Jodi and Company and so I started running down the Coal Road a bit hard in an attempt to catch up to them before the next off-trail section. I failed. And then I wasted a couple minutes trying to decide on what the right line should be to cut through a horseshoe bend in the road. My line was not good enough and I cliffed out and had to tear through the woods until it was safe to descend. Then it was time to jump off again into the next drainage. As I wasted another couple minutes contemplating where to jump in and what my line should be, another runner came zipping down the prior descent. It was a virgin named Ivan, and he had a boatload of intel from a veteran on what to do. So the two of us virgins hooked up to fool around in the woods for a while. Bow chicka wow wow! We wandered on down the Coal Road a bit as he attempted to count strides to the jumping off spot. I don't think we hit it precisely, and we didn't have the cleanest line down the drainage, but eventually we made it through and proceeded on to Bobcat Rock and Leonard's Buttslide.

 

LBS was a real treat! Those upper slopes were the first time I just capitulated and allowed my feet to be swept out from under me and ride down sections on my ass. About 1/3rd of the way down I bumped into Alyssa coming back up with the rest of Jodi's group. I figured I went from maybe 2-3 minutes back to nearly 30 minutes back now, entirely a result of not knowing the best lines through a 1 mile stretch of Stallion Mountain coal roads. Ivan and I hit a good line down to the bottom and came upon the book in no-time-flat. Then it was back up. Pretty easy cruise control until the absurdly steep upper slopes where I was clinging to roots and trees to hoist myself up. Then onwards through the cave and up to the next book. Ivan crested and started to look around on the verge of wandering, but the moment I got up there I knew exactly what was up and went straight to the book. I'm getting pretty good at this whole Daylight Barkley stuff!

 

Irrelevant to the storyline, but this was my pre-race breakfast. My son was so freakin jealous!

The next stretch to get down to the New River Valley started off a bit slow and confusing. It seemed easy enough -- just follow the ridge -- but Ivan was more concerned about certain visual indicators along the way. We hit a couple of choke points and a small cliff that we had to work around, but it wasn't too bad of a job. Then we came upon an old road, something I'd call a road and not Laz's idea of a" road". I wanted to cross it and continue into the woods on the ridgeline. But Ivan's intel described going down the road. I wasn't too comfortable with this idea, but there were shoe prints heading down the road, so I reluctantly went that way. After a couple bends, we jumped into the final hollow to reach the valley. We got down there and then there was a good bit of confusion trying to find one of these "roads" Laz says to follow upriver. After a while I just said screw it and forged off into the woody river bottom, knowing at some point we’d get to where we needed to go. Eventually Ivan found "the road" and we followed it upriver. Ivan nearly ran past the next book but I immediately noticed two rocks on the ground that were suspiciously regularly shaped. I kicked the moss and it was obvious I was at "the columns", so I yelled to Ivan to stop and look for the next book. The moment I did that, a group that was right on our rear gleefully shouted that they'd found the ziplock bag with the book hanging out, up on the bank to my left. Truthfully, I was pissed. I found the stuff Laz described in the course description and was about ready to see the book, but was bested by someone else who just happened to see some plastic bag reflecting light in the afternoon sun. So I got up there and impatiently waited to get my page. Then it was off to tackle Little Hell.

 

The group that caught up to us had a veteran, but they were jibber-jabbering about compass bearings so I just took off ahead of them. We climb a ridge, the ridge, the only damn ridge. Just go up! After a couple of stupid decisions on the ridge -- why not just head straight up into this coal reservoir between two minor ridges, what could go wrong?! -- and trudging my way through dense sawbriers, I grabbed the next book and went on to Rat Jaw.

 

On the descent, Ivan and I did not know about an upper rock ledge and barreled right off the trail into the briers. I felt like I'd flung myself into a net filled with spikes. It took a couple minutes to realize we'd missed a turn off, down, and around the ledge. Good Times! But the rest of the descent was fairly clean, with little bits of skating and butt sliding. Then through the tunnel and to the Prison Book.

