RACE REPORT // The Pine To Palm 100, One Hell of a Ride
The more I run 100-milers, the more I realize it’s not really about running at all. Sure, you put in the training, the early morning runs, speed work (maybe), long weekends and all the other things that would signify that you’re “running.” But at the end of the day, ultras are really something deeply personal. It’s not about moving forward. It’s about moving inward.
I’m not sure what drew me to Pine to Palm. Perhaps I’m a sucker for Oregon, great logos and September races, but whatever the reason, I felt really good about the race many months out from the actual start date. I was also seeking both vengeance and validation. Back in April, I had the race of my life at Zion, followed by the worst race of my life at Bryce. So this next race felt like it would hold some answers for me, somehow.
Despite the significance inside my brain, I came into P2P extremely relaxed. Two weeks in Portugal and Crete leading up the race mellowed me out. I didn’t feel like I got in the miles I would’ve liked to, but I wasn’t letting it stress me out either. Almost every time you toe the line at an ultra you feel worried that you didn’t prep enough; this time, I just felt excited to get out and run.
The course would take us 100.5 miles (give or take some miles) from Williams, Oregon, through the Siskiyous to Ashland. The race was dreamed up by Hal Koerner a few years ago, and has had only slight modification in its four-year lifespan. Each incarnation has had its own extreme weather too. In the inaugural year, it was about 20+ hours of ran. Last year it was 90+ degree temperatures. This year was poised to be another scorcher.
Photo by Rogue Valley Runners
Early on Saturday morning, 126 of us lined up on a paved road in the Middle of Nowhere, Oregon. I like starting up front, but I found myself front and center on the line. No matter, someone has to be there.
We started cranking up the blacktop toward the top of Grayback Mountain—you know, just a 5,000-foot climb to kick off the race. But it was fast and early, and we had the whole world ahead of us. Elan Lieber, Dan Olmstead and I cruised up and peeled off onto the singletrack two miles later. But not before Hal flew past us in his truck shouting the obviously obvious, “You’re in the lead!”
I was very glad I opted to bring a headlamp to the start. The road would’ve been fine, but the trail would not have been. There were a lot of fallen trees and debris, and darkness stubbornly clung to the tunnel of trees we were traveling through. I was moving well up the climb, but I still couldn’t believe I was out front. Still, I was just savoring everything. It felt like Christmas morning. I was running trails again.
Dan stuck close behind me, but everyone else seemed to be a ways back. I was curating quite the collection of spider webs on my face. I remembered an article in Trail Running about Hardrock saying that only one runner got to see the deer scamper and feel the spider webs on their face in the early morning (of the second day, of course). So despite the annoyance, I savored it.
Up, up we went, surprising the guys running the water-only aid station at mile 5. Up, up we went, five more miles until that was it. The trees broke and we crested the mountain. Here’s where it got fun.
I’m not going to claim to be the best in the world at downhills, but I definitely ain’t the worst. I’d learned at Zion that I may not be as fast as some on climbs, but I can make up a ton of time on downhills. If I was going to win, I was going to have to blaze the downhills. So I did.
I threw myself down the mountain on the soft, dusty brown trails. Five miles passed quickly, and I pulled into O’Brien Creek aid station with Dan in tow. Stopping momentarily, I could suddenly feel my legs. And I was 45 minutes ahead of schedule. This had me worried that I’d spent too much energy and leg too early on the climb over Grayback. But I told myself that it was a quarter of the course’s elevation right there. If I wanted to be competitive, that’s what it would take today.
Dan and I took off together, now traveling down the gently descending gravel road, through backwoods Oregon. We chatted some, just ran at other times. But it was nice to have the companionship. After 7 miles of this, we hit Steamboat Ranch tucked on the side of the road at mile 22. A quick refill of water, a handful of grapes and we were off. Just then we heard noises behind us and were surprised to see several other runners who had snuck up on us. We didn’t expect anyone to be that close (not sure why, it was a race) so we sprinted off with renewed vigor.
Eventually the dirty road gave way to a paved one. Shortly thereafter, we heard pounding on the blacktop behind us. The turnover was so fast I didn’t even think it was a runner. But sure enough, a few moments later, another runner came flying past us. He ran with us for a minute or two before shouting something about having to hit his split and shooting off ahead of us. Dan and I both looked at each other thinking, “Good luck, man. We’ll see how that goes for you.”
