Race reports are boring. Hell, ultras can be boring. Despite scouting the course earlier this summer, the course description does a better job than I ever could; so I’ll try to avoid describing 106 miles of jeep roads and single track, but I would like to share with my friends and family some of what turned into what I think is my best race to date.

Around ninety miles in, I think everyone racing Run Rabbit Run was unified with frustration and wonder of how long this race actually is. Races of this length are unique in that the logistical requirements of a normal day are still there (read: eating), but you’re covering the distance from Baltimore to Philadelphia on foot at almost two miles high. This race is not truthful with the mile markers, so I’m extremely grateful for Devon Olson hosting me for a few days to run the course earlier this summer so I knew what to expect. It’s such a mental boost to know landmarks and what’s in store for the upcoming route.

The penetrating cold, endless hunger and painful fatigue are probably the most extreme of any ultra I’ve run to date, but pretty mundane when compared to the struggles faced by a thru-hiker. Part of the reason I wanted to race RRR is that traditionally, this is a race at which hikers have performed very well. The adventurer and hiker Andrew Skurka placed 3rd the year before, and between hiking the AT last summer and spending most of this summer in the San Juan Mountains, I felt very prepared for the longest and highest altitude race I’ve run. As part of the plan, I walked all three of the major climbs, but was able to run almost all of the remaining parts of the course, even knocking out the last five miles at a sub eight minute mile pace.

I went into RRR with a time goal of about 19 hours, but more importantly, I wanted to race, not just traverse, the course. This race was stacked with ultra phenoms and legends, so it was primed to be a competitive race, and I knew I had put the work in to compete with these elite runners; just not at the start. Half way up the first climb and only minutes into the race, I was in tenth to last place. I was surprised how aggressive some runners were approaching the first climb, but not worried. For the next 104 miles there was an occasional back and forth with another runner, but in part because of this slow start, I was never passed.

The first quarter of the race is the only time I was able to mesh my pace with other runners. So aside from the four mile segment Beth ran with me through town, I ran alone the final eighty miles of the race. That’s not to say I was alone, because there are essentially two races going on simultaneously. In the gaps between catching up to the next hare, there were tons of tortoises to remind me I was still on the right course.

While running through the night, it is difficult not sound like The Things We Carried: One windbreaker, 104 grams. Two headlamps, 400 lumens, 350 grams. One long sleeve wool shirt, 200 grams. One pair of worn wool socks, 64 grams… Yadda, yadda, yadda. I needed a ton of cold gear considering it was mid September. The night was below freezing at over 10,000 feet high and the full moon was bright enough to run without a headlamp at times. When dark first set on my climb up Fish Creek Falls trail, I began to witness the carnage from altitude, cold, and distance to which Tim O'Brien could relate. On this most technical climb of the course, I realized it was getting to me too when I started hallucinating the moon was a disco ball in the woods like someone had taken a Keith Urban song to heart.

It was towards the top of this climb where I came up on the man, the myth, the Billy Bronco. For the next 50k as we made our way into and through a healthy portion of the top ten (and into the money!), we had a fun and competitive back and forth. I was ridiculously quick through aids stations all day, but somehow he was faster through our first aid station we came in together, Long Lake at mile 52. Before catching back up to and passing Jeff, I had one of the high-points of my race when I caught up with my Durangutan friends Lacey and Liz on the Continental Divide jeep road; right in the middle of a twenty mile gap between seeing my stellar crew. After I passed Jeff here I didn’t see him again for a while, and when I came into Dry Lake at mile 65, assumed (as I told Sean, his crew) that he was a few minutes back. In reality, he was only seconds behind and passed me again soon after I left Dry Lake. Then my headlamp started to die and he created over a minute gap from me down to the Spring Creek aid station at mile 70. Zack, a generous aid station worker at Spring Creek, gave me his headlamp with a warning about not knowing how long it would last.

Spring Creek is the turnaround of a twenty five mile out-and-back section ending with a 4,000 foot climb. How you handle this section will make or break your race, because at the end you reach the high point of the course but then still have twenty miles left. Although I briefly saw Jeff in the Dry Lake aid station at mile 74, Jeff was ahead of me, but within sight, for the entire climb up the jeep road returning to Summit Lake at mile 82. The moon and the stars were so bright on this section I would turn off my headlamp to try conserve power until I could pick up a fresh light in my drop bag at mile 91.

Throughout the night, the only real indication of what place I was in was this heavily accented and very enthusiastic fan who would run out a few hundred yards before some of the aid stations. Although I knew a few of the big names had dropped at this point, I was skeptical when he told me I was in fifth until I counted runners coming the other way out of Spring Creek for myself. Being this close to the lead this far into the race I had a chance to get a serious payout (unless I had a blow up), so from this point on the motivation was as much financial as a point of pride.

The combination of the cheering tortoises and hares coming the opposite way on this out and back section and the feeling of actually racing late into a uber competitive hundred mile race was an incredible feeling. But, if the Fish Creek Falls ascent was the battlefield carnage, the aid station at Summit Lake was the M*A*S*H unit the survivors found. When I looked up from rifling through my drop bag, I saw people wrapped in sleeping bags with 1,000 yard stares and had an overwhelming feeling to get out of there quickly; I ended up being too rushed to even remember to fill my water bottles.

Somewhere on this next section Jeff turned off his headlamp to fertilize the forest and I never saw him again. So when a tortoise on the continental divide section to Long Lake told me I was in 4th place, I just assumed he was as good at math as anyone is 10,000+ feet high and 85 miles into a race. Before Long Lake around mile 91, I passed Chris Schurk, the last rabbit I would see. Before I passed him, I remember hanging back for a while to accumulate some energy so when I finally did pass, he wouldn’t think he could stick with me. At Long Lake, I forgot to ask what place I was in, but did remember to fill up on water and soup! The single track back to the top of Mt Werner at mile 99 took a herculean effort to run, and the sun started to rise to remind me the night and cold were coming to an end. It was less than a 10k to the finish, but I forgot to fill up on water again. That’ll happen when all your blood is diverted from your brain to your legs.

At this point, I really felt like I had left everything out there, but as I started passing the 50 milers coming the opposite way up the ski hill climb, I was emotionally rejuvenated. With a cheering pack of 50 mile runners as my witness, I ran this downhill for my fastest miles of the race back down the ski hill. When I crossed the finish line, I really didn’t know if I was in 3rd or 4th place until Paul gave me a bear hug at the finish.

Run Rabbit Run went about as well as you can expect an ultra to go. A big thanks goes out to my excellent crew led by Beth and assisted by Sean and Lacey; any of the issues I had were either minimal or quickly dealt with by these seasoned and positive friends.



The “what”, “how”, and “when” questions are easy to answer compared to the “why”. The reward is more visible in the training than the race. I got to spend the last year and a half running up mountains and hiking through some of America’s finest wilderness areas and now call it training for this race. Spending this much time with true wild life is life altering in an irreversible way. Each challenge on the trail changes your approach to the world. Problems beyond shelter, food, and water are filed away as trivial. Walking becomes relaxing and a primary form of transportation, but most importantly, among the ancient mountain ridges and towering pines, mother nature teaches the value of time and nature’s basic reward pathways build within all of us. I struggle to find words for the clear and overwhelming feeling when reaching a summit and the understanding how remarkable and well adapted the human body is. As much as birds are meant to fly, we are meant to walk, hike and run, so go out and find your mountain.