 

Ivan and I started working our way up to the next book and I feel like we followed the directions and the ridgeline we were supposed to, but we ended up too far down the line of capstones. I was 99% sure we needed to be at one particular end of the capstones. He wasn't positive about that, but he started off to investigate. After a few minutes he trudged back. No Dice. I wasn't buying it, but I figured it was a great chance to familiarize myself with this area. So I hightailed it all the way to the other end of the capstones just to feel the area out. Then I backtracked and eventually clambered above the capstones to scope everything out. As I was doing so, I saw The Compass Crew passing through the capstones. Jackpot! I yelled to Ivan and we were back in business. Another 20 minutes wasted on the course, but lessons were being learned!

 

We took a quick compass bearing then started down the Zipline to the Beech Tree. The line was a disaster in spots, bumbling into boulder fields, but we quickly overtook the other group and then I spotted the Leaf Churn from other runners and cruised on that all the way down to the Beech Tree.

 

I quickly dropped everyone around me on the last climb. I was feeling good and figured even with the 60-80 minutes of accumulated delays from not having a veteran holding my hand, I was still going to roll into camp in under 11 hours, with a solid shot at a 40 hour Fun Run. After I collected the final book page I continued congratulating myself and inadvertently turned the wrong way on the Chimney Top Trail that leads back to camp. You're supposed to go left when you hit the trail. But when you hit the trail you're coming out of the woods so it's not like there's a junction sign or anything. So I intercepted the trail at a slight right-ward angle and smack dab in front of me was green Chimney Top double blazes and a distinct left. Boom! I rode that awhile and started to feel confused. I didn’t know we passed by all the chimney rocks on the way back to camp, hmmm. This descent doesn't feel as steep as it's supposed to. What's the deal with this flat section. Then I look at my watch. Shit. Nearly 30 minutes has gone by since the last book. This isn't right. I should've dropped down to the Rough Ridge climb by now. Then I saw the Fireplace just before Mart's Field off in the distance. FUCK! I just went 3 miles in the wrong direction. Oh well. I turned around and high-tailed it back to camp to sneak in just under 12:00.

 

It's dark, why am I just now arriving at the gate?! Oh yeah, cuz I'm an idiot.

The interloopal wasn't spectacular, but my crew chief Jack got me all ready to go with an assist from Sarah Smith. I ended up wolfing down nearly 1000 calories to drown out my embarrassment of making the Furtaw Fumble on Chimney Top. In the middle of it all I distinctly remember uttering "I think I just fucked up my Fun Run." Such is life. I proceeded to head back out for Loop 2 into the night, knowing a long dark night of very cold rain awaited me.

 

The first climb was a doozie. I wasn't tired, but man was I slow. I stopped twice, to throw on my rain jacket and then rain pants. On Loop 1 I got to the first book in maybe 33 minutes. This time around it was more like 85. Pathetic. I'm pretty sure I simply took in too many calories in camp and my body was all like "Bruh, chill on this stupid hiking pace, I gotta digest all this damned food you just ate." At the top I realized that Barkley had just stolen 2 hours from me between 2 books. A Fun Run was not gonna happen. For some reason I decided I didn't want to turn onto Jacque Mate until I'd identified the old Book 1 rock. I rounded a turn and started veering away from the ridge and knew I'd somehow passed it. Instead of just accepting that and going down to Book 2, I turned around to keep looking. A runner came up on me -- I'd passed him as he struggled to find Book 1. It was John Clarke, one of the folks from The Compass Crew that Ivan and I passed earlier. I explained my stupid activity and he was like "come on, lets go". I followed him for a minute and then it was very clear he didn't want to run Jacque Mate like we were supposed to. I politely inquired: what the hell are you doing? He said we had to cross over the ravine. I was all like, umm, why the hell would we do that?! Then he went on about some kind of stride counting after the ravine and taking some kind of compass line. He said it was a cleaner line than Jacque Mate … but he was a virgin, too, so how he came up with this cockamamie idea is beyond me because the course description is painfully clear. I was in the learning mood though, and I didn't want to backtrack, so I let him lead me down a ridiculous line -- let's keep checking that compass as we trudge through godforsaken rocks and deadfall to maintain the sacred azimuth! The whole time I bitched about how stupid it was and how much easier it would have been to simply follow the Jacque Mate ridge like we were supposed to. We eventually got spit out on the NBT about 150 yards above Book 2. I checked my watch -- about 2:28 on the loop vs 1:06 from loop 1. More time lost. Son of a bitch!