Soon we hit the short detour off the highway. One of the unique things about Pine to Palm is that you run across the border and into California briefing before returning to Oregon. It’s a gimmick. But hey, it got me to sign up for the race, so, well done, Hal. We turned off another debris-strewn patch of singletrack. For a while we followed a fence on one side of the trail. Dan joked, “You know what this is? The fence they put up to keep all the Californians out of Oregon.” A few minutes later we saw a sign that said, “You are now entering California,” and like perfect comedic timing, on the other side was a ratty RV with about four shirtless redneck lounging in the morning sun. Beer cans were strewn here and there. That Cali riff-raff.
Half a mile later, we came on a sign that read, “Welcome back to Oregon.” Soon after that, we hit the paved road that would take us down into Seattle Bar at mile 28, and the first time we’d see our crew all day.
We rounded a corner, and a burst of cowbells and cheers exploded. I hadn’t expected so many people to be there. And I was in second place, just feet behind the first place guy. The cheering caught me off-guard, and I started tearing up a little.
But there’s no time for crying in running. I had to get in and out. I hopped on the scale to get weighed in. 143. I looked up at the young girl running medical and saw her eyes go wide as she realized I was down 10 pounds from my weigh-in the night before. I assured her, “There’s no way I’m down 10 pounds. But I’ll make sure to drink a lot,” and hopped off before she had a chance to argue.
I needed to regroup quickly. Guillaume refilled my Nathan with water and gels while I taped up a few blisters that were starting to form on my toes. I also scarfed a few Peptol-Bismols. Those things would end up making my day far less unpleasant. As I was tending to things, Dan took off to many cheer. Then a few more guys left ahead of me. “Nothing I can do about it,” I thought. “I need to attend to this stuff.”
I was soon out and back on the trail. The next section would be one of the days biggest test I knew. I’d heard that the Rollercoaster Ridges on Stein Butte were nasty and exposed and deadly. But inside of a rollercoaster, it felt like we were just going up the world’s largest first hill. You know that one where you’re slowly ratcheting up to the top and it takes forever? That’s what it felt like. And much to my chagrin, my legs felt shot. For the first time all day I was walking the uphills. And it was all uphill. I got passed once… twice… How many more times was this going to happen? I sipped down more water. “10 pounds down? Yeah right.”
Finally I hit the actual “rollercoaster part.” That was no joke either. Climbs up a few hundred feet, then drops down a few hundred, then climbs up, then drops down. By now the sun was getting mean. The exposed sections turned into a furnace. So even if you wanted to run the downhill stretches, it was not fun. And the aid station didn’t seem to be anywhere. It was a grinder, but I finally made it to the Stein Butte aid station where I found Dan. He’d run out of water long ago with his one handheld. I had gone through my entire bladder (probably 1.5 liters) so I was not surprised but still felt bad for him.
The journey to Squaw Lakes was more of the same, but at least now I had more of an idea what I was dealing with. I ran some, walked some of the hills, especially the exposed section. But to my pleasant surprise, I came upon a cars parked along a road way earlier than I expected. (Maybe it just felt that way after the torturously long climb to Stein Butte?) This put some pep in my step and I sailed down towards the aid station and cheers.
Not sure I’ve ever been so happy to see my crew (or just people in general). But rather than stop, I threw my pack off, grabbed a handheld from Guillaume and set off to do my 2.5-mile loop around the lake. I was flying now and feeling great.
The adrenaline wore off with about a mile left in the loop, but I was still feeling much improved from before. Back at the aid station, I got some good food in me and downed a lot of pickle juice. Pickle juice is a miracle liquid. Plus, it’s a key ingredient in picklebacks. I don’t care what you think. Pickle juice. Try it.
With a belly full of food and liquid, I set off feeling a bit good if a bit knackered. (Hey, it’s 41.5 miles at that point.) I was probably sitting in about 5th at this point.
There’s a long, gravely road that drops away from Squaw Lakes. Supposedly there was to be an aid station after three miles. At the bottom of the hill, a smaller service road split off that we were to follow, and I expected to see an aid station. But quickly the road turned into a relatively steep climb. The temperature probably reached its zenith right around here, and I was back to walking. Dan came zooming past me and up the hill with impressive speed. I cheered him on and continued my somewhat grim trudge.
After a lot more climbing, I saw the water station. I checked my schedule. I’d budgeted 30 minutes from Squaw Lakes to Kilgore Gulch, and that had taken me almost an hour and 15. Yikes. But I was now pretty much back on schedule. And I was also totally out of water again.
I took refuge under the shade of the water jugs (and just maybe might have sat down for a sec) and filled my pack back up. Now to chug up to Hanley Gap.
This section was a bit of a blur to me. It was more of a combination of walking and running when I felt OK. But I was getting beat. Then I remember starting to play a dangerous game called “Guess Which Peak Is Dutchman’s Peak.” I guarantee it wasn’t one of the close ones that I was wishfully hoping it was. All the good feelings from Squaw Lakes were long gone, and I just had to make it to Hanley Gap and mile 50 where I knew a chair and supplies would be waiting for me. Surprisingly I was never passed on this section. I’m still not sure how that was possible, but I guess everyone was dealing with everything I was too.
That proved true when I finally reached Hanley Gap and learned that someone who had passed me up Stein Butte had dropped, and I saw our friend that whizzed past Dan and I before Seattle Bar sitting in a chair with some serious leg issues.
I slumped into a chair, and Guillaume went to work getting me fixed up. I slammed a tall Guayakí Yerba Mate, which I had never used running before, but it was delicious and super cold and instantly made me feel better. I had to regroup. Later Guillaume said I spent 18 minutes here. It didn’t feel like that long, but I was probably not the best judge of time (or much else) at this point. I was bummed to see another, extremely young runner come into the aid station like he was out for a morning jog and set off towards the top. Not much I could do though. Once I’d finally cooled off and gotten calories back in me, I pulled myself up, grabbed a handheld and set out for the one-mile climb to the top of Hanley Gap to retrieve my flag.
Back down at the aid station, I sat down in the chair again for a minute or two and tried to collect myself before I set out. I didn’t feel like going, but I had to. So I took off again. 52 down. 48.5 to go.
We were told that the next aid station was 8 miles away and just a water station. That didn’t sound particularly inviting, but there was no choice. The route was a graded road with a steady incline, but I did start to feel a little better and I started running pretty well. Nonetheless, I got passed by another guy looking strong and taking the hills fast.
In a very pleasant surprise, about 5 miles later, we came upon the Squaw Creek Gap station. The old women there complimented me on my bright orange shirt, and we all joked around as I ate some turkey-avocado wraps. “This is way better than just a water station,” I told them. “Is that what they told you down there?” the manager asked. “Did they also tell you it was 8 miles away?” “Yep.” “I don’t understand why they’re doing that. We’re here in this same spot every year.” I didn’t know why either, but it ended up being a nice psychological (and caloric) boost. Quickly I was off, pointed towards the long climb up to Dutchman’s Peak.
This is the moment where the entire race turned around for me.
I was chugging up the road, feeling better but pretty sure I’d start walking pretty soon. That’s when I thought, Why don’t I try my iPod? A month before the race I excitedly purchased an iPod Nano thinking that music could prove to be a powerful weapon later on in the race. I hadn’t run with music at all since taking up trails about 4 years ago, but after seeing Jimmy use it late-night at Angeles Crest, I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. I didn’t really feel like having music blasting into my ears at that point, but I thought, I brought it; I should try it.
I put my earbuds in. Beck “E-Pro” was randomly pulled up. OK. Play.
A few seconds later I realized I was running. Like, running. I was moving faster than I’d moved in the past 6 hours. And I was running uphill. Whoa.
I was running, and I couldn’t stop. It almost felt out-of-body. My legs move automatically. I was just following along.
Then another song came on. Then another song. Then another. Now I was cranking uphill. Cars started passing me on the narrow road, but instead of “You can do it” I was getting, “Wow! You look awesome!” One pleasant surprise was a car that drove past with Kate Martini Freeman and Lisa Reilly in the front. “It was good to be feeling good again,” I told them.
Music carried me up that hill. And shortly I saw someone come running down the road towards me. It was till he was close that I realized it was Guillaume. “You look great!” “You’re running!” “I like it!” He told me he couldn’t believe how good I looked. Without breaking stride, we kept moving, knowing there was still a bit of a climb to summit Dutchman. But I was cranking and feeling good.
Right before we turned off on singletrack, I blew past the guy who had passed me 6 miles prior. Now we were cranking up the steep incline to Dutchman, Mastodon blasting in my ears. I was running—nay sprinting—every step. Whenever we’d pass crew on the trail, Guillaume would shout at them, “Doesn’t he look great?” to which people would shout back a genuinely empathetic response like, “Wow, yeah he does.” Eye of the tiger.