 

I hiked up to Book 3 and then made note of the compass bearing to try and ride the ridge down to Book 4 that Katie and I undershot the first time around. I stumbled through some rocks and such, but it was a good deal cleaner than in the daylight, and I finally found "the road" down. Once I got to the confluence I struggled to find the book. I spent like 10 minutes checking a dozen trees. I couldn't find the damn thing. It was pitch black, raining hard, and every drainage was flowing like crazy. Am I at the wrong confluence? This looks right, but where the hell is the book?! I decided it was time to go on an adventure. I'm not sure of what all I did, but I effectively explored both upstream and downstream, trying to make sense of the terrain and the drainages – in the dark, in the middle of a downpour. After a while downstream I became convinced I was firmly in the river bottom, so with knowledge that there was no confluence below that original one, I hopped onto the other side of the stream and backtracked up "the road". When I got to the original confluence I looked at every damn tree trying to find the stupid book again. And then, all of a sudden, there it was, right where it should've been. I firmly remember looking for a book behind 2 rocks leaning against a tree instead of a book between 2 rocks on a bank behind a tree. Catch that distinction? Oops! Either way, that was an exciting 90 minutes of my life I'll never get back. But, now I have a very firm notion of how to approach that book and exactly where it's located. I'll not be bungling that in the future.

 

I hightailed it up to get to Book 5, climbing fairly well. Around this point, I snapped Old Hickory and had to find a less awesome replacement. In the dense fog I accidentally crossed over the NBT where we were supposed to turn, and just kept going on the ridge. The ridge quickly flattened, which was odd, but I kept going for a few more minutes. I eventually pulled out my map and quickly realized what happened. But instead of turn back, I was intrigued by an odd flickering in the distance. I continued on to a big round fence, and just beyond it a sign that said something to the effect of: Feral Hog Pen, Stay Away. Awesome! Did I just find a new Book location for Laz? I noticed I should be close to the Cumberland Trail so I continued on my line to confirm. Sure enough, maybe 100 meters later I bumped into the Cumberland. Now being 100% sure of my whereabouts, I took a hard line back over to the NBT to reacquire the proper course. Climbing to the top of Bald Knob was a real treat. The winds were howling like crazy, with bitterly cold rain. The fog was so bad you couldn't see park boundary markers. I almost got blown over a couple times near the top. That was the only time all night I felt genuinely cold. At the Book I engaged in my new ritual of pulling off my sopping wet gloves, securing my page, wringing out as much muddy water from my gloves as possible, then throwing them back on, downing some calories, and shooting off to the next part of the course.

 

Randomly throwing in a pic of my Loop 2 pages (drying out in the garage).