I cranked up to the very top of Dutchman’s, grabbed a handful of food and some Coke, and we turned around and took off again. (I was a little disappointed to not weigh in up there as promised. Really, I was just curious if my weight had stabilized, but I didn’t really think about that at the time.)
As we descended the ridge, the bright, burning orange sun was becoming a pinprick over the mountains to the west. It was breath-taking gorgeous. And a relief. The heat was over. Now the second—and my favorite—part of the race could begin: night. “See ya, Sun!” I shouted maniacally.
Guillaume and I flew down to the parking lot where the car and all my supplies were. We made a quick pit stop. I ate some gummy Cokes, drank a tallboy of coconut water, drank some Vega, replenished calories in my pack and we set off.
The next section we’d be running along the PCT. And even though the light was quickly fading, we ran without lights, soaking in the cooling air. Unfortunately, my over-exuberance finally caught up with me. Those fast miles and tons of quick calories poured on the stomach had me feeling a little rough. We hiked a bit so I could digest. Luckily, coming from the highest point in the race, it was downhill in any direction.
Once it was really dark, I decided to put away the iPod and enjoy the company of my friend. We moved along the PCT, laughing and telling stories and enjoying the freedom of running. As we got closer to the Little John Aid Station (mile 74), my stomach was feeling better, and I told Guillaume that I wanted to impress the volunteers by how quickly we were in and out of the aid station.
I grabbed a potato, dipped it in salt, slammed a Mountain Dew and we were gone.
Our PCT had turned to gravel road, and my feet were really starting to hurt by now. (I love my 110s, but those gravelly fire roads are the one downside. And 75+ miles into a race, it sucks.) This was a long stretch where I had to put the music back in and grind out a few, long miles. I came out of my music haze to tell Guillaume a story I’d been saving for such a point in the race. And my long-winded narrative carried us to the bottom of Wagner Butte and the 80-mile aid station. Once again I told Guillaume I wanted to be in and out and gone. And we were. In fact, I was out faster than Guillaume, and started up the singletrack alone before he caught up.
The enthusiasm was quickly tempered as we began our last climb up to Wagner Butte. The forest closed in around us, and we had soft trails beneath our feet, hugging us. But the incline was suddenly insane. It was by far the steepest stuff we’d seen all day. It was just steep steep steep. At a few points, I just plain stopped and stood there because I couldn’t move forward on that grade. It was slow going.
And to add to that, my legs were starting to seize up a bit. My hamstrings had been tight off-and-on all day, but now they were really starting to rebel. Guillaume asked if I wanted a massage. Now, I’ve never gotten a woodland massage from a Frenchman after running 82 miles before, but I have to say, it was pretty awesome. I laid next to the trail, and we worked out some of the kinks.
Refreshed, we started back up the trail and in a bit came upon some lights. Was it another aid station we didn’t know about? As we got close we realized it was two headlamps. Sitting on a log next to the trail was one of the frontrunners. I remember him sailing past me on the climb up to Stein Butte, looking super strong. Now he was crumpled on the side of the trail with his pacer looking on helplessly. We offered them ginger, Pepto, ibuprofen, but to each, the runner just made a near-inhuman, near-inaudible grunt. We felt bad, but there wasn’t anything we could do so we shoved off. It was pretty sad, but on the positive side, it means I slide my way up to 4th place. Anything can happen in 100 miles.
On a side note: That runner would eventually walk his way two or three miles down to the Wagner Butte aid station, sleep for something like 5 hours, then get up and finish the race. That’s so insane. Kudos to him for never quitting.
But as for me, I still had climbing to do. All we wanted to do was get up and over this climb. It would be 5 miles up, 5 miles down. At least the section was pretty interesting as we’d pass from forest to mountainside meadows and back. Finally, we made it to a sign pointing us towards the final assault on Wagner, an out-and-back section where we’d collect another flag at the top. For whatever reason, Guillaume and I figured it would be a short jaunt, but as the quarter-miles, half-miles and miles ticked away, we realized we were still far away from “The Nipple” as we called the bump on our elevation chart. “SHOW YOURSELF, NIPPLE!” I madly shouted into the night.
As we moved up, we saw the young kid (turned out to be 17-year old Andrew Miller) and his pacer coming down from the top. They had a solid edge, probably 25 minutes on us. Oh well.