The NBT that was taken over to the Garden Spot was a pain in the ass. The ground was so wet that the single track was like pudding. And it's nearly all on a slight camber. So a majority of your steps resulted in a slide to the downslope. 12 minute miles was about as good a pace as I could muster without risking slipping off the trail. I reached the Garden Spot in 8 hours, it'd only taken 4 on the first Loop. Oh well. I popped down to the Coal Road, made a turn, and was greeted with a bright headlamp shining in my face. A runner had his map out with a quizzical stare and blurted "we're going the wrong way". No, we're not. "We should've taken that left back there." No, that's the Cold Gap cutoff. He seemed out of it and miserable, and unconvinced. He wanted to quit. I asked him why he'd do that, it was like a 3 hour hike back to camp so why not keep going. I told him I was going to run ahead for 10 or 15 minutes to confirm it's the right way, just to coax him along. He followed along behind me, muttering about it being the wrong way. At one point I looked back and his headlamp was still there. Then I rounded a corner, and nothing but darkness. On I went. I took a lot of time assessing the dropdown to the next ravine. I wasn't gonna Fun Run anymore, so why not waste some time trying to be sure of where I should go. I eventually decided I'd found the right spot and then I thought it's just a 300' descent so go tear ass down to the next coal road, it'll be a piece of cake! So that's what I did. Only, in a matter of seconds I nearly ran off a 50' cliff. I looked around for 5 minutes to the right. No dice. Time to backtrack. Then off to the left. After another 5 minutes I finally found the edge, and a convenient Leaf Churn indicating the proper route. So much wasted time!

 

I figured the worst was over. LBS would be simple. It was a piece of cake in the daytime. Boy was I wrong. I started off just fine and I thought I was coming up close to the proper confluence. Then I got cliffed out near the bottom. Which was odd cuz that didn't happen the first time around. I couldn't see a way down. I thought I was too close to the confluence so I ventured to the left for aways. No luck. Scramble up aways for a better vantage, go this way, go that way, no way down. I finally found a light game trail, which I soon realized was actually "the road" that travels through the valley. After more failed attempts to get around the cliff, I started to entertain the idea of extracting via "the road", but was afraid the river would be raging too much downstream to cross over. An hour had already been wasted, so I figured why not keep plodding along, trying to solve the problem of Book 7. I then realized I was looking at the wrong confluence. In my descent I'd veered off slightly and wasn't looking at the correct New River confluence, but was actually downstream a short bit looking at the New River's confluence with a drainage on the other side of the valley. Bingo! Now I know what to do! I backtracked up "the road" until I could find a way past the cliffs and down to the river bottom. I got all the way down and approached the proper confluence. But still, no dice. Another 10 minutes of searching and still nothing. So I started to climb out to try for a better vantage. As I did so, I popped up on an upper flat, and right there, staring me straight on in the face, was the rock foundation with Book 7 sticking out. Another thrilling 90 minute adventure exploring drainages!

 

Random pic of my gear drying out.

Dawn approached as I came up LBS and on to Book 8. Then it was off down Fykes into the New River Valley. I was a bit faster this time than with Ivan and I did a pretty good job staying with the Leaf Churn. At the lower road, I wanted to stay true to the intent of the course and decided to stick with the ridge line instead of the road. But I couldn't find the Leaf Churn and didn't have the best line down. I think as I was coming down, Karel Sabbe was coming up on the other side of the ridge on his 3rd Loop. I got down to the valley and spent some time deliberately trying to follow "the road". Sometimes I saw Leaf Churn, then I'd lose it. It woulda been faster to just tear through the woods, but I was trying to learn the course as best I could. I finally ventured over to the Skillet Book and then proceeded up Little Hell. Halfway up I crossed paths with Greig on his 3rd Loop. We exchanged pleasantries. He seemed stoked that I wasn't quitting, but then again, he's a happy-go-lucky Kiwi so he's probably always stoked about everything. 

 

At the Fire Tower there were some photographers waiting for the Loop 3 runners. I asked that they let camp know I'd arrived and would finish the loop after the cutoff, then I dove down into Rat Jaw. It was a slip-slidey mess and I skated on my shoes and ass whenever possible. Halfway down I crossed John Kelly. More pleasantries exchanged. Then I hit a steep stretch and slid like 30 feet and lost grip of my Old Hickory #2. I contemplated trudging back up to retrieve it, but opted not to. And there it remains, to this very day, abandoned and alone on Rat Jaw.