Finally, finally, we found The Nipple. We’d heard that the flags were on the top of a “crazy” “dangerous” “technical” rock scramble. Even Andrew’s pacer warned us that it was “pretty dangerous.” I wouldn’t say it was a cakewalk, but I think most people really exaggerated this. If you’re used to being outdoors, scrambling up stuff, it’s fine. Yes, it was 85 miles into a race, but honestly, it was fun. We had some laughs as we picked our way to the top and to an awesome view over the valleys below.
Not wanting to pause too long, we picked down quickly and took off. Just six minutes later, we saw two headlamps coming at us. That meant the next guy was 10 minutes back. Very shortly after that, we saw another pair of lights. And finally we saw a third (that belonged to eventual women’s champion and soon-to-be-women’s-record-holder Becky Kirschenmann). And they all looked fresh. This was all way too close for comfort for me. I started going into crisis mode. I was not about to drop three places 15 miles from the finish. No way.
We took off sprinting down the trail. This section was relatively technical, but now we were throwing ourselves down it with reckless abandon. It was go time.
Back at the sign, we turned off for the 3ish-mile drop down to Road 2060 and the final aid station at mile 90. It was in full-on crazy mode now. The drop down was super-steep switchback party on loosely packed, soft dirt. At each drop and turn, I hurtled myself forward as dangerously as I could. (Oh yeah, and I was holding the sharp, metal irrigation flag I’d snagged at the top of Wagner and constantly had visions of my tripping and the pole going straight through my hand.)
I was going so fast that Guillaume was slowly falling behind me (as any sane person would). But he kept yelling, “Go! Go! Go!!!”
This was all very fun and all very dangerous. I was looking forward to hitting the road, but, even at that speed, it never seemed to come. Finally I saw lights and flat, and I was spit out onto a gravel road. The aid station people, sweet as they were, tried to convince me to grab some more food, but I think I yelled something like, “Gotta go! They’re right behind us.” (Really, I was probably doubtful that they really were behind at this point after the senseless acts of trail-running stupidity I had just committed.)
But we were off. Ten-point-five miles to go. Six miles of slowly slopping gravel road till a turn-off. I looked down at my watch. It was 12:50 in the morning. I thought a sub-22-hour finish would be super-tough. I thought my 21-hour goal would be nearly impossible. But now I was staring down the very, very remote possibility of doing sub-20. That would be faster than 7-minute miles for the last 10.5 miles from here to the finish. I don’t know if I expressed my new goal out loud. I honestly didn’t even admit it to myself. I didn’t want to because it felt so impossible. I was having visions of my Zion finish flash through my head. That felt like the most insane thing I’d ever done, and that was only 5.5 miles. This was double.
But there was no time to think. I told Guillaume I was “going under” and slipped my earbuds in. Boom. Sleigh Bells. Jay-Z. Kanye. Coheed. Santigold. Tenacious D. I was a mad man, possessed by the single task of running as fast as I possibly could.
My watch battery had chirped “low battery” back at mile 71. So I was running just on a clock now. And was flying. I wanted this so badly.
At one point the Tool song “Parabola” slowly seeped through my earbuds into my ears. I went to hit next, but then decided to see what happened. Moments later it exploded into raw, visceral energy. I started screaming. I don’t know what I was screaming. I just screamed into the night. Into the darkness. Into the 95 miles behind me. Into the 5.5 ahead. Into the trees. Into the friendship that Guillaume was giving me. Into my love of running. Into the pure freedom of movement. I just screamed like I’ve never screamed before. It was beautiful.
On we went down the road until we finally saw a table with a few jugs sitting on it. It was the water station. We were 4.5 miles out. Guillaume and I both started to shout excitedly.
I looked down at my watch. 1:32. Twenty-eight minutes. The goal was real. And it was on.
It also felt impossible. A little piece of me crumbled away and said I couldn’t do it. But I put my earbuds back in, Beastie Boys came on and I told myself I had to try.
This last section became a bit of a adrenaline-induced blur. For some reason I thought it was all roads to the finish, but we turned off on a small singletrack that whipped and curved around. I looked over the edge and saw the city lights sparkling far below. How the hell are we going to get down there? I thought. More importantly, how are we going to get down there in 25 minutes.
I looked down to check my watch, but the face was now blank. The battery had died completely. I was running totally blind.
Now I had no idea whether I was on pace or not. Whether I would make it or not. My only catch was to run and hope there were enough ticks on the clock.
The trail eventually started to get somewhat tricky with a tunnel of overhanging branches and quick, short drops. I was wholly possessed and now running more possessed than ever, but this was not the gentle gravel road from before. At one point, I caught a toe on a huge rock as I was descended a steep section. For a brief instant I was free falling. And then I caught myself. I took a breath and slowed for just a moment to recover mentally. If I had fallen, I would have likely removed all the skin on the front of my body.
But I didn’t fall, and I picked up the speed again. After what seemed like forever, I was deposited down onto a road. That road lead to another road in a neighborhood.
“12:56!” Guillaume shouted behind me. “Four minutes!”
I threw the hammer down and pounded across the blacktop. This section was a somewhat confusing jumble of surface streets, past sleeping houses and down steep hills. All I scoured the ground for spray-paint arrows telling me where to go. WHERE WAS THE FINISH?
Then, we came down a particularly steep hill, turned a corner, and there I saw it. The giant inflated P2P finish arch stood there. I gunned it, unsure what I was going to find in a few seconds.
Whoosh! I shot through the arch and turned to look back at the massive, red clock.
I couldn’t believe it. Just 54 seconds. I snuck in under 20-hours by a mere 54 seconds.
What if I sat in the chair at Hanely Gap for an extra minute? Or didn’t blow through the Little John Aid Station? Or laid on the dirt, getting my legs rubbed down for an extra minute? Or what if I didn’t see those guys on top of Wagner that spurred me on towards insanity?
54 seconds. They’ve never felt so precious in all my life.
It’s amazing how much significance numbers hold in our lives. It’s a sign of wealth or thoughtfulness or work or dedication or sometimes even life and death. Suddenly a number I had never thought much about, 20, took on the world’s most important significance to me.
On top of that, I finished 4th, and just 3 minutes behind 3rd place. (This, of course, was another eerie mirror of Zion.) As I was hobbled off, one of the volunteers told me congrats and then informed me that I was one of only six people to run the course in less than 20 hours. (And one of the is Tim Olson so I felt like I was in pretty good company.)
Photo by Rogue Valley Runners
I loved this race. There were obviously plenty of points I didn’t love. But I had a blast. I’ve never had a race swing so wildly from good to bad to back to good again for me. And then on top of that, to have done so well and finished so strongly in spite of such obstacles, I am really amazed. I had hoped for a good race, but I never expected to have the finish that I did. Imagine if I actually felt good all day.
Looking back, here are a few lessons I learned in the Siskiyous over those 20 hours:
Music is a powerful tool. I’d always dismissed it before as something for joggers. But now I’ve realized it can give an amazing edge when used right.
Speed work is important. Without doing speed work in the months leading up to this race, I would have never gotten those extra 54 seconds.
Fear is good. I run my best when I’m scared of being overtaken. I love to be scared because it pushes me.
Downhills are extremely underrated. I think one of my strengths is the ability to take downhills faster than others. It a huge way to shave time. It’s all about technique too. (Blog post on this later.)
Love comes in all kinds of forms. My crew/pacer Guillaume gave me everything he had when I needed him. He overflowed with encouragement. He even told me he loved me at the finished in his fancy, thick French accent. Pacing is one of the most intimate things you can do for another friend, and I’m grateful for that.
Stick to your nutrition schedule. This was a lesson learned the wrong way at Bryce. I forced myself to eat every 30 minutes in this race, even when I didn’t want to, and I was all the better for it.
There are new emotions that only running can unlock. Sometimes there aren’t words for them, and I think I’m far from knowing even a fraction of them. But the reason why I continue to run 100-milers is part of the quest to move further inside and not farther forward.
Thank you to Hal for putting a really fun race together. Thank you to all the volunteers who gave up their own free time and comfort to help some idiots run through the woods. Thank you to everyone who said an encouraging word whether it was at an aid station, along the side of the road or at the finish. Thank you to Guillaume for running 37 miles with me, constantly giving me support and also rubbing my legs down in a totally non-sexual manner in the woods. Thank you and congrats to all the other Coyotes who were out there running or crewing. And finally thanks to my whole running crew always pushes me to get better. Thanks for those extra 54 seconds.
It’s amazing what the human body can do. I’m glad the rest of me gets to come along for the ride.