 

I took my sweet ass time at the Prison, snacking, swapping out soaking wet gloves, finally removing my rain jacket, and stripping off my waterproof pants whose entire ass section had been torn away from all of the butt sliding. Then I went up to Indian Knob, trying to replicate the line Ivan and I took, but trying to see if there was a way to not drift so far down the capstones. I found Old Hickory #3 along the way. At the end of the climb, I still ended up roughly where we'd hit on Loop 1 and then wasted 10 minutes tramping over to the proper capstone. On the map it still seems like the right line, which has me utterly confused. Next time around the park I'd really like to run with a seasoned veteran to see what they do and to find the Leaf Churn.

 

These pants were not meant for butt sliding!

Then it was on down to the Beech Tree. I followed some Leaf Churn here and there, but there was still a decent bit of drifting into small boulder fields and hitting inefficient lines. Eventually I hit "the road" and flew down to Book 13. Then it was a final climb back up to Chimney Top, a proper turn, and an easy cruise back to camp to finish in, I dunno, 30:40 or some ridiculous time.

 

"Chris Finally" arrives at camp. (PC: Sam Hartman, I think)

It was a disappointing romp through the woods in the sense that I thought I had Fun Run fitness, but it slipped away. If I'd tried harder to reconnect with Jodi's group, I may very well have gotten in 3 Loops. But whatever. I thoroughly enjoyed cliffing out and getting confused by the raging drainages in the dark. Going alone gave me so many opportunities to make mistakes and learn lessons for the future. I walked away feeling I'd learned enough to have an honest go at starting a 4th loop if I'm ever invited back … assuming I team up with a solid veteran at the beginning and my training doesn't get bogged down by another stupid injury.

 

 

Here's a brief accounting of my lost time on the course -- mistakes I've learned from and will hopefully avoid in the future:

Loop 1

1. Bad line down to Book 4 -- 10min
2. Unfamiliarity with Coal Road Jump Offs before LBS -- 15min
3. Slow going down Fykes -- 10min
4. Is this Lickskillet Road? -- 10min
5. Indian Knob Adventure -- 20min
6. Furtaw Fumble -- 60 min

Loop 1 Noteworthy Errors: 2:05

Adjusted Loop 1 Time: 9:50

 

Loop 2

1. Interloopal Binge slowing me down -- Let's say 30min
2. Not Jacque Mate -- 30min
3. Book 4 Explore -- 90min
4. Feral Hog Pen -- 15min
5. NBT slip-n-slide laziness -- 15min
6. Ravine Doublecheck -- 10min
7. Ravine Cliff Out -- 15min
8. Book 7 Cliff Out and Drainage Confusion -- 90min
9. Seriously, is this Lickskillet Road? -- 10min
10. Prison Picnic -- 10min
11. Another failed Indian Knob -- 10min

Loop 2 Noteworthy Errors: 5:25

Adjusted Loop 2 Time: ~13:00

 

So yeah, if I had a tour guide the whole time going at a good pace that aligned with my current abilities, I'd confidently say a Fun Run was on the table. But I was a virgin doing his own thing. I have to believe that with a good bout of healthy training, if Laz invited me back for 2023, I'd have a damn good shot at a 40 Hour Fun Run, and a half decent shot at starting Loop 4. I'll happily take that confidence and ride it through my training for the next year!

 

All in all, Barkley was one of my favorite experiences in the sport thus far. There's just nothing else like it. The climbs were so gnarly and so much fun. I truly believe that the race format accentuates my strengths. It wasn't very apparent this time around, though. That hip injury after Big's really cramped my style. And not having a vet from the start led to a good bit of wasted time. But I'd like to think sticking it out through the overnight rainfest showed a bit of fortitude on my part, considering most everyone else dropped on Loop 2. I never felt gassed on the climbs, I prepared well for the elements, and I never once felt the slightest bit sleepy.

I’ve got to thank my wife for holding down the fort as I disappeared for 4 days to go aimlessly wander in the woods. And thanks to my in-laws for helping out with kids’ school duties. Jack was amazing again as crew, I just wish I’d given him more loops to help out! Sarah and Dobies and Keith were great company at camp, too.

Here’s hoping I get to take another crack at The Barkley next year!